I want to leave
another permanent mark
on my skin, to feel the pulse
under the knife today,
tonight, when it is the hour
of understanding, of dismissed life.
I watched his mouth open wide
forming a sentence as the background
of clamour threatened
with deep joy to stutter any conversation
we might have had,
I leaned my head forward, slightly,
and cupped
my empty hand to my ears as if
to show his words had been mislaid
in the pulse of ether
I want to stand under the water
that flows from the moon
and across jagged downpour rocks,
and as I stare at the once
great god of old,
now on fire, raging mishap and
cold blue accident,
I see it melt, I hear the cries
of the one that shot
the arrow into the sky
and wept as it pierced
its heart, dying
now, slowly
over rocks
and its life dilutes
as it merges with the pool.
Ian D. Hall 2018
A lake of wood
and former taut string
gathers underneath her feet.
She plays as relics of other’s
ambition and lost gaze cause
sweeps alongside her,
the fashioned, once polished,
timber falls out of shape
and warps the water
with its sound.
As the bow glides,
ripples of echoes
float towards a distant shore
and in the dream of inspiring hope,
she plays on, each note a siren
calling out to hear the sound
of the violin serenade, to join
Can I impart
a whispered moment
of exclusive thought to you
my love?
I think
you are so very special,
so out of the ordinary.
Don’t worry,
there is no pressure,
no one will understand,
I am just going
to tell
everyone
that I meet.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Dancing Queen…
so obscene
to behave like you have licked
the cream, whipped
into a frenzy
as you embarrass us
coming to the stage
like the unhinged robot
in a disguise of self-deprecation
as its nuts and bolts come away,
come away,
come away, worked loose,
the puppet without her strings
is on the loose…
oh, may we have this dance
you believe in your head
we requested, and as you
pull another gun from out
of the bra straps, fluffy
Her fingers clicked
through the beads, one
by one, a silent prayer in progress
as the bus grunted in disjointed answer
to her hope of forgiveness and eyes
staring penance.
Her gaze never wavering from the unfolding
scene of life, horror in her mind
as I saw only animated Time.
Unseen
to me, something must have caught her eye
and slowly, with pain etched deep
in her face and a tear forming,
she put down her faith
and forfeited the remainder
of the journey, taking flight
Shall we visit
Plymouth Rock
and feel the weight of time
eat at our souls, the memories
of patriarchy in silent
judgement looking down
their collected noses,
a decree of continued disappointment
and an unmoving…
…unwavering opinion steeped
in Victorian moral uptight stone;
the Plymouth Rock, not for me
and the ship that carries my worth,
I will land close by,
for a few hours
and then depart, taking my cold
memories with me.
Ian D. Hall 2018
The revolution you want…
…will never happen, stuck
as we are
in an endless game,
let’s play Risk tonight
you ask, but I counter
with Blind
man’s bluff, or even
solitaire,
to play on in pairs, the group
game has now become impossible,
Risk…too risky to show the side
of the coin you flip,
as it spins and tumbles
in to the crack between
soul and mind, you call tails,
knowing that now the revolution
we deserve, is a game
nobody is prepared to win,
Broken, but still beating hearts
grieve close by to where we
have been picking off dead
leaves brought down in flight,
swirling in the dog fight of autumnal
trepidation that all soon will be mulch,
trodden down with the finger wag
of open graveside talk, the freedom
to explain away our troubles
to the deaf underground.
In this council setting,
set between the river and consuming
life, there is no beauty, all is bleak and
September day groaning with the weight
of the year gained…
The train will take me
onwards, an electric hum
a bitter substitute
for the days of steam
and the loosely packed sandwich
that flirts suggestively
with the expiry date
and the unflavoured tea,
hot, sweet, dull as yesterday’s dishwater;
this journey will be different
to the one that we took when
fans in red and thick west
Lancashire accents
set fire to the carriage
and the driver sped on,
eating up miles in an attempt
to blow it out, steam train serenade.