Category Archives: Poetry

Five Cold Heartless Monkeys.

Still not angry yet?

Say Boris,

ask yourself this,

a pound here, a shilling or two there,

is it all worth it when someone dies

when their dreams  come undone

when sleep is supposed to be the safest haven,

hey Teresa, a face that only

a lemon squeezer could produce,

with cold lips and ambition

to craw back another pound,

waste the money that was never there

you said, for the magic money tree

doesn’t exist, as you sit on more money

than God, how many

A Dalek Playing Sax.

Stuck traffic, a jam to end all jams

and bored rigid in a taxi, the counter

climbing breathlessly

up towards its own ticking Everest;

six in the evening,

a possible fight in the sunset eve

as tempers boil over

and there by St. George’s

Hall, a complex, but through my taxi

windows, silent and animated argument

began to unburden

itself in the Liverpool warmth.

As long as we sat there,

engine revving like a lion pacing

in its own cage, I expected the worst,

Everyday Parrot Blues.

Repeat after me,

you are only a miserable sod.

It was words that I knew to be false,

miserable,

unhappy perhaps, certainly cheerless

in some cases, wretched,

low, as overcast as leaden sky

and the darkness of a thunderstorm

waiting to rage…

but even in that thunderstorm

must come surely

lightning, the illumination

of a flood of ideas, the mania

of hopeful praise and the sense

that the brief encounter

with electric vibration may last

long enough to kick start the heart

Whatever Happened To Lewis Wilson (The First Batman).

Doctor, never mind Fay Wray,

she will always be remembered

at least for being

instrumental in the death

of King Kong, animatronics

and the sense of colossal, the beast

dying at the hands of beauty

and pre war scream queen,

everybody will remember Fay Wray, Doctor,

because of you, but who remembers

poor old Lewis Wilson,

Adam West

considered by many to be the first

on screen, they forget you Lewis,

black and white hero in black

and white tuxedo and a cowl

Political Send-Up.

There is no room

left in the world

for Spitting Image

to belong back on television;

Westminster

has finally

revealed itself

to be the finest

satirical sketch show

there is,

and with some great

puppets

at the helm.

Ian D. Hall 2017

Dust Mites.

It is a moment of time that stretches

and is lost forever,

gone are the days

when my name ran readily

off your lips and all I could do

was let you love me, let you protect

me, now

instead the faint whisper down the phone

as my first name is met with silence,

puzzlement, an abandonment

of once proud Feminist teaching;

now…

 

I am dust…

 

to you,

 

forgotten memory slides away,

the smile of a boy

lost

Field Of Wheat.

Field of wheat, what did you do

to deserve being run through

by the chaff of this land,

did you ask for the vicar’s daughter

to act like a combine harvester,

to terrorise you, to rampage through

your hard work and denigrating you

into letting go of the nourishing wheat,

the hard decision in which one to save

because the footsteps, the running chaff,

tore at your foundations,

wiped out the hope of food for all

and allowed the following magpies,

black and white hedge head hunters

Piglets, (Three Desperate Ones).

 

It is a shame you were not around

in the position

of responsibility

when Roger wrote the words

to Pigs, for surely they now suit you,

wrapped in the pig skin

and the mud and shit,

dear Teresa, Donald and Katie,

you three different ones

writhing in the destruction

of person after person

and in the case of Pig Katie,

the figures in her bile

put more straw upon her made up house.

The trouble is dear piglets,

you are tiny, an oink lost in the darkness

The Curtains Have Begun To Close.

The curtains have begun to close

and through the dim light

afforded the scene, I see

in your eyes that it takes

a minute or two

for you to remember who I am,

the boy you raised in summer’s

warmth on an island and clotted cream

and to whom I revered as the fiercest

of storms, a one woman army

not dictated to by a single man,

in your eyes, it took a moment

and longer to remember me

and those eyes, frightened, lost