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July 2017

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Dr. Ian Hale is from the historic City and County of Bristol, England, a member of British Mensa, The Athenian Society, the AccademiaCostantiniana and a graduate of Portsmouth, Bristol and Bath Spa Universities. He is a keen book, cat and sports lover who is best known as a world-leading authority and advocate on Autism and Asperger’s Syndrome, being the author of the highly-praised “The insider’s guide to Autism and Asperger’s” Book, 2013), from www Amazon etc. and is himself Asperger’s Syndrome, which is a theme and influence throughout all these books.

Dr. Hale additionally holds an International Diploma in Integrated Medicine and is a member of the World Academy of Medical Sciences (WAMS) World Institute of Peace “Icon of Peace” awardee for 2017.

He has been writing poetry from the age of nine and has received many awards, including the 2011 annual International arts competition organized by the historic National League of American Pen Women (Founded in 1897) where he won the maximum of three prizes. He is also an award-winning member of the United Poets Laureate International (UPLI)-the senior organization of World Poetry of 2015 and 2016.

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Office Days

We are; it seems to me

From the moment of our birth

Weighted and dragged downwards

Into the greedy quicksand maw of bureaucracy

Of ever-increasing complexity

Furiously replicating itself

Stacks of nameless, faceless

Suffocating bits of paper

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Her face exquisite,

Winter Jasmine blooming and flushed

Butterfly kisses

Alight and linger from my eager tongue

Mixing, softly, slowly through

Tiny droplets of midnight’s dew

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Far from there:

Far from there is sometimes close to here

Funereal fingers trace paths through ceiling clouds

Skeletal birds,

Driven half insane by hunger

Can no longer fly

Or reach a thermal’s welcome draught

Flap listlessly, broken

Staggering, heads down in sharp contrast

To the scenes below

For across the flats demented jesters dance

Frantically and without cessation

On the heaped,

Salt-dried bones of little children

Easily discarded, forgotten in the flight

By whoever it was that begat them there

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The Old City

City of fires and tears and runaways,

Big red buses and dirty stations

Paving cracks refract off glass

As rain runs as rat-tails through iron grilles,

Embedded in oily roads

Office girls with ponytails and business bags,

Sensible shoes, white blouses, tight black skirts, scurry.

Morning commuters swarm, bedraggled and red-eyed,

The remnants of some long-defeated army

City of bans, grass, birdsong and bridleways,

Memories of laughter, clenched fists and stale beer

Tower blocks, fake labels, antennae and BlackBerrys

Fake smiles too, hidden behind faded stucco fronts

On TV screens, placards, flags and tents,

Smell the sweet exhaust of taxi-cabs and fluttering hopes.

This City of stone and marble columns,

Monuments, tall and thin stand, plinthed, inside small spaces.

Recording times of greater glories lost.

The stores of the rich- Harrods, Dior, Gieves and Hawkes

Red-coated soldiers rub shoulders with nazi cops,

The cardboard lean-tos; cities in themselves

Housing ragged, ill-fed men and their dogs

Asian tourists, largely obscured by baseball caps and massive cameras

Congeal blandly into the myriad assembled colours

All jostling with flower-barrows and hot dog stands

Standing, under oath from the flowing, timeless Thames

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In the Cabin

Something’s lurking, hissing slightly,

Brown, moth-like with red-flashed wings

Heading towards the few pools of light

A paper lampshade, a candle, and a slice of Moon through a wooden awning

Now, in zigzag, fluttering flight, almost dropping, then

Recovering at the last moment, drawn by the dry, bare floorboards,

In shadow now, with large peering eyes,

That seems to drink the dark,

A fat green snake punctuates the moment

You may use the extra teeth sometimes, whenever the time is right

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Diamonds and Dirt

Walking carefully below the stars

In a night, nipped by frost

Past a Bank by the river’s edge

Moonlight pouring over motor cars

Saw a man at the station

Where the chill wind blew,

Around the eerie concrete

With his son and the scars on his hands

He’d fought on our side, long ago,

When the lights went out- for all but the few

Just the spins and the bankers’ toys

Enjoying the power that money buys

No one cared, even as the sleet began

The man is bending, searching for tickets and food

In a chipped white metal bin, near a taxi bay

Neon motorways drift,

Couples with coffee text the boss, stupefied

Just like any other day

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