Soon, the extreme Puritan
will rub their hands in private glee,
it doesn’t end with a Victorian
painting being removed,
nor does it end well,
we are being judged for a laugh
we had that has now been forgotten,
except by those keeping score
and aren’t they just
doing the black and white dressed
authority figures of the past
justice, everything a crime, erased
and expunged, obliterated and left
in a bunker underground, growing feral,
becoming bitter,
till one day fashion dictates an innuendo,
Six rows in front of me,
as I was facing backwards, both
slumped back looking down
we never made eye contact, never saw
face to face, though cheek by jowl,
our eyeballs never saw each other
at the same time,
my friend, what held your attention
instead of me giving you mine,
new headphones I noticed,
drowning out the noise
and the half mouthed, silent hello
as we sat there on the 53 in to town,
each in our own worlds of wonder,
not seeing the meteor racing past
The three fold man, I see you
in mahogany mirrors, two either side,
of the age I am now, the boy
to the left, coloured in regretful sepia
and fading from view, the old,
untapped and unseen but hoped to be,
still invisible, a sign tapped out in Braille,
don’t count your chickens sonny,
I should be grateful in wasn’t in semaphore green
or the malignancy of burning bush confrontation,
thou shalt not…
this three-fold man, remember me,
here in the middle
looking back at you.
It is not for me you understand,
the question of loneliness,
of solitude unasked for,
of isolation, perhaps enforced,
cut off from plans, talk, conversation,
chewing the fat
with no one
but me, the solitary figure;
it is not for me I seek an answer
on being lonely,
I’m just asking for a friend.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Here in Limbo, ducking down,
avoiding the gaze of God and the Devil,
chums and old pals, compliments
spoken freely at the matter of my passing,
caught between the unbeliever
and the quite sure the place exists,
they are not sure what to do with my soul,
let it burn in Heaven or let it grow cold
in Hell; neither wanting, neither demanding,
they flicked a coin in the air,
there in the darkness they put me,
till the coin stops landing on its side,
in Limbo.
I won’t accept the gift,
it was in his eyes, fifty five
years young and self proclaimed
special brew, special one,
it is not surely what he would
normally partake in, swift swallow,
long gasp of recognised favourite
as it goes down the hatch,
West Country greeting
lost upon this sophisticated man
that we cannot join in the pun of
Cider with Jose.
Ian D. Hall 2018
From roughly twenty seconds in,
I hear what you have seen,
the echo of guitar
caught in the ferocity of sunlight
and the regal nature of an Iron Man
with blank staring eyes looking out,
unblinking, unmoved,
metal thoughts kept to itself,
of the scene that unfolds before
as you take that perfect picture
that resonates in your own soul,
a day out with the wife, now joined
by this silent companion,
the Sandancer on the beach.
Dedicated to John Chatterton and inspired by his photograph Sandancer.
A desert flower in full bloom
Beauty so untouchable
Barbed skin and prickly nature
Through the pleasure and pain
I will be one with you again….
Circle of stones on the leyline
Eco warrior a Greenpeace Boudicca
Psychedelic colours swirl in harmony
Paper Moon bite of Origami
Child in Time, Organically
Through Rose tinted glasses
I see what i want to see!
Cactus Child
Summer of Love forever
Destined to be!
John F. Hall
Not even a pen,
not valuable enough of Michael Parkinson’s
solemn delivery
urging me to grow older.
I received a letter, friendly in its content,
signed by machine, my name at least correct,
could I be worth up to a quarter of a million
pounds at the time of my death; worried
that I have the odd cigar, I enjoy
a cooked breakfast, over weight but happy,
I looked for the smaller print,
the kind in which makes you think on,
to survive and leave a penny means… what
I refuse the mask, there are no cameras
to catch my image, I wouldn’t care
anyway; the graffiti is my mark
and will, very soon, fade away.
I spray words of hope, anger, refined
and polished, screwed up ideas, a tag,
a tag of mine, wretched display of art,
this tag, this art, not for the faint hearted,
my display not fit
for comment as it is scrawled in blood;
fine lines of vein dripped venom,
remember, this is my art, not for hanging,
I’m not for hanging