One to Tenant, by Peter O’Toole

One To Tenant

One house to rent
Done deal over the phone
Finally we have a place
on loan not quite our own

Two months saving up
we needed to hurry up
Got the first months rent
and the deposit
We got lucky,
There is a lot of competition out there
we nearly lost it

Three people start a new chapter
two adults one child
Days of struggling
but days that contain laughter
our first journey to happy ever after

Four in the morning
and the little one wakes up
Still half asleep as i hurry
to reach for a bottle or cup
A distant memory is 8 hours sleep
but its four hours only
Before i hear the sound
of the alarm clock beep, beep, beep

Five days a week
on a basic wage
After the rent is paid
be lucky to get a mcdonalds
eurosaver burger at this stage

Six months go by
starting to borrow money
on the sly
Even though i work
It’s hard to save
How can you save for a mortgage?
when money is tight
like chains on a slave

Seven loans to my name
cant say im the only one to blame
But living in Dublin
feels like your paying double
But down in the country
you pay less so no trouble

Eight hours overtime on
next week’s payslip
But i’ll only see a tenner
of that so i will head to
The bookies with a hot tip
Football or horses
Il do what it takes
to save for a mortgage again
And if i win
Just maybe, my saving can begin

9 attempts at a loan
from the bank to the shark
Still the chances of balance
are looking a bit stark
Chances look dark
but there is light
at the end of the tunnel
Maybe a dream of a decent life
is not so impossible

10 years of struggling
10 years of juggling
All the the times the bank
told us not a chance
during the boom and
after the economy collapsed
But after ten months
Ten days and lot of years
Something came out of
the blood, sweat and tears
We may have our keys
And can look back at the rent
and be proud to say
I served living a life on borrow
a life as a tenant.

 

Vege, by Julian Matthews

VEGE

Hey, remember me?
I am the leafy vegetable at the side of your plate that never got eaten
The one your mother insists is good for you
I lay there getting cold and soggy until the meal was over
You waited — until she wasn’t looking
Then receded on tippy toes and tossed me in the step-bin

These days, you speak of being organic and eating brown bread,
brown rice, brownies made of all-natural black beans,
fairtrade cocoa and grass-fed butter
You carry a metal straw and forsake plastic
You are an environmental warrior
A climate change defender

You do yoga and meditate and stand on your head
You attend retreats on mindfulness — to empty your mind
You go to the gym to stretch your body to its limit and call it de-stress time
You eschew coffee and prefer green tea
You drink cold-pressed juices made of avocado, cucumber, carrots, celery and pumpkin
You speak of their antioxidant properties and gloat about the anti-aging glow of your skin

I was the leafy green you threw in the bin
I still remember mum insisting that wasting me was such a sin
You are vegan now —

I win

Julian Matthews is a former journalist and trainer finding new ways to express himself during the pandemic through poetry and fiction. The Malaysian-based poet is published in “Unmasked: Reflections on Virus-time” (Heliconia Press), an anthology curated by author Shamini Flint, Poetry and Covid (poetryandcovid.com), a project funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council, the WordsFest Zine (Insomniac Press), Borderless Journal, Nine Cloud Journal, Second Chance Lit, Poor Yorick Literary Journal and Wingless Dreamer

 

How Papa Never Got His Guapa, by Julian Isaacs

How Papa Never Got His Guapa

As Astrud Gilberto once said to Stan Getz,
The thing about the sun is it also sets.
Then along came Hemingway in a big white Beemer,
Saying: Hello darling — are you the girl from Ipanema?
Maybe I am, she said, but that bell never tolled for me.
You’re just a dirty old man, so please go back to the sea.
I think you’re a bit of a beast,
And you’re not invited to my moveable feast.

 

Two-day soap sud death dance, by Gary W. Hartley

Two-day soap sud death dance

Cars washed. A million cars washed
Baby Shark sung without enthusiasm
In a million supermarket aisles
To juvenile audiences
Already considering it passé
We are all passé
A nation of proud plastic polluters
Big-mouthed bottom feeders
Believing we’re on top, what we’re used to
What we’re told is true
By Jeff Stelling on Soccer Saturday
And other pundits
We should do something
About that overhanging tree
We should pull up grass
And lay down the latest AstroTurf
We cannot enjoy what we have left
In fact, we flatly refuse
When it all falls
We will treat it as the longest weekend ever
WAHEY
Buy in crates upon crates of Corona beer
In deepest irony
Until we run out of that
And all the other stuff
Then what? Put baseball bats through flatscreens
Blame it on them next door
Congregate in imaginary corridors as if in queues
We’re fine, they’re fine, we all say it
And to be fair
To be honest
To never be anything other than honest
That will just have to do.