I told you once
when feeling the love
for you
that I would move both
Heaven and Earth.
I kept my promise,
I hired a skip,
You owe the council
for the delivery.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.
It Came At Three In The Morning.
Darling,
I hear your whispering voice,
Darling,
I hope it’s for me,
Darling
because I cannot believe you
would ever set me free.
In this world, darling,
Time is so short tempered,
we take the world as we must,
for all the glitter, for all the rainbows
we should return to dust.
Darling,
I heard your whispered voice,
Darling,
calling me beyond my fragile mind,
Darling
I am forever young
in your arms, you become so kind.
Candy Floss And Tea.
Candy floss and tea,
the last Dog Day of August barks
and fun before school
and Christmas adverts
come along and spoil the thought
of forever sunshine in towns like Southport.
Candy floss and cooling tea, still stirred
and gossiped over as children swarm
and take photographs of the mirror image
in the Hall of Mirrors
whilst seagulls above squawk, keeping an eye
on congealing chips and left
over baited breath fish and pie crust.
Candy floss and final dregs of summer tea,
Tuppence Arcade.
Tuppence arcade, a pound
thrill whilst others sit and drink
slowly cooling
tea near the promenade and the sound of Candy floss
melting in the August sun.
Rolling tuppence, eagerly lost, a way to spend
a pound to gain eight pence back
and feel the thrill, no longer a tuppence intact,
rolls of loose change and loose lipped
conversation, gambling addiction,
removing the training wheels early
as the hard earned coins
from savings at the back of Rackhams
come rolling down the slope
and adding a moment of pleasure
(They Only) Talk To You (When They Want You).
There is no cure for isolation
when the silence is drip fed,
when it is interrupted,
painfully, awkwardly
by the can you do this for me,
rather than just a simple
random, text, media social hello,
thinking of
you
but don’t know how to say it properly,
because I don’t want see you upset,
not you.
They only talk to you
when they want something,
and then it is to tell you
how you should feel.
Ian D. Hall 2017
The Monster In The Water.
There is no shark on the freeway,
yet there is a monster lurking,
under the depth, just always
out of sight till it rears its head
and its jaws come crashing down on
your torso,
you’re tore so
you believe all the lies
and it is not helpful;
for the beast under the water
picks us off one by one,
it glories in its belief,
the despicable dogma,
this is the monster under the rising water
and as we drown, we cling
Bitter Flies.
I used to know every word
to all the songs
that I loved,
now
there are just too many,
they flutter like butterflies
and when I try to hold one
in my hand,
they hover
just out of reach, not wishing
to land on my palm
or feel my fingers stroke their fine wings
and restore memories, of times
spent with you.
They believe
they are sparing me from despair,
the chance to howl, to be
in pain and live in bliss,
He Gave Me His Drumsticks.
The notch marks and splinters give it away,
another symbolic nick, a gash
in the rhythm and the hit me
in time with the cow bell,
the drummer looking down,
a single gestured tapping
and the guitar goes silent,
only the hum of the audience
joins in the anticipation
of the beat, suddenly rising
Hell is unleashed and the drumsticks
crash though arteries, a legion of sweat
ready to pounce and scratch
at the bleeding eyes of those in love.
The heat is blinding, Buddy Rich intense,
In Defence Of Boxing.
It is a spectacle,
Pugilistic sound
a symbol of machismo,
punching above your weight,
of pound for pound brutality
and possible damage to the brain,
never seen the point, never been one
to see the ring
to show how much my worth
as a man or a human being
should be defined;
and yet I also don’t see the point
in racing round a track with a tank full
of petrol, I see no need to carry a ball
underneath my arm
and have my earlobe ripped off,
Four In The morning, Pavement Blues.
Four in the morning, pavement Blues,
a single small, hurried cigar
becomes a second,
longer lasting, what the Hell
moment of pleasure in the dark
quiet Bootle street,
a realisation that I am not
responsible for a stranger’s happiness
despite wanting to see
every stranger smile,
four in the morning
pavement Blues,
a missing guitar
but the harmonica pulses
and sends out a beat
to which only the deaf
appreciate and fondle under their bedclothes
when their wife is away, dreams