Albert Camus,
poor man that you are,
forgetting a glimmer of truth
in your melancholic good times;
tea may always be a substitute
but it has a bitter taste
for those left to stew the pot
Ian D. Hall 2017
Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.
Twenty Five Years Ago Tomorrow.
Twenty five years ago tomorrow
you saw me exhaustedly trying to drain
a pint in a bar in Media, travelling
for so long, a hundred litre
rucksack deposited in a rundown,
no television motel
but with a welcome sign that eased
my weary soul.
The Greyhound ticket I had used to
navigate the state was shoved,
stuffed, without care into one
of the overflowing side pockets,
jumbled up and crumpled,
pressed between mixed tapes
of memories of home, emotional baggage
that I cradled throughout my journey,
Christmas Has Come Early (Again).
The tills are ringing out a merry dance
for the delight of times gone by,
Santa’s hat is being primed
and the decorations are all on high,
twinkling with colours, music and fun,
the adverts have started,
broadcast to remind of others,
of those living and those dearly departed,
yet deep down in November’s grip,
something feels wrong
the message is out of kilter
there is bum note in their joyous song,
the presents, the greetings, it all seems false
the communication that is loud and clear
For My Dad.
You used to take me out in to the garden
when I was no taller than your knee,
you would put me against the gate,
showed me how to stand
and then kick footballs at me
for an hour or two,
it was fun…
no, more than that it was the best
of times.
From there the old potato fields beckoned,
you played there as a boy, near the River Rae
and then you introduced me
to watching live Saturday football,
a visit to St. Andrews, you forced yourself
The Hand Thrusted Forward.
The hand was thrust forward,
a missile in manners that aided
the resentment, the cowardly tone
that carried sickly through the owner’s
clenched teeth;
“What’s your name again?,
unearned smug satisfaction
crept across his bland outer expression
and mocked the monster inside.
Don’t you hate those perfect grin toothed people
who live in sneers and the love
of leaving a scar for you
to itch and pull, the damage done
by ill manners.
Ian D. Hall 2017
The Birch Comes Down.
Of course, we are not all self serving parasites,
whose job it is to frighten, to terrify,
to hold firm the country’s birch
in one sturdy hand
and press down the face
into the dirt,
the intoxicating germ driven bog, and make
those less fortunate, the unlucky, the desperate
and the betrayed suffer for the potent,
some might suggest rotten,
up to their eye balls in the defecation
and smeared toilet roll wipes
whims of their so called masters.
We all get too suffer this fate eventually,
Saturday Night: Drowned Out Firework.
Didn’t we
have a grand day out,
just you and I, hiding
in the shadow of the cinema glare,
a motion picture about nothing
at all and then a play,
after a hastily eaten meal,
that signified the roar
and enthusiastic, spontaneous applause
of the crowd
thankful that the rain
had spoiled a thousand bonfire nights.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Isolation: In A Spider’s Web.
Isolation, it is a fear more acute than
a room full of spiders,
for they at least
might be behind glass, snarling
away, venom rising,
wanting to taste your flesh; but they do it
only because they are hungry, not evil,
you are prey, not ridicule, as the first bite
goes deep into your skin
and the feeling of paralysis
comes over you in waves,
at least you know it is not out of hate.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Cool Runnings.
I have never been fitter,
well in sarcasm terms anyway,
all this running in circles,
jumping through hoops,
clearing every hurdle
and pushing
myself forward
in a time
when all people want
is to be famous.
I just want to be able to live,
happy in the darkness,
not surrounded by obstacles
or contemplating the quick sprint,
out of breathe, out of touch,
just content to do the marathon
in my own time,
one foot
after another and to the beat of my own
Several Blank Pages.
The blank page of the diary
mocks me with a gruesome
eye, more so
than a verse unfulfilled
stuck in my mind,
eager to be released and kiss
the world, fight it
if it must.
The day that is blank
just reminds me that
Time has nothing to offer me,
not this day,
perhaps not tomorrow
and in a run of a week
where nothing is planned,
that gruesome eye burns
with greed, stolen
all that is worthy.