Four in the morning, pavement Blues,
a single small, hurried cigar
becomes a second,
longer lasting, what the Hell
moment of pleasure in the dark
quiet Bootle street,
a realisation that I am not
responsible for a stranger’s happiness
despite wanting to see
every stranger smile,
four in the morning
pavement Blues,
a missing guitar
but the harmonica pulses
and sends out a beat
to which only the deaf
appreciate and fondle under their bedclothes
when their wife is away, dreams
Quiet now Elizabeth, do not stir
Ben, stop the clock
and mourn, in the same way
you should have fallen silent
when the people woke
to see the smouldering remains
of Grenfell Tower,
like you should have urged Liberty
to bow her head in shame
when an American school comes
under fire, like you should have requested
to Christ the King that in the face
of overwhelming destruction
of its rainforest, he should atone
and bring down suffering on those
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