Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Albatross (On the Wing).

Floating
Dreaming
Here on my slow island bed
Lost in the seas
And the Albatross Skies
So High

What- What is there to do?
Nothing I want to see
Except for the crested waves
Crashing off the mirrored versions
Of me

Floating
Dreaming
I witness you there
Circling with the Albatross
Touching the opaque wispy clouds
So High

Alone, Here I Lay
Youthful hands behind my head
On crumbling dreams
On Petit Bot Cliffs
Gentle-Airless
A rumble from distant wings

Floating
Dreaming
Where will I go to
When this dream is over
Where will you land
Now that the world is so high

What-What is there to do
Nothing I want to hear
Except for the sound
Of your
Mournful forgotten cry.





























Albatross (On the Wing). full post

(102 words, estimated 24 secs reading time)

From On High they Swoop.

White beaked Messerschmitts

take vantage position

on the decaying church roof

as they crowd and wait

with piercing eyes

the early morning frenzy

of laid down black bags

the parcel corpses of the bread,

too far gone for morphine,

and they attack on mass.

The streets are filled with caw bullets

sprayed

and laughed by brains

so small

these creatures of the air,

and yet they know

our habits,

From On High they Swoop. full post

(143 words, estimated 34 secs reading time)

Your Presence.

Your life, in pictures,

is a reminder

of how I feel about You.

You are beside

My working desk,

You overlook me,

as I stretch and yawn

in the middle of the night, you

as a child

when I had to leave,

You

as an adult that has made me afraid…

Your presence

has filled me with love,

and it has driven me

to question, to anger, to fear…

I miss you always,

Your Presence. full post

(96 words, estimated 23 secs reading time)

Scenes From A Black And White Photograph: The Sandcastle.

A memory of childhood

sets with the sun on a desolate beach

as whispers of tall grass watch over

forgotten sands

where once heavy footsteps danced

around fires and final beats of

misheard laughter, song lyrics, and confused

buckets are tapped down and moulded

into shape of turrets and invisible guards

keeping the sea and swooping bitter seagull alike

at bay.

The sands now brushed clean

by March gales, April showers

and October winds.

We were never there, just a blink

Scenes From A Black And White Photograph: The Sandcastle. full post

(124 words, estimated 30 secs reading time)

Fear Of The Calm.

The quiet

was deafening.

The silence

roared in my face

as the workman

signed off

on another job,

smiling as the payment cleared.

In fear of the calm,

the hammer and nail

withdrawn,

I turned on the radio

to thunderous applause

only to understand

that the sound

was just static,

unstill, crowded white noise

and not the end of a concert

that I had missed.

Ian D. Hall 2022.

Fear Of The Calm. full post

(72 words, estimated 17 secs reading time)

Every Morning

Sometimes I open the blinds

to witness the dark at four o’clock

in all its stillness.

But more often than not I keep

them closed, till the Sun insists

its alive and well, screaming

into the darkness that becomes

a whisper of joyful light by the time

it reaches my ears…

and yet every morning,

long before the birds

see the march of time and early worms

I question whether 

I should continue,

every morning I ask if you

Every Morning full post

(100 words, estimated 24 secs reading time)

To Cut A Rug.




I tugged and pulled at the landing and stairs carpet,

threadbare, its fabric skin, hanging loosely

and unsurprisingly

it gave way easily, knowing its time was short,

revealing trapped dust of a decade’s footsteps,

up and down, occasionally falling, tumbling,

broken neck avoided by short distance

between point a and b…

The remains swept up, cleaned down,

 a vacation in a vacuum and then in the bin,

to live and decompose in a thousand years

in plastic sweat, much like the carpet I had




To Cut A Rug. full post

(184 words, estimated 44 secs reading time)