I am guilty
of many crimes,
so they say,
but here in my confessional box,
I find the priest in no mood
to absolve me, a listener
of final words and regret,
ask for leniency in this casket,
one size fits all,
I am told my heart is too heavy,
paying a price, guilt paid in advance,
no returns, my remorse and shame
mutually vying to eat my soul.
Ian D. Hall 2017
If I smile today, it is not for you,
it is a memory, perhaps recovered
and drawn from dust,
from an afternoon
spent on Petit Bot or
learning from history
about Cornwall or Guernsey,
about the beach rock pools holding
life, a child sized cricket bat in hand,
a small plastic ball, with holes in,
sending in your mind
the Australians back to the pavilion;
I will smile because it is expected
but should I smile your way,
don’t be offended, it is not for you.
It is not
that well known
but during World War Two
I
took on German division
single handed…
not as easy
as you might think,
I am fairly useless at maths
and throw in
translating it into
another language,
well
I won’t give the answer away;
I won’t
die Teilung.
Parents,
don’t buy your children a map
of the world, an atlas,
and pin it up on upon their pristine painted wall,
the one you debated over duck egg and random
sunflower corn,
don’t let them see a plan
of a country far away, memorise
the city streets via an A to Z
and learn facts of towns
and villages that hold dark
enticing secrets, places of interest,
parents
do not let your children
write an old fashioned letter
or talk via electronic media
I don’t feel comfortable
in the small talk,
it comes out
the wrong,
unhelpful, inconsequential
and full of near sighted opinions
that are
immovable, restricted
and deaf.
Give me
the big conversation, one of
depth,
one that can be easily followed
and can create
illumination,
loud voices of agreement
or of argument
but in which thankfully never comes
down to
asking someone
just how much their house
is worth
I leave a line of memory on a Bicester wall,
a remark, an admission of love
wrapped up in clothing of regret,
for these days I think of you
in sepia detail, like a long lost lover
who moved away without saying goodbye,
I feel bereft of Time,
for whilst I glimpse at you
in modern social media glory and those bitter
sweet postcards
sent by locomotive from
the steep bank of Bicester North,
I miss the haze of Sheep Street
now closed
In the light of day,
I see you,
spectral showers frame your skin
and the ghosts of our past,
silent, quiet, here
on the Scottish hillside
overlooking the future
with uncertainty and framed by cold winters,
if only they had listened to our unspoken
warning, then we would have not heard
the quiet stealth of a killer
approaching us
from the skies.
In the light of day,
oh my darling, dance with me
as we become
blinded
and then,
much like our melancholic memories,
…at this point
I’d like to admit
I am destroyed inside
and out;
for the knives in my back
have tore open wounds
I once hoped were closed,
it seems the stitching has come
apart
and now the hole is seeping
and fingers are prying,
poking and probing
to find a heart
already decayed.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Illuminated by cinema screen
back light, their shadows
pestering the divide
of reality and make-believe,
they do their best to not spoil it for others
yet somehow their presence
is enough to destroy the artifice erected.
Too slow, they reason,
the actors have done nothing
for ten minutes, save eat a pie
and wear a sheet;
no patience some people,
bet they liked the sex scene
in the film before mind.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Well God bless Amerikkka,
for today some showed their face to the crowd
and reminded us that the fight
against Fascism is never over;
in the land of the free,
a home from home for me,
I now feel my stomach turn sour
as the grip of power
and turns to war in the East,
veiled threats in Venezuela
and good ol’ boys with short hair
and short fuses
march down the street, their aim
to prove surely how dumb they are.
Lady Liberty, close your eyes,