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,
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
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
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
… and finally
in the news tonight,
for those
who are waiting for the B.B.C.
poem of the day
but don’t wish to know the result;
then look away now…
Ian D. Hall 2018
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
…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