There is no such thing as a beautiful morning,
the hours, the minutes just click by
between light and dark,
both coloured a charcoal grey,
and I grow tired of them both
being the same, even
when there is a handsome sun
riding the clouds like a lover gasping for air
or the moon desperately seeking solace,
away from prying eyes, shrinking
in its magnificence;
I find them both worthy of the same attention
and that is why
my blue eyes are closed.
Thank you for your Time,
it was precious to you and for a while
it consumed me, it overwhelmed
me that you should choose
to place each minute in my company;
thank you
for not allowing me to waste it,
as much as I could have done.
Ian D. Hall 2017
It would never be just one last trip.
I would promise myself
that once I uttered, with tears in my throat
catching my breath and stalling the moment
in my final
goodbyes to the stone faced French lady
on the waters, no sword in hand, a now skewed vision
of what it was to be part of a less free world
in her dead expressionless eyes,
a monkey on her back, damned dirty
politics playing games with a woman I love,
it still would never be goodbye.
I am acting as if there is no hurricane
enveloping me,
sweeping skywards,
battering me with all the forces of nature
that life can control.
I am a bystander
in my own self written pantomime,
the star of the show somebody
once uncast and negligent
in their approach to physical theatre
and they dodge the cream puff pie
with ease; that
is not how it was ever supposed to be.
The hurricane, the wind inside ferocious
and tedious lands on the stage, the principal boy
I am bleeding,
somewhere inside of me,
a heart that was always finding
new ways to grieve
now looks upon the decaying body
and sees the eye weeping
when it should bring forth life;
a tear
or two, blood, in evidence,
a strain of being a man,
now decaying even in soul
a tear
in the body,
not a stream of blood forcing its way out
but one mixed with the neglected,
the also-rans and the reminders
of what could have been
a tear
Oh Mr. President
a simple question for you,
not one out of malice
for I am not that kind of man,
but one in which I beg sincerely
an answer from your mouth,
did you study history
or were one
of those who felt that History should study you;
if the latter then you have your wish
and for all your many pennies
hidden in away in secretive corners,
know that every moment
you wallow in the dirt and shit
and mess and blood to come;
I chose life
many times,
pulling back from the brink
on a couple of occasions,
choose to be who I am
rather be someone I am not…
I chose washing machine, after washing machine
after one domestic appliance after another
and still I hammer them into the ground,
I choose not to own many
material items, never been swayed by a name
but always refused to anything made by Sharp
in the house as it would engender support
for Manchester United, I choose to not do that
Little by little,
it, for it
deserves no other name,
eats away at me, stripping bare
my resolve and my will,
my own mind, my thoughts
of which I knew I was right
even when others treated me like dirt,
my apologies, sincere, full of self loathing
because I had hurt someone…
little by little it is being sapped away
and in it, I hate.
I hate what it is doing to my body,
I hate the small changes
the blood appearing in my piss,
A train of Jackdaws
hopped on stiletto claw on board
the fifteen forty out of Wolverhampton,
bob tails waggling, beaks opening with wild
inquisitive shrills,
their voices
displaying nothing but the search for worms
in the dirt, the mud a step too far
for the preening old birds
with florescent feathers,
the odd battle scar where the edges were ripped
as they tussled and tore at life…
Finding water
unpalatable, the inexhaustible selfie
drags itself once more into existence
and the high pitched squeal of bird like delight
A stomach growl, felt the stab
of indiscriminate pain
that has wandered my body
all of my life, and it froze
causing me terror at
one thirty A.M. no addiction.
Turning on the radio to wipe
away the sweet sweat, I hear that you had died
and grief, just as painful
washed over me,
I was blessed to have existed
when you had lived,
I wouldn’t change that for the world.
Ian D. Hall 2017