Jennifer missed her old life so much, that she decided
To go back home just once more.
She felt the twin emotions of clamour of excitement and regret flutter up
Like a trapped butterfly released from a keeper’s net
To enjoy the remains of a beautiful summer’s day.
She had stayed away, too frightened and too ashamed
Of her mistake, so small yet so blown up
Out of proportion that she was made to feel
Disgraced and bitter for a system that
Had let her be run out of town.
For me it’s a middle-aged death
Not become a bore, sore
At my own time and choosing death
At my books and music, gathering weird looks
At the end of the chapter, death
When I get into my mid-sixties
And before the winter of life starts
Keep me from vengeful doctors
Plotting to keep me alive and expecting thanks
In way of tax
For the their benefit
Save me from the worry of children
Leaving children leaving children
At my ever frail thoughts
The tubes feed me familiar words as they feed you life.
I have never met you, I had no awareness of your existence
Until recently and I have seen little of your suffering and strife.
I don’t possess the wit or the talent to write what your life meant in one sentence.
I can measure only in minute amounts your memories by fleeting photograph
On a delicate digital screen, that cumbersome and dishonest
Perverted distorter of your life, which doesn’t show all you have loved and how you laugh,
She sees the unwavering smile I throw her every day.
She smiles back but not with favour
I desire from her, I have toiled till I can no longer labour.
Her hands, warm, empty, not touching the potters clay
That is there ready to be moulded
Shaped, pleasingly with but a moments desire,
That would keep a flight Daedalus’s flyer.
I remain untouched, virgin paper, unfolded.
Kiss Me! I dare thee!
Hold me once during my summer days,
Passion is desired, needed, thrill me.
Let me lie in the arms of She
The wreck of a love lies unloved in my Mechanics bay,
The wheels, rimless, scuffed are at it’s best, its nicest feature.
The Mechanic sees nothing of value in this once sentimental creature.
A bygone relic who wishes it could express in any way,
What it was once capable of doing through its younger years,
Long rides in the country, a joy to move the gears into place.
Hear them grind perfectly in tune with its engine, the thrill of the chase,
Now stuck at the back of the workshop, brooding, dying, full of fears.
A gentle breeze rolls through my black hair as an albatross sings in my head.
The bluffs of the petite bay hold back the autumn within its beached grasp
As the holy hidden wonders are heard in their repeating echo
And they remind me of their regal, inner beauty with rumours and a gasp.
I have laid there on the timid beach, a book, music in my ears holding back time,
And many a woman I wooed within my head as I listened to waves
That crashed into sand, swallowing grains whole silently in mime
A thousand upon a thousand books surround me whilst I try to lay down many a thought.
So many dreams that they desire me to write down for you
And yet, the despair I feel as I try to become a better scribe at your northern Isle court
As I recount tales in hieroglyphs of your bravery and beauty to praise and beguile to.
The descriptions I drive into the stone never quite feel right to show devotion
To a daughter of Pharaoh’s who has her people entranced
With her stunning splendour and smooth motion,
The media savvy, actors, the shy, musicians, the talkative, those with a political stance
The film buffs, creative souls burying their head into their coffee, D.J.s, idealistic, energetic and bold.
Those who take others by the hand, lead them past chairs and tables ready to dance
And those who just visit infrequently to shelter in winter from the Mersey cold.
The Guild square is home to the trials, tribulation, the laughter, tears and the dramas
The dramatic, the beat of a drum, the miscue, the charity drives and loud conversation,
Beneath the beacon that sends ballistic signals out
In search of a home, or at least to reside for a moment
Before the dial turns with frustrated voice ready to shout
That the voices they hear are not those Heaven sent
Near the place where an audience waits
Inside and outside for the theatre of life
To show a production of 24 hours over 365 dates
Through laughter, anger, sorrow and strife
Where McGough’s words runs and pumps and splutters
Crowning the brave and the humour-led with
The Time
Is not yet passed where beer and talk are of the past,
To drink
And
Savour the last drop, of the chat
And conversations drunken blast, to hear the thoughts of
Men, of women and their bairn, is to hear and there
Belong again.
Ian D. Hall
The Cambridge, Liverpool. 2011