The bar,
always the bar
with a silent moment
straggling behind,
failing
to keep up
with the excited and bubble in nose conversation.
I always met the most
interesting,
beautiful
and charming people
nestled in the bar fly mode;
you chiefly amongst them
dear Carole Labrum…
I raise a glass and toast your honour,
to the only person that ever drove across
two states to hear me talk
and ignore
the silence
wheezing and puffing
exhausted in the background.
What was there before the strings,
the resonating beauty of a violin
caught in the midnight chime
of my ears and soul,
what was there before that…
What was there before the beat of a drum,
the sniff of palpitation of my heart
that rose and shivered
in time as the snare cut across Time,
what was there before that…
What was there before the electricity,
the hum and the feedback
that snarled and kissed
like an angel dressed in red, a riff blessed,
Let the horns
blow gently in the background
as the instrumental choice
breaks their hearts, the soft
lament of winter’s approach
and spring’s forgotten haze
is only a melody of memory
played out down the years
with summer an extension
of the orchestra’s belief
and autumn the tumbling farewell;
let the horns blow gently
for you are a King
with compassion in your heart
as the instrumental break
shows only too well.
Dedicated to John Jenkins.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Get to the first hour of December,
that new born minute
and somewhere in the world
you will stop breathing,
your chest will stop
and people will grieve;
the year has been the perfect assassin
with stealthy fleet foot,
yet there is still more time to play,
celebrity is always in vogue.
The thirty one days, counting
down because that is what we do,
we cross off the days in our heads
and with marker pen
on the free
and easy calendars that we received
Changes,
the world has been
through the wringer, the pulping
machine this last year, 2016
the year of the dreaded day
and the mincing machine
where reality has been reality,
in that everybody
eventually dies
or gets to play politics; changes
everyone, the shroud envelopes all
and in the grey black mist,
a crooked bony finger cocks slows
and asks you to join the dance.
Ian D. Hall 2016
I cannot see America
anymore, she has slipped away,
ghost like but on fire, flames
orange, red and cobalt blue,
the stripes scorched,
the stars starting to singe
and the great experiment dies
a little more each day,
in anger, frustration and with the word of God
upon their cracked and dishevelled lips;
ghost and fire,
I mourn you now
every which way possible.
Ian D. Hall 2016
You have become too big,
now I fear
that you will fail, spectacularly,
with liberty in hiding
and the prospect of internal war
grinding,
dividing,
chomping and salivating over your soul;
you are flat-lining in the heartlands
and the political elite never understood why,
you rebelled for a while
before falling into a coma
one autumn day.
Break apart, you
cannot live together in peace
and the bullet will surely
now seek revenge
upon revenge
upon revenge;
till in the midst of four Presidents
How did I end up with a surreal addled mind,
almost drunk, sepia toned
and full of exotic weirdness;
one straight linear dream in all these years
and that I can trace back to watching Threads
the night before, scaring the crap,
the very life out of me,
a cautionary tale, I
sometimes get too involved with these dreams,
too upset and confused by the appearance
of the unexpected, the false trail
and the shivering cold of plunging
my awake brain into working
what the synaptic dozy messages mean…
The choice to go
into politics, industry,
work and fleece millions
out of their hard earned dough,
by casually calling it an investment,
when really it nothing more
than gambling on a higher
stage, place your bets,
roulette wheel time,
money as safe as houses
in a time of repossession,
should be seen
as a life style choice,
not to be lauded
or having the craft
of the artist sully their hands
with handouts to those who benefit;
keep the hard working coin
If you poke the Bear,
you really should expect
to find yourself
on the end of sharp and dangerous claws
and yet we poke, we provoke,
we decide to inflame the situation
and now Satan is revealed,
the pulsing super penis
that the Bear holds between its legs
and starts to dribble its urine
on the world; Satan
so apt an name,
forgive me my non-existent deity,
I think we have screwed up
big this time…
the rocket fuelled penis
only needs a number