The dream of Camelot did not perish
with his last breath on a Dallas highway,
Her shoulders buried deep, heaving,
unexplainable death, visionary now defeated.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
as he lied about Watergate,
as he sweated on stage under lights,
under oath then pardoned.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
as bullets rang out in a hotel,
nor in the air as a man took
in the scene on the balcony.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
at the base of Twin Tower destruction,
It floats downstream, out in the wild
rough oceans, cold and alluring,
it offers of a sense of perspective, of size
and demand, dwarfing my intentions,
aiming to strike me down, the iceberg
comes, I feel secure,
I know what I see and the size as it rises
with the swell of the sea, ringing the bell
more out of politeness, out of a civility
that is engrained into my soul,
I don’t mention the iceberg,
I don’t scream out warnings, holler,
holler, holler, holler, I just
I was once asked
to take part in
a telefon;
“It would be fun”
they said with their eyes gleaming
and perfect smiles,
“You will raise lots of money
for charity
and feel great about yourself.”
Imagine how stupid I felt
after training hard
when I found out
that I didn’t have to run those
twenty six miles
dressed as an old
G.P.O. phone.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I wish I could see the Mersey floor
and touch the greatness
that the city of Liverpool
is built upon,
the pounding heart
that sweeps in daily,
lucid dreaming,
hard fact reality in which nothing beautiful
is ever truly forgotten;
this Mersey providence
full of Mercy,
full of hope, I wish
I could be part of it.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I’m afraid I don’t do Rugby, of either code
except when it comes to watching England V Scotland
and the odd par-taking
of a World Cup; sport for sports sake, not my bag
or ball it seems,
despite having had a teacher at school who insisted
in one of those terrifying end of year reports
that I was more suited to the game,
a natural player, I nearly laughed as I read it
on the way home, so not my cup of tea,
despite having had the honour of watching
They Say,
There is a fine line
between love and hate,
that’s like saying there is just
a shade of difference between
wanting to drink the poison
offered you and wanting to
see the sun shine
with all the heat of a beautiful summer’s day;
there is no difference, mostly
it is indifference, I don’t
think about you
but when I do
it is only with the grim satisfaction
that one day
you will never see another Augusts’ afternoon
and I will not have to listen
It’s brief,
short and to the point
as per usual
when we talk on the telephone,
only truly opening up
to each other when we sit
and take up room on the sofa.
It is my fault,
I am lost in the minefield
of unexploded conversation
when technology is the preferred state of
carrying words;
yet when I am
face to face
with you
my son, our chats
mean the world to me.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I am of Cornish blood,
it hangs in my veins like the apple
orchard that hugged the cliff
looking down on The Tamar,
rough water leading to two miles of joined land,
looking across to Plymouth
and the Hoe in which I kicked a football
and the early swimming lessons in the sea stormed
and tossed lido, perfect on summer’s days
with ice cream in hand
and the barnacles wading in with the march
of the sea.
I am of Cornish blood, it races through my veins,
In wasting away by wasting the day,
a certain call from the crow on the church
roof reminds me that the rest
of the time available to me
as I spin in the void
is now in the red, I owe
Time, meaningless,
malingering Time,
a bomb waiting to explode
and Big Ben crumbles
but Time is to be honoured,
I am in debt to Time,
the second, the minute, the hour strikes
as the sun dips behind the crumbling edifice
of Johnson’s Cleaners;
Was it possible to feel jealousy
after so long of denying it existed
in my psyche, as I watched the young
poet, the woman of words
pour her life into my beaker
on a Monday night and make it overflow.
I don’t find jealousy attractive,
it is an emotional state
that leads to a rotten core
and Hamlet is no relation of mine
and his uncle an excuse to behave
like a bastard.
I muse all night and thankfully,
jealousy is not the cause, to find