I wouldn’t have got far,
nowhere at all really,
if you had not come into my life
and shown me a new road in which
to travel, a crossing in which to pause
at and wait for the signal to move back,
and also to understand sometimes
that you have to step back
in which to gain momentum.
I would not have got anywhere
if you had not shown me how to break
using my feet and worn down sole,
I would have still been
Birthdays rarely fall
when they should,
a day in which to celebrate
and make good
of the hopeful
cheer that might come your way
would be better served in warmer climes,
not in the frozen pastures of February,
neither ought it tumble
onto the stony, unforgiving ground
of the weekday, wantaway Blues,
where grown adults of the current age
shake their heads and say,
not on a school night, despite
not having children to care for.
I will take my birthday when it comes,
I have thrown out so many bags
for refuse of late, that countless
ideas of nonsense have become
obsolete, not worthy of being
in the same house anymore;
I must find a way to make room
for the hopeful flights of fancy
that are being conceived,
embryonic, shifting shapes
of butterflies, pinned down,
to grow into
the nonsense they desire to be.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Valentine’s Day is cruel,
unforgiving as expectations are raised
and the hope of a declaration of love
so special is hoisted high
in the hopes that your relationship
is seen to be perfect;
she told me to be ready by seven,
the table was booked for eight
and for a change
she was treating me to a night out
in low lights, soft music
and a night which was not
to be considered make
or break.
I hated the idea of such fuss,
It was like scanning a dial,
an old fashioned radio receiver
searching in the darkness
for Radio Luxemburg, static,
partial signal, lost, found, ear
splitting, brain numbing sound
as you close one eye in response
and try to shrug away as the dentist,
fiendishly and with enamel desire
starts removing the loose and the cracked,
the split and gleefully
finds the station’s pulse mark
and enjoys the hits coming forth,
in at this week’s number ten, a new sensation
drill baby drill.
There will always be happiness
to be found in the announcement
of love, it is the way of things,
we fulfil a need to see life
continue, to see it flourish
and avoid the rain
that some would bring just
by their presence; you cannot beat
the feeling of love and it is to be happy,
to be thrilled, when it happens to you.
Love, you are lucky my son,
you have found the one to hold
and admire, to care for
They tell me that Elvis is dead,
they showed me the carefully
snipped out press cuttings
they had saved since
the dreadful news broke,
back in ’77, every line
preserved, poured over,
taken out every now and then
and the days of tears that follow,
a single one
slowly drifting down the face
when it hurt too much
as I see them close the thumbed
to death, barely hanging on scrapbooks
and draws and bloated cupboards of memorabilia;
floods when the grief of Elvis
I don’t know why
but it got to me
that you didn’t see Terry
before he died.
I knew that you had an issue
with death, you had lived with it,
a day to day companion, an image
in the corner of the room
whenever you thought of a brother,
one not destined to be like you,
vibrant, easy going charm,
a devilish smile, rakish
but with sound heart beating,
but not for the dead,
it got to me because I realised
no matter how close we were
I nod my head to the leader
of the band playing my tune,
the signal that silently suggests,
if he would be so kind,
to go up the range,
make it beat faster, till I lose my breath
in the smoky atmosphere and sit
wide eyed at the dance, this mix of tango
and waltz, gentle and frantic
all in the space of a single ball room
to which I play the saxophone, sweat
drives with the speed
of an out of control Plymouth,
Inside those tunnels,
I imagined rats, gnawing, chewing, ready to bite
down and feast on my flesh, the gatherers
at James Herbert’s wake in Liverpool
that night, as we toasted the horror of man
and the brain that seized them all,
made the connection between sex and the
ability to frighten, the strange allure
of the thrill in every page,
was down in those tunnels even now,
sharpening his pencil, readying his wit
to kill us, one by one, by one
who knew how to extend the torture