Like Samson, my hair
is not for sale,
mine though is not a sign
of heroic strength,
masculinity of its alleged highest form,
more in the way
that when it is short
I look like a thug
in the mirror, polished
but with dusty edges of time
throwing back images of the one hair cut
I forced myself to have
and how
in the end
I just stood anonymous
in the crew.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Over my shoulder and barely registering
the rolling news of football updates
and possible giant killing acts
without mercy, I read
your poem and I feel the kick
in the guts, the relentless
cry of foul and the whistle
of finger typed agony
as your blood lays invisible
in my palms.
Let her breathe I urge inwardly,
let her feel this emotion
and all around me is silent,
the publican’s wife sweeps the table clean,
my untouched tea now fast evaporating,
draining,
My inner adult
refuses to join in the games
saying that tiddlywinks
and marbles
are but amusements for children.
It sits in solace, whilst the outer child
smiles and pokes fun,
creates rhymes, draws illusion
and wonders at magic tricks, never understanding
how they truly work,
and yet the bullet trick is the one the adult,
hiding in the shell,
giggles and hopes
will pop a balloon, latex burst with a bang.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Trade in new Sloops,
Dinghies and Yachts
has sky rocketed this last
quarter,
yet
a downturn is predicted
to hit growth
as there is no forecasted wind
to hit our shores this summer.
A spokesman
said
today, that sails
are likely to be down
for the foreseeable future.
Ian D. Hall 2017
My inner guide
refuses to use anything
but the Ordnance Survey,
not content to update
to Google Maps,
on the basis that anything
so up to date has no historic value,
that having a folded out plan
of the area
and the walk ahead
is filled with status
by having it blow
inside out
at the worst possible moment.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Disused, broken shell,
no sign of work, no indication
of what you are meant to be, just
sitting in cold winter sun
for the last three years
and a symbol of everything that the town
has become, left to rot,
shame of the county,
the once fine building
is our children’s first place
to let off fireworks like cannons
in battle, for this is a war within itself
and the stakes are higher
than at any time;
you were once resplendent, towering glory,
Your doorbell has never worked
so I knocked harder to try and rouse you,
to no avail, either sleeping
or just not in the mood to give me shelter,
your indifference at answering the door,
to give me access for a while
as the rain falls down around my head,
causing clouds to gather, to become storms
that grumble and fork lightning deliver
internal solitude but become the reason for others
to avoid the sparks; I will not knock
upon your door any longer,
I see your doorknocker is but a novelty
How does she do it, Hopkins,
so much bile and hate
in one mealy mouthed squished
heart. I would
ignore her but she refuses to go away
as I was taught at school
and home
that if you give no quarter to the verbal
spouting gob talking shit bully
they disappear long
into the night, their shadow blissfully forgotten.
If only there was a way to lose you.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Rang an old friend before Midnight,
before the clocks rang out
and Big Ben, guardian and trustee
of celebration, rememberance and morning salutation
looked at the revellers below,
crowded streets, drink passed round
the merry go round as kisses
are exchanged
and promises made, secret liaisons and encounters
hanging in the crisp night air.
I rang my friend at home, a brief call,
from my front step to his leather Lazy Boy
and whilst my year was spiralling down,
his was content,
television drowning the drowning;
I hear the door close, one of many,
after one, after one,
I could do the same, shut the door,
slam it, barricade it completely
and let go, hide behind the door,
behind the memory of everything that ever went wrong,
my door, my fault, I am so very sorry
to have let it get to the point
where even the postman cannot push the letterbox,
cannot dump the adverts, the mix and match rubbish
bag fillers, the black plastic coffin
for the unwanted junk mail for this junk male,