There I was,
a celluloid cabaret, looking
as rough as following a night
celebrating an election win for Bill
in a bar full of dead winded strangers,
and not a dime passing my way
throughout, all toasting
this guest of wit and sarcasm,
piss drunk and fancy free,
my observations on Bush V Clinton
skewed by admiring Bill
and thinking he represented real change
here in this bar, tapped out, exhausted
by an early morning Greyhound race
from New York to Niagara Falls,
They fall from the trees in Florida
as the warmth leaves
their bodies, as temperatures head
towards freezing point, not dead
but inactive, I feel the same,
fingers numb, comfortably so
as my own head
once full of brightly coloured things
withstands the thaw of a frosted tongue,
and the chill of stimulation
is under ice, kept cold,
frigid and out of touch,
my blood is of iguana
my thoughts damaged
as I fall from the tree in Florida.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I love the way the running water
and soap suds get caught
between your back
and the started out clear glass,
squished,
constricted,
clear pop of lather
as bubbles and fizz make shapes
as they cuddle the steam
first thing in the morning
as you scream inwardly,
at the early morning cold
the season provides.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Don’t forget these words,
once they have finished
tearing my soul apart,
they will come for you…
…I am so tired of being angry,
I can hold it for a while,
deep down and afraid,
let it grow, I am tired of being angry…
but somehow I must keep on,
putting the posters up,
warning you that you’re not safe,
that you are the next target
on their list, I’m tired of you
putting your fingers in your ears…
I’m tired of shouting
Toby Young,
I would write a poem for you,
but why waste words, why waste breath
on someone
so deprived
of humanity
and beneath contempt.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I joined the party at the right time, so it seems,
for even now, Shirley Bassey in an old Hob
Nail boot makes me smile, Glenda Jackson
as black wigged Cleopatra, Michael Parkinson dancing
with Eddie Waring, up and under, a small shilly-shally
to the songs of South Pacific
prove their ain’t nothing like Eric and Ernie
at the very top of their game.
Forgive me Mr. Morecambe, Mister Wise,
for not writing before, been in a nostalgia fog,
but if I could ask
for your autographs now, I still would smile
At around a quarter to midnight,
I shall go and look
at the world from my front
door step and take stock,
a small overdue cigar
whispering to me of times past.
In my pocket a small brown bag
with a small pinch of salt,
several pieces of coal,
a piece of brown bread
and five gold coins
hugging the paper tightly, not daring
to let go, lest the promise of better times be dashed.
I think of you, as the night and the clock draws on,
You can organize
and categorise your books
just how you want them, neat,
coordinated, by publication date,
by alphabetical treaty
and genre specific,
detailed, arranged with love
like a marriage that was not seen coming,
and yet
somehow
in all the tidying and methodical embrace
of putting the books in a system, upon
shelves and shelves and make shift piles
that befits that page turned embrace and declaration
of stand back and admire your handy-work and dedication
you
still find
one piece
‘Twas the night before Christmas and there’s no one about not even a mouse
Or an eight-legged creepy to scare you out of the house,
Quietly though a figure creeps down the stairs leaving his loved one alone but asleep
He finds what he’s looking for high on a shelf, hidden behind the books three deep
It’s a little Santa ornament hinged in the centre, a small space to hide something
Gold and blue amethyst glint in the night, a beautiful engagement ring
Hidden in Santa and put back on the shelf ready for a surprise on Christmas Day
In an effort to make space,
I moved books of every genre around.
A kind of literature feng-shui,
or just a bound refusal to look
at ever letting go of any written
word I have given
house room to since
I first grasped
the meaning of the phrase,
In the beginning.
Ian D. Hall