It was never a time for me,
I would smile and wish the same,
that you, my friend, would
see hope in the year to come
as Christmas came round again.
I would cook the dinner,
argue about sprouts,
force one down
the throat that craved, not turkey,
dry tasteless meat that had no right
to be served upon my table,
but perhaps a sense of humility
and an early bacon sandwich
covered in brown sauce.
Not for me this day
I don’t care what colour
my passport is, I care
that I have one, I care that
many don’t and will not ever
have the chance to travel, to experience
love and hope, regret and passion
in another country.
I don’t care what colour
of the rainbow it wants to be,
It could be gold with regal spots
or have the emblem of the house
of fools tattooed upon its outer shell,
I care that this is our red line in the sandbox,
Happy Holidays,
it was always worth a try
to inject a phrase into a time
to which I feel no connection.
Happy Christmas, goes, goes, goes
to the back of the pile,
not one for the season of Santa
and his air traffic controlled nose
reindeer, Blitzen and adding
Donner meat to the Kebab
rammed down the throat, drunk
on Christmas Eve, traffic cone on head
and singing loudly at midnight.
Having worked in retail and in catering,
the best thing about it was willing
It is nearly time
to put my well worn shoes
at the back of the wardrobe, making sure to
cover them up so
nothing falls in
and causes me to yell out in surprise
come the middle of January
when I start this madness
once again.
Surprised that they have lasted all year,
the red boots, have served me well
and deserve the foot rest
that this festive period
that bleeds into New Year hope
and dreams already dashed
as other’s resolutions canker and spoil, provide.
Another turned down invitation,
one that wasn’t meant,
one that designed to encourage
one nodded at but underneath
the spluttering search for solitude
commences;
not that I want to be alone,
not that I crave to be isolated
and abandoned, it is just…
well easier to not be in people’s way,
to feel the cruelty of hope
of a conversation that didn’t switch
to feeling guilty, of opening up
about my fears and dreams,
dreams that are smashed with
the sledgehammer eyebrow raised,
They shall not bury them
in the alleyways they fall in,
the concrete just does not give
way to the simple spade like grass
and dusty earth, from mud we came
and when the first shots
of final rebellion come,
don’t get caught on open streets,
hard knocks, no grave where you fall,
left most likely to rot in the space
you met your end in,
crows tearing at your eyes,
crows tearing at your eyes;
they have no fear of you,
no open battle ground,
If I leave a blank page,
If I should just leave the scab
alone, like me, not pick at it,
not to get my finger nail
underneath it and slightly
leave it looking off coloured compared
to the rest of the skin that surrounds it,
would that please you, would it make you
jovial, a feeling of being eight
clouds above me, far out of sight, spit down
to my eye and showing me the arse
you wish me to kiss, bare bottom
and needing a wipe,
With my wife’s permission,
I spent the late winter Saturday evening
in the memory of embrace and arms
of my first love before
heading back home, cold feet
but undoubtedly a warmed heart.
I have neglected her, since she came
into money. For nine
and half long years I watched, hiding
my interest, trying hard
to forget just what this lady
in sheer blue had once meant to me.
I had loved her
when it seemed no one else would,
when she ragged, poor, shambolic,
In a lonely place,
where no one talks
and no one smiles,
no one calls,
no one knocks on the wooden panelled door,
the text alert stays silent,
the interaction on social media
reduced to the barest minimum
contact, more chance of Life
in the hereafter it seems.
A Twenty-First century death,
silent, tumble weed on screen
garners more interest,
just forgotten,
and the worst part is when you get used to it,
then the feeling of memory is taken from you.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Greeted with a glass
of what seemed cheaply made,
home induced, egg nog
at the door of my daughter’s school
by a woman with dust marks on her hair,
and the strange smell of child nerves
upon her weighted down shoulders,
deeper in debt, demoralised
and now having to greet
parents to whom their child is the star
of this off Broadway, local authority show.
Small talk surrounds the close fitting
chairs, designed for the uncomfortable
advances of an ice cream pot for child sized hands