Category Archives: Poetry

Branson’s Pickle.

I remember with fondness

the day

when you flew us all

to the moon,

or at least made the stars

accessible.

Were we drawn by your charisma,

or the belief you held

so that Tubular Bells

could be played,

or was it a Tangerine Dream

that we were sold,

as you grew,

not content

to bring sex and rotten pistols

to the public…

now

you strive to be in space,

Branson’s Pickle. full post

(108 words, estimated 26 secs reading time)

I Tell You Now.

I send you flowers

and the odd

small gift

now and again,

but always in

the present.

I will tell you

I

love you

as a friend, as a former

lover,

now and always.

I do so

because

when the time comes,

I don’t want to be fighting

at the graveside

to compete for your attention…

Ian D. Hall 2021.

Permanent link to this post (63 words, estimated 15 secs reading time)

To Cut Through The Dirt.

To make something clean,

You

must understand

that something else

will have to become dirty,

 leave a mark, a smudge,

a smear

elsewhere…

My mind keeps whispering

clean and purge

the pain

in the leg, the sciatic nerve,

the fearsome ache in the neck

and spine, and groin, and eyes

and take a cloth to the arm

and leave my mark there…

over

and over

again,

till

To Cut Through The Dirt. full post

(88 words, estimated 21 secs reading time)

The Lesson I Refused To Learn.

Two

plus two,

always had to equal

four…

There was no scope for imagination

in the certainty of this,

so my young mind

didn’t exactly rebel

at the rumoured threat

of attending Maths,

for like school uniforms

I thought

the instruction and lessons were a waste of my time…

but English,

now

there was a

craving,

because nonsense was to be admired,

and abstract and stream of consciousness

The Lesson I Refused To Learn. full post

(140 words, estimated 34 secs reading time)

Where True Power Lays.

Forget your dictators,

the tyrants,

stern judges with white wigs

upholding

ruthless laws,

for there is no greater power

than the mother

who insists

on ironing their teenage

son’s jeans

before they leave the house

on a date,

whilst he stands

in his underwear,

embarrassed

and hopping from foot to foot,

his vulnerability in front of authority

on show.

Ian D. Hall 2021

Permanent link to this post (66 words, estimated 16 secs reading time)

After One Year Inside.

Things I Miss After A Year Inside

I miss the taste of fish shop chips

and battered cod swimming

in salt and vinegar, and watching

the world turn past me,

for everything

is silent,

as the people make their way

down Church Street, Saturday

shopping bags in hand, smiles

painted, fixed and grinning

as Reds and Blues size each other

up and down the table, and I,

in ignorance listen to a song

as batter burns my lips.

After One Year Inside. full post

(300 words, estimated 1:12 mins reading time)