The longest day
again, déjà vu of the dark night
in full colour expose,
so much light uncovered
and the thoughts of solitary
mean nothing to you
as you go about your business,
never caring, just revealing
your version of a day with dusk
at two ends, fear not
for now the nights start drawing in
and I can sleep easier
knowing you will dream of me more.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses…
the centre of a sentence and sonnet of hope
that I memorised from childhood
and in which I vowed to witness
with my own eyes
when I finally
plucked up the courage to ask the lady to dance
with me, an immigrant
who wasn’t tired, was not poor,
had nobody to huddle with, but who
yearned to break free…New Colossus
on a distant shore, how, I hope,
you now weep angel as your promise
It could be viewed as a bucket list
romance, my eighty days
staring at you,
getting to know you,
understand you,
hate you,
love you,
be fond of you,
swear at the frustration you cause me,
gently run my fingers across you,
bash down when the right thought
does not come to mind,
hurt you, as you destroy me
become your mirror image, embrace you,
finally leave you be
as when the dog days of August
whimper in heat after snarling
The rare writing on the Cornish slate
is older than the notion of England,
as it sits now in Tintagel Castle,
a display for the excited
and the learned to ponder over,
it’s meaning lost in Latin and ancient script,
but it must be gleaned in this land of legends,
of old Dumnonia and the last King of Dungarth,
that the script must only contain one message;
Do not put carrots in the pasties.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Roasted Hog,
basted and the cut, succulent,
dripping fat on the stoked
fires, upon which I feel
the burn
like flesh deposits crinkle
and leave me with crackling
on my back,
a taste of cooked meat
hangs in the air, sickly and putrid,
a cannibalised flesh, rotten
now from the inside out,
so bad that even a black fly stops and hovers
for a while and refuses to land,
no blue bottles, just maggots
upon my skin
today.
Ian D. Hall 2018
It is the cruelest trick,
to offer someone a future,
a second chance in which
to make things right
in their heart; this now is the path
before me,
a cruel trick played out,
a future denied,
and last night I tried to dream
but all I saw was the face
of the ideal and the possible,
taken away.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Welcome…
…Here we are,
Ladies and gentlemen, and those to whom
we respect define as neither,
splash on a little make up and relax
for here we are in the last heady days of Berlin,
the days of Rome
before the Vandals
and Nero’s enigmatic solo
on a half strung fiddle, raise a toast
and see the world, frolic, dine,
take a picture of your neighbour’s dinner
and give it a groovy like, drop your pants
in excitement as low core porn
becomes a reality programme, and
We spoke of the news
long into the night
and in time for the moon
to dance between the slits
of our blinds
and our once blinded opinions,
a coal fire dying slowly
and our lungs to breathe
in the remains of the dark day
that had passed,
huddled together
we spoke of the news
of the constant evil, of the never ending
criminal, corrupt, immoral
and natural disasters in which
deep down we crave, to satisfy
our longing for calamity, our need
Save a kiss for the hangman
as you approach the noose,
the rope to burn, the lynch
knot at the back of your neck,
soon to pull, but save
a kiss for the hangman,
gentle tidings pass the time
between wide eyed staring down
the audience, a kiss for the hangman
is what they won’t expect,
for in their minds the guilty
don’t display such beauty,
the gallows always call,
but on your way
to the timber beams and strong rope
of public opinion,
I just felt like
I should run away,
it is a familiar feeling,
one that has been a bleak guide,
this signpost of being in the way,
of offering nothing,
just a spot in the dark
where it would be easier
to overlook, easier to find solace
in the long walk to another
self-destructive path
where they cannot reach me,
for a while,
paved with painted stems of sunflowers along its edge,
bristling with imagined life, for there
I might stop seeing the faces