Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

Silver Mime.

 

Silver shimmering ghost in spray painted

bowler hat, a mime formed

on Bradford Interchange Station

platform one, she moves,

feminine gestures, this quiet symbol on the streets

free to do as she pleases

when she believes nobody

is watching her satirise the unmoved;

a hand outstretched

she greets a pale pallor Parlour girl,

poor and wastrel, waif in bustles

and then as the train to York slides along

the platform edge, they depart,

quiet but moving; unspoken gestures of comfort

in their stony set faces.

Silver Mime. full post

(93 words, estimated 22 secs reading time)

Headingly Beckons.

 

Headingly beckons, a county rivalry

put on hold for an innings

or two, as I make my debut

at the boundary edge, sunshine opens play

I hope, as quiet reflection and the buzz

of cricket commentary updates me

on the activity on

and off the field.

Headingly beckons, a trip from once Lancashire coast,

into the heart of dear Geoffrey territory

and Botham glory, dreams of opening

against a spinner with pace

on the wrist, and the delight of a Pakistan crowd

exuberant, decked out in colourful flags

Headingly Beckons. full post

(161 words, estimated 39 secs reading time)

The Curse Of Adapting.

 

I wrote a thousand words down,

mostly direction, some form,

all cloud and dust from a temper that rages

to be free, simple

and subtle substance of memory

adapting to a new place, released

by a new phrase, new belief,

and yet as I look upon this meagre world

where pseudo black ink

discretely blots out pages of snow

and ice bound though,

I cry a little, for it surely is all for nought.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

Permanent link to this post (82 words, estimated 20 secs reading time)

Wherever You Were.

 

Wherever you were yesterday, know

for sure that I thought of you,

that I talked of you, that I hoped

beyond measure

that your day was respectable, that you

did something positive

for someone else and atoned perhaps

the storm you left me in,

the disrespect shown as you slid

into a dirty corner and withered

from my sight, of no contact, of no Time…

I would ask of you, to seek me out

one day and ask of me what your actions meant

Wherever You Were. full post

(107 words, estimated 26 secs reading time)

In Howth, It Started To Go Wrong.

The adorned grave in Howth,

overlooking an Irish Sea, was full

of memorabilia left by fans,

nearby a gardener mowed down

excess green tokens and kept order

between the various plots

lost to time, in his own small world

of Presidents and stars, of the ordinary men

and women who saw this village grow…

…time was we talked here, you and I,

before darkness fell

and shadows widened, we now reside

in cottages of straw and supposed moral

outrage, though yours is greater than mine,

In Howth, It Started To Go Wrong. full post

(131 words, estimated 31 secs reading time)

Bunting Points The Way To Queen’s Square And Kiev.

 

The odd house

along the main road to Liverpool

had fluttering bunting pinned to the doors

and hanging from the outside

of the recently varnished windows, hand drawn

pictures of heroes who lifted

the European Cup

in their name, and Shankly legend

and Paisley lore, of Kennedy penalty,

of Hughes, Crazy Horse

and a small child kicking a scuffed

second hand football against a wall

in Anfield, Toxteth, Bootle and Cairo,

dreaming of putting on the red shirt,

someday, to hear their name resonate

Bunting Points The Way To Queen’s Square And Kiev. full post

(158 words, estimated 38 secs reading time)

Her Today.

Her today,

it is the song you sing

when the times get rough,

the call you make

when the nights become lonely,

Her today,

laying on satin sheets

in a crumbled down room

and as old as time

wall paper peeling in hard to reach corners,

Her today,

is the image in your mind,

silk black stockings

or American tan, like some

1950s desperate showgirl,

Her today

you have never left her behind,

she just sleeps in that thin space

Her Today. full post

(140 words, estimated 34 secs reading time)

Bleak Times.

 

In rainstorms, you look for the lightning

in the distance and hope

that the growl of dark clouds

keeps far and away from your door,

yet you know that for all the sunshine

that may come tomorrow, or the day after

that, that cloud will move on, seemingly spent;

instead it just finds more relish

to pour down elsewhere,

perhaps drowning some

in the process.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

Permanent link to this post (73 words, estimated 18 secs reading time)

Death In Paradise.

We scream to the heavens

and plead with the pit

below…

…but I find no solace

in either, death in paradise, life

in purgatory, Milton thanks me

for the memory but I have no

recollection of his face,

I can never be brave enough

to light his candle and see

the reflection of pain

and madness in copperplate grind, production and feel

damns our day, in memory, in shadows, in shadows…

…whisper goodbye and good purchase

for your songs, for your psalms…

…whisper

Death In Paradise. full post

(200 words, estimated 48 secs reading time)