The three fold man, I see you
in mahogany mirrors, two either side,
of the age I am now, the boy
to the left, coloured in regretful sepia
and fading from view, the old,
untapped and unseen but hoped to be,
still invisible, a sign tapped out in Braille,
don’t count your chickens sonny,
I should be grateful in wasn’t in semaphore green
or the malignancy of burning bush confrontation,
thou shalt not…
this three-fold man, remember me,
here in the middle
looking back at you.
It is not for me you understand,
the question of loneliness,
of solitude unasked for,
of isolation, perhaps enforced,
cut off from plans, talk, conversation,
chewing the fat
with no one
but me, the solitary figure;
it is not for me I seek an answer
on being lonely,
I’m just asking for a friend.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Here in Limbo, ducking down,
avoiding the gaze of God and the Devil,
chums and old pals, compliments
spoken freely at the matter of my passing,
caught between the unbeliever
and the quite sure the place exists,
they are not sure what to do with my soul,
let it burn in Heaven or let it grow cold
in Hell; neither wanting, neither demanding,
they flicked a coin in the air,
there in the darkness they put me,
till the coin stops landing on its side,
in Limbo.
I won’t accept the gift,
it was in his eyes, fifty five
years young and self proclaimed
special brew, special one,
it is not surely what he would
normally partake in, swift swallow,
long gasp of recognised favourite
as it goes down the hatch,
West Country greeting
lost upon this sophisticated man
that we cannot join in the pun of
Cider with Jose.
Ian D. Hall 2018
From roughly twenty seconds in,
I hear what you have seen,
the echo of guitar
caught in the ferocity of sunlight
and the regal nature of an Iron Man
with blank staring eyes looking out,
unblinking, unmoved,
metal thoughts kept to itself,
of the scene that unfolds before
as you take that perfect picture
that resonates in your own soul,
a day out with the wife, now joined
by this silent companion,
the Sandancer on the beach.
Dedicated to John Chatterton and inspired by his photograph Sandancer.
Not even a pen,
not valuable enough of Michael Parkinson’s
solemn delivery
urging me to grow older.
I received a letter, friendly in its content,
signed by machine, my name at least correct,
could I be worth up to a quarter of a million
pounds at the time of my death; worried
that I have the odd cigar, I enjoy
a cooked breakfast, over weight but happy,
I looked for the smaller print,
the kind in which makes you think on,
to survive and leave a penny means… what
I refuse the mask, there are no cameras
to catch my image, I wouldn’t care
anyway; the graffiti is my mark
and will, very soon, fade away.
I spray words of hope, anger, refined
and polished, screwed up ideas, a tag,
a tag of mine, wretched display of art,
this tag, this art, not for the faint hearted,
my display not fit
for comment as it is scrawled in blood;
fine lines of vein dripped venom,
remember, this is my art, not for hanging,
I’m not for hanging
I heard you had died,
the modern fail of internet, claiming lives
before their time, modern fail
of finding news before it has even happened,
to cause sensation, perhaps untold grief
in the faces and minds of those that care;
I heard you had died, taken away
from us, not knowing how to mourn
without remembering the name you gave me,
a moniker that somehow stuck,
that name of Rufus, I hoped to hear it again
now that I know it was a false report,
We stopped waving our pictures of Bob Hope,
now that the joke has worn thin,
different ways to fly the flag, smile
for the cameras, flash bulbs popping,
headlines made, U.S.O. satisfied
and the men grin
on the face of it,
not wanting to worry the folks back home.
We stopped sending letters, redacted, blacked out
lines, forcing half truths,
or no truths to take hold in lie,
lie, lie, lie
and yet they still sent Bob Hope,
with a smile, with a gag,
For those just walking on by,
pulling their coats closer to their skin,
It was surely nothing more than
a piece of litter thrown carelessly
out of a window of a passing car,
the jetsam of the age, too busy
for a bin, for the black plastic bag
collection on Friday morning at seven A.M.
Yet, no rubbish, just all dead
inside the remains of this wind battered nest,
no sign of mother, sticks clumped by rain
and sod and tossed from the tree with force.