Month: July 2016

Daydreaming by Bee Lewis


By admin

I should be a better lover
and be a little thinner.
I should work a little harder,
but be home to cook your dinner.

I should grow some little people;
continue the cycle of life.
I should create a perfect home
as your loyal, dutiful wife.

I should always be well groomed;
no stray hairs or comfy shoes.
I should yield to your attention
despite the stench of booze.

I should never stop to dream
of actions without pardon;
of hitting you over the head
and burying you in the garden.

Born in Liverpool, Bee Lewis now lives in East Sussex, on the south coast, with her husband and their Irish Setter. She is working on her first novel and is currently studying for her Creative Writing MA with Manchester Metropolitan University. Bee has a number of publishing credits, including a short story, The Iron Men, in Best British Short Stories 2015, published by Salt. She compares writing poetry to solving Sudoku – fiendish, and something best left to other, cleverer people.

 

Inboxicated by Sherri Turner


By admin

It’s like a drug, the vilest kind,
that rules your life and screws your mind.
A minute passed seems like an age
since checking that infernal page.
You click ‘refresh’ and still you fail
to hear the beep of ‘you’ve got mail’
and when you do – you’re near hysteria!-
another message from Nigeria.
The craving keeps you on the hook.
You have to take just one more look
but it’s a thirst that can’t be sated.
You know you are inboxicated.

Sherri Turner lives in Surrey. She has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines and has won prizes for both poetry and short stories. She likes to write silly poems when she feels in danger of forgetting that this is supposed to be fun.

twitter

 

Ducks by Peter Yates


By admin

Now they have
Quick Snack Spots
on the lake
in the neat Home Counties park

Bread-free areas for waterfowl –
grain only on the menu
[which can be purchased
in handy bags nearby]

A kind of Duck Macdonalds.

Mothers with buggies and toddlers
Pass them by
much preferring to distribute
half loaves of Asda wholegrain
or thick sliced white – its great for toasting –
as if dispensing nourishment to the needy.
The ducks, likewise, were voting
with their webbed feet
preferring to pig out on couch potato fodder
rather than another slimmers fad.

So it was empty when I passed,
this eco-friendly duck-food parlour.
Just a lone coot,
balancing on the notice,
holding a placard reading:
Don’t let them exploit us.

Peter Yates is a playwright who has his own Theatre Company Random Cactus. He works with various charities and is a Theatre Critic at London Theatre 1.

 

Security by Sarah Watkinson


By admin

Look at the monitors. What babies these
holidaymakers and suited Pooters are.
My God, if they knew the whole they’d not be here
−    but it keeps them out of the Outer Hebrides.

Even these fools fear planes, though. Best they don’t see.
Distraction works. Once they’ve booked a seat
we show them toys to buy, that crap they eat
set up to draw them through ‘Security’.

Ah, what a triumph we’ve created there!
That snaking queue they’re shuffling along
obediently. Then they take off their shoes,
and jewellery, to have them passed as pure ̶
a brilliant stroke by that tame Oxford don!
They know it wards off doom. They daren’t refuse.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

twitter

 

A Stiff One In His Sunday Best by David O’Neill


By admin

The Goidels of Hibernia revere the stillman’s art—
Their weddings and their funerals are hard to tell apart.
There is one way to know, for sure, once all the poitín’s sunk:
At every single funeral there’s always one less drunk.

David O’Neill is a frustrated mathematician who has journeyed through a predominantly life-science-based medical landscape for most of his mortgage-paying professional life, eventually finding salvation in the Open University, too close to the end for practical application but sufficiently early for peace of mind and poetic inspiration.

website

 

Page Three by Mab Jones


By admin

(inspired by seeing a ‘page three’ topless model on a piece of newspaper floating next to a river)

Yesterday when out walking
I saw a pair of tits.

This is not a double entendre.

Yes, whilst out walking yesterday
a couple of tits flew by.
Not the blue or bearded kind

but the pink and perkily nippled.

