Poetry Blog by Daniel Hall

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Daniel Hall on Head Scream (Sun, 20 Jul 2008 04:40 pm)

Janet on Head Scream (Sat, 19 Jul 2008 11:26 am)

Janet on Head Scream (Sat, 19 Jul 2008 02:26 am)

Daniel Hall on Tunnel Vision (Fri, 18 Jul 2008 11:00 am)

Jeff Dawson on Tunnel Vision (Thu, 17 Jul 2008 06:04 pm)

Janet on Tunnel Vision (Thu, 17 Jul 2008 02:29 pm)

Daniel Hall on Tunnel Vision (Thu, 17 Jul 2008 02:09 pm)

Janet on Tunnel Vision (Thu, 17 Jul 2008 01:42 pm)

Daniel Hall on Tunnel Vision (Thu, 17 Jul 2008 10:24 am)

Janet on Tunnel Vision (Wed, 16 Jul 2008 11:13 am)

Standing Up

I stand before you a changed man
because I popped the bubble she blew
around me. Change what I perceived while
peering through it's oil-slick rainbows.

Outside I see life in its true colour.
I can recognise the bubble around her.
It changes the colour of her motives.
Changes outsiders perception of her.

In the beginning my bubble was clear.
I knew my path, myself and what would be.

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Head Scream

The bile you bark in my face
is not some random forecast
that I am to acclimatise to.


It enervates every part of me
while you stomp over emotions
and gallivant with my feelings.


I'm crushed in a private corner
dank hands protecting my head,
without hope of an ameliorator.



You might feel the need for a dictionary with this one. Heck I needed a dictionary to check a few of the words before ...

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Tunnel Vision

No guiding light beacons
in the darkest of tunnels.
Tentative steps stumble.
Probing fingers touch
cold and wet imagination.


When the light appears
the tunnel end revealed makes
promises with each bold step.
Breath extravagantly exhaled.
Salvation prayers answered.


Illusions of a trapped mind
scream in the advancing light.
Realisation numbs rooted feet
and still the light expands.
Company to the engin...

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The Victim

Only a steady drip, dripping
from the rusted, mould crusted,
pipes exposed by flaking walls,
in an old abandoned warehouse.


Toes barely reaching the floor,
her wrists chaffed by nylon rope,
black bagged head claustrophobic,
a crude gag muffles her whimpers.


Hanging from a ceiling hook,
blue fingers claw and fumble,
pathetic against the restraints,
double knotted, glue hardened.


Snick! His switc...

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Alvyn and Pete

Alvyn from Llangollen would panic
at the slightest nick to the flesh.
So quite why he's taken to fishing
is a mystery that all have confessed.


But this tale is not about fishing.
It's about one cold autumn day,
when Alvyn and Pete, the tough gilly,
saw a rabbit, on last legs, by the way.


Said Pete "That's a sad Myxi rabbit.
Best run it over, be on our way."
Said Alvyn "You can't kill a bunny
get ou...

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More Tea Vicar?

After the service there is always
a cuppa and incinerated produce.
It can't be called cake anymore.
Old Mrs Cubbage has lost the knack.


She presides over the pouring,
talks incessantly about everything
and everyone. An opinionated tea urn
with an covert biscuit grappling claw.


She has been the Church Social centre
since before my Sunday School days.
Undeniably a lint trap for gossip.
Nothing esca...

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Alternative Perspective

My world is outside in,
here and their the sane.
I swim in the see of blue,
or rest upon green glass
below the oak old tree.


I can here the sink song
of birds who bart between
brush and tee, and often
wonder if they sea, with
oblivious clarity, like me.


This is a nod towards Jeff and his blog post on the demise of the Queen's English. Here is my tribute to us dyslexics who do their (is that the ri...

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Beneath The Pantomime

In dislodged dust a single star
flashes brightly as it falls
to the concrete floor beneath
the theatre's polished boards.


Victorian timber supports actors
who wind up the audience with
"Oh yes I am!" and fein shock
at the response, "Oh no you're not!"


Machinery in the pit broods
as it waits for human muscle
to pull ropes and push levers,
to drive pins and swing traps.


Spark extingui...

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Rumor Rabbit

You hare about the Island
like a Government black rabbit.
Spreading your version of plague
to everyone who'll listen to your bile.


As a young lad I surveyed
on top of a hedge in West Baldwin.
Pockets bulging with red game shot shells
brought home from school between text books.


Natural in my hands the single barrel
12 bore of Russian origins. Safety off.
When dark flashed by my eyes corner
the reac...

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From a window, open to dusk,
a small grey dancer enters.
Beating wings, marking time,
to a spiralling ballet.

In the lamps halo a ghost,
over landscape of emotions.
Inks a random word or phrase,
dark, in skittish highlight.

The guest artist, dips outside,
allured by brighter offerings.
Thoughts spotted by the spectre,
shine, with new understanding.

This will be my last entry for a couple of weeks while I'm aw...

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Alternative Perspective

My world is outside in,
here and their the sane.
I swim in the see of blue,
or rest upon green glass
below the oak old tree.

I can here the sink song
of birds who bart between
brush and tee, and often
wonder if they sea, with
oblivious clarity, like me.

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Morning Shift

A hoar-frost morning
on Bartholomew Green
beneath graffiti poles
that shed illicit light
over the fake fur shoulder
of the last standing whore.

White crystals on hair tips
and beneath the single zircon
piercing her snivelling nose.
Harder than blue water diamond
she survived the traffickers
who laughed; an icy hoar-whore.

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The coughing ferry visits
on every other thursday,
except in excess weather,
then she comes - whenever.

Some local stuff is stored,
potatoes and grain which,
when rough stone ground,
bakes to a sensual melody.

The finest harvest brews
in ancient, black oak vats
until spirits are set free
in copper and twisted pipes.

Hats tightly clamped against
things thrown and thrashed.
In winter the population,
drunk, clin...

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He's Home

Clatter of key in tired lock.
The bump and shove of the door.
Heavy, steel toe capped boots,
perfect imprints on the floor.

From kitchen sink she hears him,
worried, drops a half clean pan.
Quickly smooths her simple dress,
turning swift to greet her man.

Whispering to him "Welcome home."
Into frosted, glaze filled eyes.
Sees the set of steel block jaw,
without word she's brushed aside.

Spins with misted, sor...

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Bar Life - Their Round

Dry roast upstarts
in fancy, spice coats
challenge the establishment.

Ubiquitous salt nuts who
vastly outnumber everyone,
mill ambitionless in bowls.

Pork scratching don't care.
They dominate their niche
and live their life large.

Crisp/chips huddle in boxes.
Find out of the way corners
to struggle with identity.

Foreign pretzels brought in
for their alternative curve
oust the traditionalists.

All shun...

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Bar Life

The lunchtime onion
swims in vinegar sea
jostled by pickled pals.

Ineffectively butts glass
and with yellow dot eyes
ogles the jar next door.

Eggs, stripped naked
of their stippled suits
gloss over the leers.

None bother to glance
at the knobbly greenness
of gherkins next door.

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On a Shingle Beach

We sit on the shingle
knees drawn to chest,
arms hugging shins.

Rocking back and forward
the rounded flints click
and settle beneath us.

Perhaps it's the wind
that sets us to sway,
salty from the sea.

Ripples become waves
much closer to shore,
radiate from setting sun.

Behind, our shadows
stretch until they kiss
on the distant grass.

The sunrise long passed
only illusions remain
before the ebbing tide.

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A Thing You Say

Those three words
tumble too easily
over your tongue.

Spoken so often
they have lost
their touch.

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