It takes an artist of brilliance
to understand the pain
and suffering of living inside a man made rock,
to become one with the shell
and survive a week
and come out blinking out the new formed light
and standing weakly for a while
whilst the legs take back control…
…ask many a politician to come out from under the rock
and see them insist
that they understand the suffering of the poor,
the forgotten and the damned…
I salute Abraham
as I wonder who kicked the other rock over
I remember when the king fell.
I remember being told
of his passing and my world crumbling apart,
no final goodbye, no conclusion
to any conversation that we had
had before, no ultimate
declaration, no absolution
just something that became terminal.
Goodbye my King,
I think of you everyday
however on this unhappy day,
I always endeavour to be the squire
you imagined I would be, a knight
I am not yet worthy, a king
in your place I decline and pass
Your book is taunting me.
Bright blue cover, hidden meanings
inside a passage, inside a word,
an attic inside a loft, inside a castle
and I barely find my way out of the maze
in the garden, secret holes
in which wait to be uncovered, yet
I have neither knowledge nor clue
in how to peer through
the remains of the branches and leaves,
the web strewn across
from spine to leaf.
Your house, a treasure island
built on an estate,
no guards, all welcome
I found you
silent. You had
destroyed your own selfless life
in bitter recrimination and in protest
of an unfair
and cruel world
which abused you
in your absence
and who could not
see, or would not open their eyes
to the possibility
that they could be happy,
more than a survivor.
I am to
be sure
the most
doomed of men
to have found you in such quiet repose
amongst your books,
as I am
the first to have to mourn you.
Against the Graffiti,
she stood out like a Renaissance painting,
a heroine of the new Maltese dawn
and the hint of classical features
that delivered the final sermon of the day.
This heroine smiled broadly
as her words floated in the Valetta night
time breeze, hanging
in the air, as vibrant as the thunderstorm
clouds racing the mopeds round the
streets in time
to this Maltese songbird’s
thoughts and aspirations
of providing culture
in The Pub.
Against the physical Graffiti,
slang driven poetic phrases
It was your arrogance
that tipped me over the edge,
then I realised you had been
goading me into the wall
all along,
pushing
me further away from you, pushing
me away from our once romantic past
and making me want to see you with
eyes of exasperation and the sound
of mercy forever
hanging on my lips;
this you found easy, a playground bully
you became, spoilt, incessant in your words
and what for, to keep proving a point
on how you were a survivor,
Another night out missed, a gig this time,
a reason to get up and go, gone
as I battle stomach ache, as I battle anxiety
and the what ifs and what thens
of future interaction, of needing to hurry
to a place of sanctuary during the night
just to feel relief; it is not part of who I am
but what I have become, having to think
about where I am at a certain time
and can I be trusted to make it through
a set list, a meal out with the wife,
We see everything but notice nothing
because our senses have become dull,
mismanaged and turned inside out
in the search of a quick thrill,
the gluttony of knowing it all
but leaving wisdom
short of breath and dying of chest pains,
acute and short panting, slowly fading,
wisdom heart attack, over fed,
over saturated and goose fat waddle,
we see everything, including music,
we have adapted to listen with our eyes
and not with our ears;
our eyes bigger than our belly,
it is no wonder we are culturally
They would not give me credit
for the funds I need
to create the books
I wish to see breathe.
It seems
I have no
collateral
to write poetry,
wandering
and homeless words;
they tell me
they cannot give me financial
assistance,
as I am quite obviously suffering
from
no fixed ode.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Another birthday has come and gone,
try to stretch out the party beyond the
sixteen hours awake, four of which are filled
with everyday insanity,
how can cleaning your teeth,
washing your face,
drinking a cup of
breakfast tea to wake you up, to be rid
slumber and sneaking drowsy
be special , when you do it every day.
The birthday has come and gone, abiding memories
which have to last until the following year
and by pass Christmas and the dry roast
and the gluttony on offer