Two tits flitting
about near the river.

Two snapped paps
flapping wings
in the wind.

They landed and I took a photo
of the photo. I wondered,
would they sing?

But the tits of course
were voiceless, the girl who
owned them nameless, the body
they belonged to headless
thanks to a papery crease.

Not that that mattered, of course.

Despite their lack of identity
the tits seemed happy, excited.
Their look was up-for-it
and very, very playful.

But soon they flew up from the grass
and continued on their journey,
wild and strong and free,

so glad they weren’t wrapping
fish and chips, or some other

menial task.

Mab Jones has read her work all over the UK, in the US, Japan, France, and Ireland, and on BBC Radio 4. She runs International Dylan Thomas Day, writes for the New York Times, and recently won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize.

 

@paultheweatherman by Carole Bromley


By admin

I’m in love with Paul the weather man.
Never miss Look North, must get my fix
of orange shirts and pink ties.
I would kill to have a man with his laugh,
that cleft chin, those dimples. I love it
when he tells himself a joke
and laughs so much he can’t go on.

The way he says isobars does it for me,
that sweeping gesture to indicate
the direction of the wind sends shivers
down my spine. I have to take an extra sip
of peppermint tea. Every day I tweet him:
selfies of me in sun and rain,
me in fog and snow, me in sea fret and drizzle.

(first published in The Stonegate Devil)

Carole Bromley lives in York where she is the stanza rep and runs poetry surgeries. Winner of a number of first prizes including the Bridport. Two collections with Smith/Doorstop, the most recent being The Stonegate Devil, October 2015.

website
twitter

 

Content by Bill Allen


By admin

Comfortableness
has topography, contours,
crevices between
syllables to wriggle bum
and shoulders into snugly.

Bill Allen lives in West London and writes in retirement. Worldly wise, a wicked sense of humour, he often observes the darker aspects of life as well as the curiously funny. Likes old films, modern plays, wine mixed with a pinch of conversation. Bill has published a few poems and short stories.

 

Once Seen by Judi Sutherland


By admin

(based on a small-ad in “Time Out” Magazine)

You – seen at the night bus stop
completely pissed on alcopop.
Me – the girl with ginger head
who held you, while you vomited.
The WKD Blue that soaked my thighs
brought out the colour of your eyes;
so tenderly I wiped your face.
You smiled at me with vacant grace.

O glory that is Friday night
that puts the working week to flight!
What sweet oblivion portends
when alcoholic daze descends.
Have you, since then, forgotten me
and how our hearts touched, fleetingly?
If not, and you still sometimes think
of me, let’s go out, for a drink.

Judi Sutherland is a poet, formerly resident near Henley on Thames, now living in Barnard Castle, Durham. She is the proprietor of The Stare’s Nest and organiser of the Fledgling Award for debut pamphlets by poets over 40.

website

 

The Dog Doesn’t Do Sarcasm by Charles Christian


By admin

The dog is doing his little dance. The little dance he always does whenever he wants more biscuits. He has a limited repertoire. He’s never been to dog training and we were too poor to send him to stage school.

As if, I say, I’m giving you any more biscuits when you’ve just turned up your nose at your dinner. A dinner of well-balanced tasty morsels that a team of canine nutritionists spent the best years of their lives perfecting. You, the same picky pooch who, given half a chance will happily snarf down six-month old roadkill.

Then I realise I’m being sarcastic – to a dog. My dog doesn’t understand English. Even if he could, he’s old and deaf now.

I begin to feel guilty, like maybe I’ve hurt his feelings. So I give him some more biscuits and explain that… I wasn’t laughing at him but with him.

My dog doesn’t do sarcasm but he appreciates irony.

(previously published in Not Expecting Fish anthology, Gatehouse Press, 2007)

Charles Christian is a former barrister and Reuters correspondent who now writes about tech, geek stuff, folklore, pop culture, medieval history, the just plain weird, and anything else he thinks you’ll enjoy.

website
twitter