There was a time,
I remember it well,
that I loved you
so much that I was willing
to forget everything else you did.
There was a time,
I remember it well,
that all you were
to me was pain and suffering,
I vowed to recall every second.
There was a time,
I remember it well,
I swore I would
die for you, to find you
placed me in the firing line.
There was a time,
Remember when you sat
on worn down Time, and looked
only to the blue horizon
and wished for tomorrow
to come, worn down by the time
it arrives and lost
in the dream of another day,
eroded stone cast possibilities,
gone forever, now turned to worn down Time,
on which summer days
hold only the pleasure of ice cream drip
and the blue horizon
of tomorrow.
Ian D. Hall 2018
I stroked the palm
of my hand gently,
and I saw you watching me,
not yet introduced, a fumbled attempt
in truth, to make friends.
I had made an H, crude,
followed by the easier e
and a couple of l’s and o
Hello, I signed silently,
mouthing it as if an unsure echo
would clarify my delight
in speaking to you with slow insecure fingers.
You smiled, a moment and a barrier broken.
You then asked me a question,
We grew tall in the shadow of nuclear burn
but inside, as we made these Bicester country
lanes our buffeted fortresses,
our escapes
from those that lied to us from
the outlook of swinging sixties leaflets
and paraphernalia of a golden age
in which they now stood as kings,
taking apart, bit by bit…nothing,
only adding to our insecurities and rage
and swipe back fear
of the errant cuffed ear,
inside we withered, fed on difficult calories
that added little to the nourishment
The fear of ridicule,
of hate disguised as passive aggressive
jealousy, of mockery, of animosity,
should I dare to expose the feeling
that Roger described as naked,
that I see as part of my soul unguarded
and alone in the exposed light
of bitterness; or should I stop,
just stop, for a moment and understand
that by the pronouncement of this bound
birth, I am only fulfilling an obligation
to myself, nobody else, just me,
the fear of ridicule and sneering mosquito
is there to keep me sane.
Can you imagine that outcasts may mourn?
That the tears of ill-judged outsider
and the lonely
Ghost only flow when they return
to the fold, to be greeted
by the sermon forever ringing
in their ears, this leper,
no more than 33, untouchable pariah
making jokes and revelled, frightened wit,
would have often cried,
I would not blame the outcast and the exiled
for screaming damnation
at the society who shun them,
33, prisoners all, regardless of crime,
perceived offence, to mourn
The first petition
announced itself
with the cheery signature tune
of the over eager and the punished
by expectation gone wild.
Several more landed on my desk
before the night was out
and all bearing the same
words of elation,
the same impassioned glee
from a nation of fans who had witnessed
their heroes too often bite the dust.
I read the cheeky E-Mail
and then signed my name,
after all, how often do we get to enjoy
schadenfreude at the expense
…I asked my mother, “Will I die?”,
as the poison swept round my body,
my last leaf on the verge of killing me,
murdered by the unnecessary,
no clue why.
I asked matter of fact, there was no
panic in my mind, if you are going
to serenade the angels
and party with God
then it helps to believe;
I had lost my faith long before
and at eleven, I reconciled
that at least they knew my killer
and that it had blown out
…and the silence in the glitter ball
above our heads
speaks volumes
about the way you dance
when no one is watching,
no judgement passed,
just unspoken respect,
only daring to reflect the agony
of your two step, two move ungainly approach
when you dare show your other face to the public…
Ian D. Hall 2018
Falling over in stages, a man goes down
one moment at a time, a second per inch passes,
the ticking of ridicule commences,
for even via television
the lover of the game
can be heard muttering, casually screaming
as the hands come out imploring,
looking to the referee with whistle in hand
as a penalty first won,
is cruelly, in his eyes, taken away.
He is not the first to sully
the memory of the game I loved
playing, too many, too often,
exposed, a hand of God,