…and the old ballerina tune,
wound up clock and short of breath,
is replaced, the tacky and old
manufactured plastic, her skirt dead,
faded grey to the point of translucent poison
now gone, displaced, placed in a sack
and given away, not bearing to suggest
that the tip be the final resting place
for the entertainment and love shown.
In its place, the song remains,
or of something similar,
up to date and strong on its spring
heels now encased in wood, polished
Many names I have carried,
sometimes in burden, often
in indifference, hatred, spoken
in anger and the eye soaked
in blood, a few times my name
has, surprisingly, carried warmth, pride,
the feeling of recognition and despite
it all, one in which I cling to,
finger nails clawing at the driven old by time rocks
and smashed by heaving water,
I retain my name, e, simple, easy to remember,
My promise to myself
when I hear it that I shall live-up
to all honour I believe, I hope, I possess,
Under the orange
glow of the back street
light, she wanted to hold
my hand, grip it tight,
and talk of the future,
I wanted
to live in the present,
I gingerly told her I wanted to kiss her
rouged red lips
and tell her I loved her,
we compromised
and that night
as the glow died down
at just before dawn,
we learned to dance.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Prayers
in a Catholic Church
by a full congregation
and the willing
smile of a good priest,
surrounded by images of God,
surely are just
Mass produced.
Ian D. Hall 2018
In winter, you are a naked beast
that makes the imagination run
and tumble, no matter the age.
This exposure as the first drifts
of snow stand fast against your body,
parting the branch and making the harsh light
of the torch explode and reflect
upon this desolate season, a monster hiding in the shadows,
ready to reach out, twigged gnarled fingers
groping in the dark and bitter air,
catching the passer by with surprise
as the light dies early in December’s grasp.
Yet this beast, of old Nordic tales,
It felt right
to sponsor you
anonymously, your walk
from fresh as a daisy point A,
soldering past every stopping
post that the letters held to
bone tired destination z,
and I wished you well in my head
even though
in the next minute I saw someone else
then take claim and oh gosh
I meant to put it under mine, silly
Me, I said nothing, I let it go,
and as much as I dared you to succeed,
I hoped they tripped over their ego
A handshake across the divide, all smiles,
not just for the poised
and focused cameras,
but for the owner of the Korean future,
it means the world
and the world watches on
in astonishment at this symbolic act,
a single step in the right direction,
back and forth the two men go,
the right direction, no matter the influence,
the right step, a holding of hands,
if not of ideals, regardless of the position,
another Berlin Wall moment
in days of endless bad news.
Don’t let it be by the gun, rather a pun,
a word or a thousand in line, revised,
perhaps, but would rather leave each sentence
delivered as the judge requires, laid down law,
mistaking my zest for apathy,
not so,
it is just a work in progress that is over half way passed
and should there be need for an additional
chapter or appendix whipped out
before it bursts into paper shreds, then let the pen decide,
let life be snuffed out by the nib,
From the safety of my shattered glassed bus stop,
I watch him shuffle past, worn shoes,
possibly one inherited black, matches his panda
bear eyes, these days reflecting
nothing more but his own stale scuffled
disappointment and the latest craze
of hitting every crack
in the fractured pavements; dying now
but someone forgot to tell him,
so he keeps shuffling onwards,
panda eyes squinting for a point
and I watch him from the safety
surrounds of broken bus stop glass.
Ian D. Hall 2018
It is a sense of guilt,
a Methodist instruction
or perhaps
a reminder of my own pound of flesh
owed, measured
and found to be in
continuous debt
if I plan some time away,
even from just doing
the pressing down of keys,
there is the voice in my head that whispers,
no, no, no,
you must, you owe your time
to everything else but you, for you,
the voice whispers,
have nothing else to do.
Ian D. Hall 2018