On the day they line the streets,
I hope they remember to smile.
There should be no tears falling,
not in this place, only in the comfort
of a joke well told, the punch line
creating laughter
in the crowd, for on this day
as they line the streets for a son of Liverpool,
waving tatty-bye for now, tickle sticks
in hand, clutched tight, remember
the man brought joy,
one that cannot be replaced.
Ian D. Hall 2018
I keep looking for the cracks,
the tell tale sign of disrepair,
that stems from attic to foundation
and the worrying whisper of wet,
damp through rumours and idle gossip
of the leak somewhere in this housed body;
perhaps I should look for the solid join,
too few,
too few original parts,
just the undertone of shifting
boards that sigh, telling me it’s too late,
my edifice, my home
is breaking down.
Ian D. Hall 2018
I go to search for you
online as I haven’t heard from you
in quite some time, I picture your face
and I smile, I remember your laugh,
your loves, the sad times and the moments
that fell to Earth in between,
thousands of ground dust silica particles
inhaled and tearing apart the breath for you,
as I struggle to think of your name,
once a volcano
erupting
reduced to shredded glass and faded recollections
suffering under the weight off the landslide mud
that has come to clog my own dying volcano.
There is no water that flows or drips
down the drain and to be carried
out to sea, it stands
almost still, interrupted in its quiet
domination of all it touches
only by the gentle aftermath of wind,
slowly pushing at the edges, slowly,
slowly, rippling back time.
There is no water that flows from the drain
to the sea, it stands moat like, defence
in its favour, defiant, as the one grate
it surrounds, stands aloof and proud
to be on a higher plane
There’s a Black Hole in his road
that soaks up all the rain,
sunshine and warmth that disappears
without a trace
the deeper it goes, killing
all sound, creating only noise, in its journey
to obliterate all that may contain life;
it doesn’t realise that as the once reflected sun
beamed off its water, it too holds now existence,
it is carefree chaos,
the black pitted small hole
in the journey
that has become the architect of destruction.
Inspired by the photography of John Chatterton.
It will come, the dumbfounded look
that will crease your face, puzzled shrinkage
one afternoon, or evening when words
pass lips that only a moment before
were full of childish glee and wonder,
probing questions become statements,
optimism and love
in their eyes becomes care, you hope,
and you’re left feeling as if the world has turned
and forgotten to tell you, that the positions
have changed and now you are the one galloping towards…
well the land of the not quite sure,
your brow deepens, your furrow tightens
It makes a change,
a deep breath is exhaled
by many like me, the old,
the infirm, the disabled, the poor, the children,
the low paid,
the single mums, the stay at home dads,
the neglected, the dying, the sick,
the homeless, the under pressure in
this country’s green and pleasant land
as we sit in the front row, given popcorn to eat
knowing that for a brief moment,
all eyes in the circus are fixed East,
the spy V spy deflecting our out
Guitar strings played
on the dark night street,
maybe by light of day
and passing by twilight smile,
but always with a fondness
and ready cheer as the tottering
Hen Party groove
requested a song, a song,
play me a song to remember
when I marry him next week,
give me a tune to cry over
when I think of Liverpool
on this dark street, lit up
only by the smile on your face;
and he would oblige ,
dipping out of his own patient pulse and strum,
Today,
I’m going to turn over a new leaf…
Well I have to
Ladies
and Gentlemen,
I went camping for a week
in the New Forest
and forgot
to pack any toilet rolls…
Dedicated to Ken Dodd.
Ian D. Hall 2018
The bones are showing
through the ceiling, bare bones
dew ribs, dripping wet ribs, uncovered
and on show, surgeon hesitating
keeping this patient alive
without operating, without the knife
or the blue sheet to keep the dust
in place inside these wet ribbed bones.
Wet ribbed bones, wet ribbed bones,
poking through the ceiling, cartoon,
loony tunes skeleton playing on the xylophone
as I stand beneath the patient,
looking up, looking for the light,
at the end of this rib cage tunnel
and wondering when the sutures