Broken, but still beating hearts
grieve close by to where we
have been picking off dead
leaves brought down in flight,
swirling in the dog fight of autumnal
trepidation that all soon will be mulch,
trodden down with the finger wag
of open graveside talk, the freedom
to explain away our troubles
to the deaf underground.
In this council setting,
set between the river and consuming
life, there is no beauty, all is bleak and
September day groaning with the weight
of the year gained…
A brand-new boiler, installed
to keep us warm this winter,
all pistons firing, cosy
we wish to be, to keep away
the oncoming winter storm
from our sheets and duvet
and allow our toes,
and often frozen fingers
the chance to not feel the pain
of Jack’s teeth tearing at our vulnerable flesh.
All is well,
only a thousand other jobs
to keep us safe
in old age.
Ian D. Hall 2018
I love it when you come to visit,
the days stretch before us
of open air and father-son memories,
and whilst we may never stir
and create plans that come to naught,
I know that for a while,
you were close to me
again, breathing in my words,
as I revelled in the quiet
you brought to my mind.
Ian D. Hall 2018
In silence,
I let your words
filter past,
your contempt ricochets off walls,
causing tears and splits in the faded
wallpaper that has covered
up the decaying brick since
I first met you, silence;
I break the hush, and
now I see how you tried
to smother me.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Down
amongst the ground sharers,
the football’s sailing over half raised
hopes and nets, designed
to keep the homeless
leather marbles from entering the gardens
and hitting the post
of gnomes, glass
jaws agape as windows
are bounced and framed
as the cheer from the crowd
is passionately ironic, suitably
in time in the non-league homes
and in this field
of semi dreams
between Waterloo and affluent
Crosby lives a day remembered,
a smile between two rows of teeth,
The modern Pandora
gratefully accepts
your Sixpence’ worth
of opinion,
and revels in your unearned view
of the moments
to which one side
does not fit all,
perhaps late at night
the joy of burning wings
is a thrill, moth driven Ego,
inflated by the size of the Sun,
head down, a sentence written,
and then written again
in another place, an argument
of conflicting locations,
the opinion given, satisfied,
in the eyes of the dull
hilarious,
In the darkness
of your words one February night,
you seemed to revel in my misfortune
oh dear woman
of Norfolk broad;
a scathing attack with borrowed fire
and from out of nowhere personal confrontation.
It was in that moment that I thank you
for being so mean, so
unpleasant as you tried to shame me
about finding solitude in the shadow
and the trace of ghostly human light,
your insult and insinuation
that blackness doesn’t exist
and that misery is a state of mind,
Four in the morning,
Autumn darkness comes early
despite the August reign.
I have buried my head between sheets
and my own powerful melancholy
as I try to understand how I feel
today.
A moment, as fleeting as the life of a burning star
or the breath of a swatted Mayfly
ripped from existence before it has had chance
to mate, to find true love
in a heartbeat, this is how it could be.
I should celebrate this exploding star,
Wemmmmmberrrrrleee,
It was the shout of the senior yard,
a dinner time kick-about
for those not entrenched in the arms
of the kissable lips
of the girl they had fancied
since she started wearing tight
T-shirts with movie slogans
imprinted upon it, all designed to catch the eye.
One goal and you were through
to the next round, tactics
playing the part, hand close by
to the keeper, ready to stab home
a winner and much to the despair
A gloved white middle finger, missing
the rest of the pack lingers
for a moment
at the far-right extreme of the shelf,
piercing nostrils hooked
on polish, can smell the residue
of a frenzied cleaning session,
but there is always a spot missed,
uncared for, rushed, each shelf
she demands being cared for,
the books must always be in order,
never to allow a single mite
of seeded dust to be encountered;
with a bitter smile of contempt, her finger
swipes a molecule of dust, and the maid knows