She makes them just for me,
and her mum, hand crafted
each Yuletide as the decorations
hang
forever in an unspectacular box
on the airing cupboard.
I told her that I loved her Mince Pies,
despite not caring about the day
itself and they were delicious,
however I had once
tasted, just to try,
a shop finished treat
as I slowly warmed myself with a hot chocolate delight
against the cold I felt in my middle age veins;
Her eyes always blue, blazed and narrowed,
Should I not
answer you
in the social media world,
should you worry that upon
my floor I lay, tongue hanging,
gathering dust and flies
buzzing round,
eager vultures laying eggs, maggot, bluebottle,
think on,
perhaps I have forgotten,
late Middle age is near
and sometimes the fog is thicker
than it was,
other things catching my attention,
not out of malice but an interest
in the new for now,
or it could be that I found it rude
Once upon
a Birmingham day, St Andrew’s
called the three of us together,
my Grandfather’s hand on one side
my father’s on the other,
two larger than life men
and a child, barely able to reason,
once upon a Birmingham day,
I peered through the gap
created by the outline stance
of two men and saw a game commence,
squeezed and pushed
with the flow of rhetoric,
community singing and language
unheard even in the finest
of hours, the colours,
displayed, rejoiced, groaned at
If you’re looking for answers,
Me,
I like my steak blue, under the heat for no time at all,
my eggs runny,
my haggis with mayonnaise dolloped on the side,
my bacon with a rind,
my Shakespeare riveting,
my football with City on top,
but never forgetting the days in which we were damned awful,
sometimes my poetry…whimsical,
my rock heavy, my jazz boundless and my pop with a smile
and the kiss in a women’s eyes,
I used to like my Whisky at least older than me,
It was a song
played on a piano in a bar,
that reminded me of you,
slightly out of key,
the wrong notes at times
grating on the ear,
but it was a song we shared
as we belted it out
when we were drunk
and wearing younger skin
staggering down Sheep Street.
It was a song that reminded me
of you and for a while
I mourned that I would never
be off key with anyone else again.
Albert Camus,
poor man that you are,
forgetting a glimmer of truth
in your melancholic good times;
tea may always be a substitute
but it has a bitter taste
for those left to stew the pot
Ian D. Hall 2017
Twenty five years ago tomorrow
you saw me exhaustedly trying to drain
a pint in a bar in Media, travelling
for so long, a hundred litre
rucksack deposited in a rundown,
no television motel
but with a welcome sign that eased
my weary soul.
The Greyhound ticket I had used to
navigate the state was shoved,
stuffed, without care into one
of the overflowing side pockets,
jumbled up and crumpled,
pressed between mixed tapes
of memories of home, emotional baggage
that I cradled throughout my journey,
The tills are ringing out a merry dance
for the delight of times gone by,
Santa’s hat is being primed
and the decorations are all on high,
twinkling with colours, music and fun,
the adverts have started,
broadcast to remind of others,
of those living and those dearly departed,
yet deep down in November’s grip,
something feels wrong
the message is out of kilter
there is bum note in their joyous song,
the presents, the greetings, it all seems false
the communication that is loud and clear
You used to take me out in to the garden
when I was no taller than your knee,
you would put me against the gate,
showed me how to stand
and then kick footballs at me
for an hour or two,
it was fun…
no, more than that it was the best
of times.
From there the old potato fields beckoned,
you played there as a boy, near the River Rae
and then you introduced me
to watching live Saturday football,
a visit to St. Andrews, you forced yourself
The hand was thrust forward,
a missile in manners that aided
the resentment, the cowardly tone
that carried sickly through the owner’s
clenched teeth;
“What’s your name again?,
unearned smug satisfaction
crept across his bland outer expression
and mocked the monster inside.
Don’t you hate those perfect grin toothed people
who live in sneers and the love
of leaving a scar for you
to itch and pull, the damage done
by ill manners.
Ian D. Hall 2017