Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

One Day, Your Children Become Someone Else.

 

It will come, the dumbfounded look

that will crease your face, puzzled shrinkage

one afternoon, or evening when words

pass lips that only a moment before

were full of childish glee and wonder,

probing questions become statements,

optimism and love

in their eyes becomes care, you hope,

and you’re left feeling as if the world has turned

and forgotten to tell you, that the positions

have changed and now you are the one galloping towards…

well the land of the not quite sure,

your brow deepens, your furrow tightens

One Day, Your Children Become Someone Else. full post

(132 words, estimated 32 secs reading time)

Front Row Circus Seats, Vlad.

 

It makes a change,

a deep breath is exhaled

by many like me, the old,

the infirm, the disabled, the poor, the children,

the low paid,

the single mums, the stay at home dads,

the neglected, the dying, the sick,

the homeless, the under pressure in

this country’s green and pleasant land

as we sit in the front row, given popcorn to eat

knowing that for a brief moment,

all eyes in the circus are fixed East,

the spy V spy deflecting our out

Front Row Circus Seats, Vlad. full post

(120 words, estimated 29 secs reading time)

Fondness For The Busker Of Liverpool.

 

Guitar strings played

on the dark night street,

maybe by light of day

and passing by twilight smile,

but always with a fondness

and ready cheer as the tottering

Hen Party groove

requested a song, a song,

play me a song to remember

when I marry him next week,

give me a tune to cry over

when I think of Liverpool

on this dark street, lit up

only by the smile on your face;

and he would oblige ,

dipping out of his own patient pulse and strum,

Fondness For The Busker Of Liverpool. full post

(151 words, estimated 36 secs reading time)

With Love, To The Jester Of This Realm.

Today,

I’m going to turn over a new leaf…

Well I have to

Ladies

and Gentlemen,

I went camping for a week

in the New Forest

and forgot

to pack any toilet rolls…

Dedicated to Ken Dodd.

Ian D. Hall 2018

Permanent link to this post (43 words, estimated 10 secs reading time)

Wet Ribbed Bones.

The bones are showing

through the ceiling, bare bones

dew ribs, dripping wet ribs, uncovered

and on show, surgeon hesitating

keeping this patient alive

without operating, without the knife

or the blue sheet to keep the dust

in place inside these wet ribbed bones.

Wet ribbed bones, wet ribbed bones,

poking through the ceiling, cartoon,

loony tunes skeleton playing on the xylophone

as I stand beneath the patient,

looking up, looking for the light,

at the end of this rib cage tunnel

and wondering when the sutures

Wet Ribbed Bones. full post

(131 words, estimated 31 secs reading time)

Ha, Laughs Life.

Life’s eternal joke;

kick you in the nuts

when you having a glimmer

of a nice day,

then acting as a sweetener,

a smile of lopsided joy,

allows you three numbers

on the lottery only

to remember what it is like when your

ship docks at the wrong port

and your ceiling comes crashing down.

Ian D. Hall 2018

Permanent link to this post (62 words, estimated 15 secs reading time)

Platform Eight.

Your train comes in at just after eleven,

slow pull up on platform eight

old friend, a memory calling

at stations in between, past towns

we never visited, houses

and farms we would never see inside,

closed curtains cutting out the view,

our life open to exposure, scenes from

a life cut open

and bleeding slowly

on platform eight.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

Permanent link to this post (67 words, estimated 16 secs reading time)

For Schoolboy Yucks.

If for nothing other

than my own amusement

or schoolboy yucks,

may I implore,

or be so bold

to ask if the next body of gravel, dust

and surrounded by water

discovered in the world,

a sudden baby clump of Earth

driven out of the sea like Surtsey

in ’63, could be named

Noman…

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

Permanent link to this post (61 words, estimated 15 secs reading time)

Slapped Bass Treated With Love.

 

When I was a boy, you were one

of the men I wanted to be, punk attitude

wrapped up in a skin of pounding music,

and whilst I could not play bass,

or any type of instrument, I still wanted

that naked, fire driven approach, to be angry,

to dwell in me; mean, moody and magnificent,

a bad boy with a good heart, now I

watch you on stage and you slap your bass,

you treat it rough and I think

can I do that with words, a Kerouac love, mean

Slapped Bass Treated With Love. full post

(183 words, estimated 44 secs reading time)

A Burnt Meadow.

 

And now the meadow’s black, burnt

to a cinders that will not

see the ball or the glitz and glamour

of the magazine, the photographer

squeezing out one more frame,

one more plea of pout baby, look

down the lens and think of England

as you smoulder and create electricity,

the meadow is black, corrupt, shameful,

shameless, the meadow primed for real

estate development to sell more dreams

of home ownership, till the banks come knocking

at the door, rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, economy

to scale, a large slug festering, dripping coins

A Burnt Meadow. full post

(170 words, estimated 41 secs reading time)