Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

For Whom Does It Profit?

“Every child should be able to understand how to make a profit”

and every Government should be able to reap its pound of flesh

every minister should ensure that every child

is gainfully employed by the age of seven,

tied to the system, tied to a moveable desk,

fused into the new modern chimneys,

working under the banner of better together

and sitting in their productive off hours having a second job

as informers to the State, for the reward of profit,

making sure that their parents never ask the question

For Whom Does It Profit? full post

(299 words, estimated 1:12 mins reading time)

Scramble The Defences.

The scrambler bike kept coming,

the noise of a jet plane flying along the Linacre Road

signals war at the one a.m. backfire

and the generals in the quivering boots

make sure that the troops on the ground

are then told to remove their helmets on the count of three

and let the special beat try and detain and interrogate

the fast moving squadron disturbing the peace.

 

The soft rubber tread grips the road and the black spot

where the light should blaze

is all too easy to imagine but it’s too late

Scramble The Defences. full post

(260 words, estimated 1:02 mins reading time)

The Managed Decline Of London.

The managed decline of London

should begin with a swift declaration

that it costs too much to be viable,

that the days of it being the nation’s capital

are over and that Big Ben, the Elizabeth Tower

should be allowed to fall into disrepair

and stop,

just one last hurrah on a New Year’s Eve

and let the chimes the following year

just be the recording of an icon

who stood firm against the winds of change.

 

Let London fall,

not the boroughs of course, just London,

The Managed Decline Of London. full post

(278 words, estimated 1:07 mins reading time)

Diary Entry: Mid October-The Saturday Night Beating.

Let us not be candid about such thing, the dress

of the euphemism a shrouded disaster

for it allows the generous thought of a smile

hidden beneath the anger,

the resentment of a lifetime’s search for the bitter truth

at the bitter end of a bitter and sometimes handful of bitter pills

to get the better of you and the snide, whispered remarks

urging you to just finish the job the once

and for all…

I tire of this pain.

 

I have spent a lifetime searching

Diary Entry: Mid October-The Saturday Night Beating. full post

(269 words, estimated 1:05 mins reading time)

Tainted.

I showed her the poem that damns me,

that I cannot and dare not

ever publish

because by doing so, I consign you to death.

 

Nothing as brutal of actually placing your head upon the block

and watching the sliver of finest steel slice

through what remains of your ego-driven soul,

nor fastening the knot close to your throat

and watch you dangle forever,

your toes sliding across the floor

in quick rapid movements,

refusing sleep, refusing to ever keep

still…

 

Tainted. full post

(130 words, estimated 31 secs reading time)

Against The Tide.

The long Bristol Road opens up before me like an exotic river,

one that as a child was out of bounds to the

future Oxfordshire estuary Selly Park boy,

living in the tributary that fed the equally

impressive cod feeding grounds of the Pershore Road mainstem

and yet one that became enticingly familiar

as I encroached down the affluence felt of Tiverton Road to go swimming,

or take up the football cause on the open space

of the wild and hauntingly beautiful ‘rec, daring myself

to venture into this other land plagued by family members

Against The Tide. full post

(384 words, estimated 1:32 mins reading time)

I’ve Never Been On The Bus To Gannow Green.

I’ve never been on the bus to Gannow,

but then I’ve also never been to Canterbury

or Durham or even slipped into Rio,

admittedly the last one a bit harder to do from

the bus stops outside of

New Street Station, at least in a day and without

stopping to look at the marvel of Christ,

stoney faced, eager and

ready to bungee jump.

 

I’ve never made my way to Gannow,

neither have I seen where the 50 goes beyond King’s Heath,

I have never made my way to California,

I’ve Never Been On The Bus To Gannow Green. full post

(249 words, estimated 1:0 mins reading time)

The Crows At The Funeral.

The black tarred hearse arrives at the crematorium,

going no faster that three miles per hour,

it glides to a stop, measured, composed,

running out of steam, the engine making a last growling sound

of torture

as it silently falls asleep.

 

I watch from the shaded part of the graveyard

having taken time out to enjoy

the tranquillity that other people’s passing secures

and in the bright brilliant sunshine, I think of the grandfather

I never had the will to bury as the coffin containing James Collins

The Crows At The Funeral. full post

(401 words, estimated 1:36 mins reading time)

Silence.

There is a silence between us

that reflects the way I think of you,

the way that you easily slipped into the guise

of the creature in black, the despot with red

insignia cross who bellowed orders,

wishing to not be only obeyed

but to make me suffer with open wound

everywhere I went

and everywhere you wouldn’t take me.

 

I held out for so long, my resistance total, and yet

from the fist initial meeting, you tried to control me,

the detour you took me upon,

Silence. full post

(228 words, estimated 55 secs reading time)

All Stories Burn To Ash.

When I hear that nobody else will be by your side

on the day that you will feel at your most lonesome,

I try to hide my disappointment

but I know as I make my way

across town to the shaded autumn glade,

one shrouded in finery and the memories

of my own Grandfather’s ashes

I will do my best to remember the good

times we shared.

 

I’ve only ever been there once

I could not go on the day when they took

My hero away, I could not face the prospect

All Stories Burn To Ash. full post

(200 words, estimated 48 secs reading time)