Don’t forget these words,
once they have finished
tearing my soul apart,
they will come for you…
…I am so tired of being angry,
I can hold it for a while,
deep down and afraid,
let it grow, I am tired of being angry…
but somehow I must keep on,
putting the posters up,
warning you that you’re not safe,
that you are the next target
on their list, I’m tired of you
putting your fingers in your ears…
I’m tired of shouting
Toby Young,
I would write a poem for you,
but why waste words, why waste breath
on someone
so deprived
of humanity
and beneath contempt.
Ian D. Hall 2017
At around a quarter to midnight,
I shall go and look
at the world from my front
door step and take stock,
a small overdue cigar
whispering to me of times past.
In my pocket a small brown bag
with a small pinch of salt,
several pieces of coal,
a piece of brown bread
and five gold coins
hugging the paper tightly, not daring
to let go, lest the promise of better times be dashed.
I think of you, as the night and the clock draws on,
You can organize
and categorise your books
just how you want them, neat,
coordinated, by publication date,
by alphabetical treaty
and genre specific,
detailed, arranged with love
like a marriage that was not seen coming,
and yet
somehow
in all the tidying and methodical embrace
of putting the books in a system, upon
shelves and shelves and make shift piles
that befits that page turned embrace and declaration
of stand back and admire your handy-work and dedication
you
still find
one piece
‘Twas the night before Christmas and there’s no one about not even a mouse
Or an eight-legged creepy to scare you out of the house,
Quietly though a figure creeps down the stairs leaving his loved one alone but asleep
He finds what he’s looking for high on a shelf, hidden behind the books three deep
It’s a little Santa ornament hinged in the centre, a small space to hide something
Gold and blue amethyst glint in the night, a beautiful engagement ring
Hidden in Santa and put back on the shelf ready for a surprise on Christmas Day
In an effort to make space,
I moved books of every genre around.
A kind of literature feng-shui,
or just a bound refusal to look
at ever letting go of any written
word I have given
house room to since
I first grasped
the meaning of the phrase,
In the beginning.
Ian D. Hall
It was never a time for me,
I would smile and wish the same,
that you, my friend, would
see hope in the year to come
as Christmas came round again.
I would cook the dinner,
argue about sprouts,
force one down
the throat that craved, not turkey,
dry tasteless meat that had no right
to be served upon my table,
but perhaps a sense of humility
and an early bacon sandwich
covered in brown sauce.
Not for me this day
I don’t care what colour
my passport is, I care
that I have one, I care that
many don’t and will not ever
have the chance to travel, to experience
love and hope, regret and passion
in another country.
I don’t care what colour
of the rainbow it wants to be,
It could be gold with regal spots
or have the emblem of the house
of fools tattooed upon its outer shell,
I care that this is our red line in the sandbox,
Happy Holidays,
it was always worth a try
to inject a phrase into a time
to which I feel no connection.
Happy Christmas, goes, goes, goes
to the back of the pile,
not one for the season of Santa
and his air traffic controlled nose
reindeer, Blitzen and adding
Donner meat to the Kebab
rammed down the throat, drunk
on Christmas Eve, traffic cone on head
and singing loudly at midnight.
Having worked in retail and in catering,
the best thing about it was willing
It is nearly time
to put my well worn shoes
at the back of the wardrobe, making sure to
cover them up so
nothing falls in
and causes me to yell out in surprise
come the middle of January
when I start this madness
once again.
Surprised that they have lasted all year,
the red boots, have served me well
and deserve the foot rest
that this festive period
that bleeds into New Year hope
and dreams already dashed
as other’s resolutions canker and spoil, provide.