There are still tinges of red
dotted
here
and there
as my ruffled feathers mourn
the reflection I now bare
in the mirror,
cut to the bone, shorn
down, worn down Samson
strength, is it just age after all
as I approach the start
of a sixth decade here
on Earth, that self-inflicted
hair loss is congratulated
and applauded like shedding
of comfortable stones,
a woman’s hair is a crowning glory,
in the age of equalism
cannot I not lament
I swear a lot,
sometimes under my breathe,
quite often out loud and with force,
I have no problem
when alone
of using four letter words
to which would shock
the easily offended,
if the pain fits
then swear
is my motto.
However
in the days when your phone
and computer can hear what you
are saying, the expletives
you utter are to be a warning,
I am often surprised though
that every time
something or someone annoys me
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
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