Peter Hall Poems

There are some things I just don't get
And never understand
Six more dead from Yorkshire's moors
Blown up in Afghanistan.
...

At my local park there's a sign
As plain as the nose on your face
'please don't feed the birds
At this lake or within this space'.
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The grieving tear on the wincing cheek
Says much more than she can speak
Of grieving thoughts she tries to hide
That squeezes out of red stained eyes.
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What can pluck me from His hand (John 10: 28)
Now He's made His covenant stand, (Isaiah 42: 6)
Now assured that I am His (Colossians 3: 3)
The fear is gone that Him I'll miss. (1 John 4: 18)
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The bass drone on the bagpipes play
The man in his kilt plays it
The misty Scottish air receives it
A constant sound
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Fish and chips on the Isle of Skye
At eight PM when the sun is still high,
With friendly midgies and the coffee hot
Where the Chips are greasy but the fish is not.
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His pain labelled his face
Like an abandoned quarry full of 'danger' signs
His guilt numbed his emotions
Like the blandest sand dune in the Saharra
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If you think you get it by reading a book
Throw it away, it was only a hook.

If you think you get it by reading my tweets
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Getting older...
Where my knees wear out quicker than my shoes
Where my hair grows inward through my ears and nose
Where I bend my knees to touch my toes
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People follow the person first
Followed by their message,
The wisest leader knows the truth
That gives them greatest leverage.
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