i write

i write one
last poem for them
they try one
last border then another …
i write another poem

Hazel Hall


I write words …

… wondering
how they can help
those unable to write
without time …
available only
when worrying ceases
and one can see it
as a commodity, a rite
of passage for peace …
they, too famished
unsure of a shelter
to feed their souls
wordless and
wondering …
the wrong I cannot

Hazel Hall

The Old Music in a New Land

you play your music
at the writers centre
music of the old
music of the soul …
framed above
is a woman with a cat
the dress she wears
is cobalt blue …
oceans roll
between two countries

the tonbak drum’s
throbbing purr
is the curled cat
soft sounds on leather
the animal is attentive
the woman has melody
in her eyes
you don’t know her
but listening brings
different lives together

two points
to form two hearts
upon a tar
this is the start
of harmony
shaping a shared regard
you play your music
at the writers’ centre
you play
a script for the future

Hazel Hall

The tar is a long necked, waisted musical instrument from Persia and surrounding countries

A boat called hope

come on a cruise with me
in a boat called hope
from the tremolo
where memories explode
into dust and loam
pack your family in a dream
roll over on the ocean
to where their faces wait
motionless as stone

like a metronome

back again you go
floating on the foam

Hazel Hall

Mohammad’s problem

A perfect day for us to demonstrate
on fresh-mown lawns outside the parliament.
How white and clinic-clean it looks beyond
stalls and banners near the podium.

Mohammad speaks for those who now cannot
on all the costs of freedom that we take
as given: sea, starvation, sunstroke, fear
sickness and death upon a leaking boat

not in our psyche. Today a specialist
will keyhole through your mouth and surgically
travel through your body on a sea
of bile to find the rocks that caused your pain.

We’ll be grateful privilege returned
your health. Mohammad’s problem will remain.

Hazel Hall


a calm sea
and prosperous voyage …
writes hope for a cruise
through the black waters


the area outside
their hopes …
a sea of people
waits till the morning


little legs
clad in socks and sneakers …
the difference
in our thinking
when he could be our own


the dark night
of my social conscience
a ship
tosses on the sea
of uneasy dreams

Hazel Hall

I did not ask

I did not ask
for this desert storm
I did not ask
for thunder clouds
or lightening strikes when
strangers made war
I did not ask for the clashes
of peace keeping
or tanks that shattered
my children’s dreams
or an empty table at meal times
or the rush from the house
or toys in pieces
lying in the dust

I did not ask for the boats
or safety’s chance
or the uncertainty of change
I did not ask
for the island or the wire
or the lost life in the eyes
of my children
I did not ask
to ask

Hazel Hall