I felt the Earthquake
from underneath my feet, several
miles deep, hundreds of miles
wide in length and breadth,
I felt the Earthquake, the seismic shock
of a world reduced to falling down,
falling, brick by brick
and the laughter of madmen
in glass houses making sure
their sticking tape, black sided gaffer
tape, held their homes together.
The appearance of Herod in my desert,
the decree of now move on, leave
my world for you all are now unworthy
to live in my palace of tin, emanates
Where do I place the cross,
the age old question of democracy
to which a flipped coin,
smooth and pointless upon either
side, will invariably come down
after spinning in the air
like a cold mechanical Catherine
Wheel, defiance in the face of all the odds
down on its side, the universe
goading you
into believing there is a third way.
Place the x, remember the feeling
when you believed in heart and soul
that it meant to change
your life
but then the feeling withered
You came home to die
and it was a decision that I
applauded, that I understood
and I told you so and you smiled
whilst deep into the coma,
the final rage of sleep,
the dawn yet unseen,
you smiled and a hundred miles away
the Earth stood motionless.
A quick release, less than a year
but oh my friend, the days since then
have stuttered on, have been less kind
because my picture of you
has been eroded by time, my faltering
To live and die by numbers,
to be at the mercy of numerical opinion
and the percentage point,
to infer that all is lost upon the raising brow
of the integer and downcast digit,
is surely only adding up
to the fact that we have lost control
of humanity, our human intelligence eroded
by quantity rather than time;
to live and die by the second, to pack things in
to the day rather than be ruled by one to ten,
to live in the moment for as long as possible, stretching it out
Mongrel,
or mixed heritage
invader blood in my heart
conquered and crushed,
victor and heroic warlords
on the battlefield,
the result of taken or ceded
I am a mongrel,
I have no true country
only safe land from water,
only safe land from war,
the grandchild of an immigrant
the grandchild of Cornwall,
potent mix dating back centuries
and now you want me to hate
you want me to condemn
that even my own blood borne out of pillage
and deceit and war and conquered lands,
Today I am uncomfortable
in my own knotted skin,
I don’t know how to react
to the stimuli of life, the poison
I drink in, that I want
to swallow by the lungful, the sea
that I wish to drown in as I sweat,
at the prospect of another day
excusing ghosts of their past,
whilst still condemning myself
to death everyday.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Life, love and understanding
in the inviting alleyways that stem
out of every pore of real London,
teeming London, rank
and file, true blessed, authentic
and crowded
and congested
and swarming heartbeat London,
where Underground darkness
bathes in existence and light…
I love your streets and the historic new,
the passion in the frank,
beer crashing, dimpled glasses, London Pride,
that swallows in the smoke
and the grated conversation
over dying trades; reminding
me of New York but poorer but no less sincere.
My guardian angel
never wanted the job
in the first place, she not only sighed
and whinged, placed her hoof down
with a firm angelic paw
but she gave God the finger when she
said with strictness in her voice
“Someone has to do
and I am afraid
it is down to you.”
The saintly finger risen from its paw
has followed me everywhere
and the guardian has often tied my shoes
together, pushed me down the stairs
and then made sure I landed
It has to be said for there is no way
to hide it,
you make me feel invisible, imaginary,
that when you close your eyes at night
or look away at the rain in a far off county,
to you I have become the person you once
dreamed of, slowly dissipating into thin
noxious air, gassed and slumped over
for your amusement and only then do
you poke me in the eye via a spiky bark-less
tree limb, poke me in the guts and praise
the gods that I am still; invisible
The flame will only ever become a trail
of brief whispered smoke
if you extinguish it yourself, when others
try to put the wick out, all that happens
is after they have gone and busted your balls
for not using the electric light at your command
that the match, red faced but saluting
the moment in readiness as it turns to sulphur,
strikes back against the grain,
and lights the candle once more,
sparks life, albeit closeted and in a world of
writhing shadows upon the green backed walls,