Category Archives: Poetry

The Monsters At Your Door.

 

Another zombie knocked on the door

in the early evening October

glow supplied

by moonlight and red rouged faces,

dipping into their mother’s

make-up bag

and the drool of fake blood

that gets wiped on the ghost’s

off-white bedroom sheet

because the taste of chocolate

isn’t as nice when your plastic Dracula

chops get in the way

of chewing and smiling stuffed face

dripping…

…expectation;

zombie, ghost and ghoulie,

growling wolf, a mistaken ballerina

swearing and threatening robbery

with violence, as only

The Monsters At Your Door. full post

(118 words, estimated 28 secs reading time)

A Tree In Pittsburgh.

 

He went hunting for squirrels

on a cold October day.

I remember my time

in Pittsburgh being one

in which I sat playing cards

till four in the morning,

the fine whisky

slowly adding to the occasion

of friendship, far removed

from the man with the gun

in his hand

and hate seeping out of his porous heart.

The incline railway overlooking

all of creation, the once former

Steeler’s ground lost

to history it seemed,

but below, stewing in his bile soup

A Tree In Pittsburgh. full post

(113 words, estimated 27 secs reading time)

Full Stop.

 

It does not mean the end,

there is, after all,

more to life than

suddenly being quiet, reflect

on your thoughts if you must

but don’t let that full stop

dictate to you

the point of closer detail,

of thinking,

sweet consideration,

and then talk, shout, scream,

such vile words, such tempting

phrases and ponder a while

my friend, upon the point of

the end of the sentence,

don’t let a full stop

be the place where you

reside for the rest

Full Stop. full post

(139 words, estimated 33 secs reading time)

Early Morning Departure.

So close

that I could drown

in The Tamar in the attempt

in trying to reach

a buried deep home…

 

Too close the brightness of the day

that started out by hanging

on my doorstep

as the four in the morning Blues

threatened to send my over

active mind

into the screaming landscape

of anxiety filled possession.

 

The cold of autumn

on the empty dance floor of Lime Street

is briefly ignited by the warm

good morning greeting to stony Ken,

Early Morning Departure. full post

(217 words, estimated 52 secs reading time)

Ferrari Across The Mersey.

 

Every Traffic -light has a Grand Prix start

For Boy racers in their testosterone fuelled cars

Every pedestrian is legitimate target to mow down

Score extra points for cyclists, dogs, and older people to

Students taking selfies glued to their mobile phones

Don’t hear you coming at them from front or behind

If I miss them, I’ll get them next time

Blood on asphalt Mad Max on the Redline

Auto erotic Car Crash TV

Vanishing point, Two lane Blacktop

John Carpenter’s Christine

Thelma and Louise drive over the precipice

Ferrari Across The Mersey. full post

(126 words, estimated 30 secs reading time)

Winter’s End (No Sign Of Spring).

 

It is the long day before,

the cruel winter of bare tree thought

has plagued me since

the start of September’s fallen

and I find my reasoning

has deserted me, the fear

of your constant rejection

moulding me into the man I am.

The soulless winter

in my life, you

couldn’t touch the spring in which

you rallied against,

you ignored me,

I found it was easier

to live without you

and I told you such

when my old Queen died.

Winter’s End (No Sign Of Spring). full post

(121 words, estimated 29 secs reading time)

When I Went Racing With James.

 

Somehow, I managed

to take a picture

of horses snorting,

their hot breath turning into steam

as they charged down the field

and towards my camera lens,

the unblinking, the hot hoof beat

that I felt underneath,

locomotive driven, terrifying

and beautiful, an attack

on the front, be still, measured

I implored myself, hold the reins

of the camera tightly, snap

shot of a time

when I went racing with James.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

 

When I Went Racing With James. full post

(80 words, estimated 19 secs reading time)

Ol’ White Men.

 

I never thought

that I could ever be charged

with the crime

of being an Ol’ white man.

Despite having never once

seen myself as but

an ally, a willing supporter

and cheerleader of feminism,

an enthusiast of different cultures

and romantic scholar of other’s values

a devotee of equalism…

somehow,

I am just an Ol’ white dude

who cares nothing

for anything;

I wonder what my life was for

in such moments,

I stood for all,

now, none stand with me.

Ol’ White Men. full post

(90 words, estimated 22 secs reading time)

The Deleted Scenes.

 

The deleted scenes

hidden away, far

in the recess

of the compartment marked

as pain, of abuse, of the neglectful reel

of shame, red-faced and embarrassment

caused, we skip over those moments

and turn our heads when

the obituary notice

at the end of the night of Oscar

winning performances

is revealed; the deleted scenes

erased, erased

erased,

but never on every machine

that recorded the moment…

somewhere your deleted scene

is still being viewed.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

The Deleted Scenes. full post

(83 words, estimated 20 secs reading time)

I Saw You For What You Were.

 

I saw you,

through the haze,

the other night

whilst you were dressed in tight fitting jeans

and with the selected primrose

jumper that you always wore

when believing yourself

to be an agent provocateur,

your hand on his leg, the soft stroke

of indiscretion;

I watched without care,

for a brief moment,

till I knew the secret

of your smile,

and then forgot you,

as the haze grew clearer.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018.

 

I Saw You For What You Were. full post

(79 words, estimated 19 secs reading time)