Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

Three Little Words.

 

Quite elated

I felt when I read your

three words, chewed over

perhaps

or just a whim

of expression, not sure

how to be so bold

as to pay fortune and favour out

to one such as I,

a fool that inhabits the space I exist in,

humbled regardless

of the fact that you took time

out of your day

to step into mine,

and leave those three words of love,

really

rather

good.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

The Bird In Hand.

 

The smell of damp sawdust

filled the nostrils

of the man out of time

and darts,

dominoes and cribbage

the only games on his mind;

the last thing he expected

to find that night

as he strolled into this new adventure ground

was a nurse, out with a friend,

drinking tempered halves

from a dimpled glass,

catching her eye, he surprised

himself by smiling

and fell in love

with the ambience and strength

provided by walking in

on The Bird In Hand.

At Night, I Look The Opposition In The Eyes.

 

I can feel my breathe

diminish,

go thin,

even before it leaves

my body,

exhaling out of control

as it insanely tries to justify

the war I go through,

a soldier never quite alone

in this jungle wilderness,

a beast

camouflaged

in plain sight, standing out

as death rolls the dice

with a grin that bares rotten, stunted baby teeth

and a certain foul essence that passes

for conviction, assuredness,

a firmness of plan

as jungles collide

and bitter battles

Silence (On The Day After).

 

Silence

falls

suddenly

on the day after, although

I swear I can hear

the sound of birds again,

Silence

as the bombs and bullets

no longer scream

through the clearing air

of this long hand weaved

burial place for the living,

Silence

for the waters

of impatient tide

that rotted our feet

and sapped our strength

to do anything but survive,

Silence

on this day

never sounded so sweet,

on this day,

the day after

He Was Only Thinking Of Getting His Way.

 

How ridiculous

we have become,

equality is the corner

stone of true civilisation

and one that is under-threat

by the preposterous demands

of those who seek

to undermine it,

suing to be believed twenty

years younger,

just to be able to look

great in the eyes of women;

oh foolish creatures that we are,

all the battles we have endured,

all the insanity life can throw

upon our minds,

to be undone by the nonsensical

man in search of sex.

 

The Obligatory Phil Collins Poem.

 

Handing my wife

a jumper I had worn

for a couple of days

to keep out the cold,

I asked

whether she thought

I could get one more night

out of it.

Bewildered, she first smiled

and then replied,

I don’t know about that,

but you might get it to

play the opening drum section

of In The Air Tonight…

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

Time’s Wake.

.

..As you recount the image

of a thousand cinematic battles

and deep in water trench wait,

behind you

high above unknown gardens

rockets explode in the bold still sky,

the whizz bangs, whoops promoted

through the ranks

as other former angels die

with a bang, and dirty faces

from the powder that took their lives,

no time to scream, yell

out a warning, just a whispered

time’s up blink as they say good

bye to their mother, and all the while

behind first floor glass

The Monsters At Your Door.

 

Another zombie knocked on the door

in the early evening October

glow supplied

by moonlight and red rouged faces,

dipping into their mother’s

make-up bag

and the drool of fake blood

that gets wiped on the ghost’s

off-white bedroom sheet

because the taste of chocolate

isn’t as nice when your plastic Dracula

chops get in the way

of chewing and smiling stuffed face

dripping…

…expectation;

zombie, ghost and ghoulie,

growling wolf, a mistaken ballerina

swearing and threatening robbery

with violence, as only

A Tree In Pittsburgh.

 

He went hunting for squirrels

on a cold October day.

I remember my time

in Pittsburgh being one

in which I sat playing cards

till four in the morning,

the fine whisky

slowly adding to the occasion

of friendship, far removed

from the man with the gun

in his hand

and hate seeping out of his porous heart.

The incline railway overlooking

all of creation, the once former

Steeler’s ground lost

to history it seemed,

but below, stewing in his bile soup

Full Stop.

 

It does not mean the end,

there is, after all,

more to life than

suddenly being quiet, reflect

on your thoughts if you must

but don’t let that full stop

dictate to you

the point of closer detail,

of thinking,

sweet consideration,

and then talk, shout, scream,

such vile words, such tempting

phrases and ponder a while

my friend, upon the point of

the end of the sentence,

don’t let a full stop

be the place where you

reside for the rest