Love and Time,
there is no reason
to believe the world
will ever find
a way to remark
that
there is too much
of either,
quite frankly.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.
The Words Of A Hostage.
I blink my eyes
a thousand times
a minute, in hope
that you recognise
the Morse Code I am sending,
don’t try to find me,
quite lost,
quite lost,
a small sudden stare
into the distance
reveals more pain
and torture to come,
the taboo to be broken,
the last vestige of my soul
quite broken,
quite broken,
beat me,
they seem to want
to always inflict more
ridicule, surprised I am
still breathing here
in this cold, unforgiving place,
Another (Modest) Proposal.
How Swift
We forget
that there was a time
that satire was preserved
for the throats of the pompous,
the lofty with copper bust
on show
in Halls or outside churches,
seeming pious in their pose
and their place in history texts assured,
satire was preserved for them,
satire, let’s eat the rich,
for in their taste for blood,
the Chingford Iain, teeth bared
pumping fist
now uses the poor for fuel,
the disabled to further his cause
of a bright beautiful future,
For The Love Of A Sister (Not Born Of Blood).
Sisters, who’d have them,
I didn’t when I was a young boy,
the thought of being
in the same room as the overuse
of teenage perfume
met with warm air
and ever changing pop star
and film matinee idol crush,
of perceived tattle tale
and can do no wrong with simpering smile
and behind the scenes dirty tricks
and mind games,
filled me with dread.
Now I would love a sister,
but the closest I have is not blood,
but she is the finest woman
Like A Kite.
Like a kite…
I never learned properly
how to fly the paper chase and nailed
down wood, I would watch
with awe as others flew so high,
tumbled and rose again
in the swirling winds, their lives made happy
because the kite touched the edge
of the perceived sky, where mine limped
and sagged, scrapped the sands and snagged on rocks,
like a kite destined to flump along as I ran,
making my heart beat out of time,
pushing the kite, willing the kite
A December Wedding.
A Registry Office, it could have been anywhere,
but it happened to be there
at that appointed time with you,
a sluggish hour, in which
you confessed soon afterwards
on the train to Waterloo
and the promise of
cinema on that cold December night,
that you secretly had never loved me,
that up until the last minute
you had no intention of turning up
to our intended date and solemn vows.
You seemed surprised when years later,
finally as I cracked under the pressure
Another Woman’s Mince Pies.
She makes them just for me,
and her mum, hand crafted
each Yuletide as the decorations
hang
forever in an unspectacular box
on the airing cupboard.
I told her that I loved her Mince Pies,
despite not caring about the day
itself and they were delicious,
however I had once
tasted, just to try,
a shop finished treat
as I slowly warmed myself with a hot chocolate delight
against the cold I felt in my middle age veins;
Her eyes always blue, blazed and narrowed,
Tiny Vultures.
Should I not
answer you
in the social media world,
should you worry that upon
my floor I lay, tongue hanging,
gathering dust and flies
buzzing round,
eager vultures laying eggs, maggot, bluebottle,
think on,
perhaps I have forgotten,
late Middle age is near
and sometimes the fog is thicker
than it was,
other things catching my attention,
not out of malice but an interest
in the new for now,
or it could be that I found it rude
Once Upon A Birmingham Day.
Once upon
a Birmingham day, St Andrew’s
called the three of us together,
my Grandfather’s hand on one side
my father’s on the other,
two larger than life men
and a child, barely able to reason,
once upon a Birmingham day,
I peered through the gap
created by the outline stance
of two men and saw a game commence,
squeezed and pushed
with the flow of rhetoric,
community singing and language
unheard even in the finest
of hours, the colours,
displayed, rejoiced, groaned at
If You’re Looking For Answers.
If you’re looking for answers,
Me,
I like my steak blue, under the heat for no time at all,
my eggs runny,
my haggis with mayonnaise dolloped on the side,
my bacon with a rind,
my Shakespeare riveting,
my football with City on top,
but never forgetting the days in which we were damned awful,
sometimes my poetry…whimsical,
my rock heavy, my jazz boundless and my pop with a smile
and the kiss in a women’s eyes,
I used to like my Whisky at least older than me,