Month: April 2022

Alternative Weather Fronts, by Sarah Dale


By Robert Garnham 
Alternative Weather Fronts
(most not mentioned in the shipping forecast)
 
Erotic fronts are twerking
round both poles
whipping their hailstoned g-strings
into every nook and cranny
of the coast.
 
Erratic fronts have forgotten
to take their medication,
consequently it’s raining gin
and the snow is lemon sorbet
with water biscuits.
 
Exotic fronts are offering
a massage service
to ship wrecked mariners
who it’s likely will decide to stay
at sea.
 
Esoteric fronts have discovered
surprising facts that are now written
for everyone to read
in towering cumuli
of clouds.
 
Ecstatic fronts are dizzy
with delight, causing spontaneous
dancing in the streets
spreading blissful havoc
world wide.
 
Emetic fronts vomit –
they’re best avoided
by staying indoors.
 

Blob-Fish, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham 
Blob-Fish 
 
Some people claim the Lion as their Spirit animal, 
because of its bravery. 
Some people choose a cheetah, 
for its speed. 
Others choose a Llama, 
because of its habit of spitting. 
Politicians choose Ostriches 
because they bury their heads in the sand. 
I would choose the Blob-Fish. 
Patron saint of grumbling. 
The living embodiment of the phrase, 
‘Cheer up, it may never happen’ 
because people assume that IT is always a bad thing. 
Supposing though, just for a moment, that IT 
is a good thing, and being told it may never happen 
only re-enforces the negativity. 
 
The Blob-Fish was never once imbued with looks or charisma, 
designer fashions, or even a useful role to play in the ocean, 
knowing that it will be the punch line of a joke, 
happier fish will tell him to cheer up, 
when it is just his resting face, 
and maybe if it had a better name, 
it would feel better about itself.
 

Virtual Afterlife, by Alan Garrigan


By Robert Garnham 
Virtual Afterlife
 
By 2122, Facebook VR had, grown to involve—
500 million, accounts. Of dead people—
Meta, exclusively levelled,
On figural profits. zero-sum outcomes,
Heaping currency on your posthumous avatar.
 
By 2122, immersive dynamics, Rylan robotics and Kuramoto model,
Brought eternal equipoise of the cell—
Digital reanimation, made possible, through VR multi-verse —
Technological singularity, deterministic ontology—
Wonderous miracle of virtual afterlife.
 
By 2122, Moore’s law and Deus ex Machina,
Proven right—should have heeded Engels and Marx,
Even Televangelists were correct,
Money can buy a ticket to heaven.
Logical binary control structure: defunded species designed for hell.

By 2122, loop algorithms, going berserk — 
Hobbesian leviathan, Homo Futuris—death destroyer of worlds—
the novel ape’s, dystopian trick, brassbound mastery—
Mystical Markov chain, myopic, ceteris paribus, homogeneity.

By 2122, sociobiological evolution—Darwin’s curse,
Unfashions the homo sapient.
Today —commercialisation, utilitarianism, gentrification—
Tomorrow—outmoded human chondriosomes.

Money buys both respect and right—
But money means a losing side, which side are you on?
Is there a choice? —start piling cash— monetary conduit—become Homo Futuris.

Alan is a Master of Arts graduate (set to feature in the upcoming LGBTQIA+ Anthology Peace in the Valley, 2022. He has also had poems featured in Hullwrites magazine (University of Hull), Poetry during lockdown (UCD) and Washington Square Review (upcoming). He has also featured poems in Consilience and BASCE journals. Alan is also a dog person.

 

If I were interested in the history of the wireless, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham 
If I were interested in the history of the wireless

I’d  make the effort to visit the Orkney Wireless Museum.
I’d marvel at the early crystal sets and cats’ whiskers
and admire the styling of the radios from the 1930s.

I’d applaud  the early ones made from Bakelite 
and laugh aloud at the novelty transistor radios
saved for posterity from the 1960s. 

If I were interested,  I’d  look in awe 
at the WW2 radio-in-a-suitcase and the one 
from the cockpit of a Spitfire aeroplane.

Oh, I love the radio, I listen almost every day,  
BBC’s radio 4 is my very favourite station. 
But I honestly can’t say I’ve ever have the yen, 

when visiting Kirkwall to see the sights 
or  go Tesco and and the butchers shop,
to spend any time at all in the OWM.

Tonnie Richmond has, since she retired from working in Local Government, spent her time either doing archeology in Orkney or writing poems. As the digging gets harder, she finds writing a slightly easier choice. She has had several poems published and is currently working on a collection of poems about Orkney.

 

Jacqueline Wilson Lives Under my Bed, by Paula Gilfillan


By Robert Garnham 
Jacqueline Wilson Lives Under My Bed

Jacqueline Wilson lives under my bed,
eating cherries and berries as she
reads my stories scribbled on crumpled
paper. At a book signing, I
lured her into my wheely bag
with a tin of stuffed olives,
for I’m a fan as great
as any hurricane. Then, secreted her
beneath the squeaky springs and beside
the dusty socks. But every so
often, she grabs my ankle with
her ring laden fingers and pleads
to let her go. I reply,
‘One more story. Just one more.’

Bio:

Paula lives near Lockerbie with her family and an overly chatty cat. She likes scientific stuff, zombie films and books, and is partial to a slice of cake. She blogs on Twitter @paula_nicolson and Facebook as DeckyWriting.

 

Russian Roulette, by Aoife Cunningham


By Robert Garnham 

Russian roulette 

 We watch in horror, 
This game of Russian roulette.

A land painted red,
By the political artist.
The remaining trees bore witness
to the stares of man’s darkness.
With our sons in caskets.

They served with fidelity and fought with valour.
Like lambs sent to slaughter.
Fathers and brothers fighting their neighbour’s.

History offers hindsight but it seems to duplicates with greed.

There won’t be a eulogy for this lie we call democracy.
 As orders uttered from leaders,
With what they believe are sainted breaths.
But are really exhalations and perorations
Of Satan on earth here to challenge your birth
And right to breathe. 
If you don’t fit their template of acceptability 
Or argue their culpability in this holocaust
It will come with the ultimately cost
Of liberty.

The patriotic fabric burns.
And we slowly learn,
The regression of our progression is down to man.


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Lent in a Time of Coronavirus, by Sharon Larkin


By Robert Garnham 
Lent in a Time of Coronovirus
     ‘The Wet Market Sources of Covid-19: Bats and Pangolins have an Alibi’ 
 
A forty day diet can focus the mind
flatten the curves and trim the behind.
So, in choosing food for a modest dinner
to boost the spirit and make tums thinner,
why not just opt for tomato soup
and leave the bats to dive and swoop?
 
It would be best to eliminate snacks
to fit back into our jeans and slacks
but if the munchies come upon us
and we’re sick of all that hummus, 
for our elevensies or for our tiffin,
let's not p-p-pick up a pangolin.
 
Do you want to stay asymptomatic
of a nasty virus and global pandemic?
Well, here’s some advice, long overdue, 
when making casserole, hotpot or stew,
a couple of hints and easy quick wins –
just leave out the bats and the pangolins.
 
Taming the flesh refines the spirit,
in time for lots of Easter Eggs, innit?
So as we discipline mind and body,
to purge the flesh of all our gluttóny
and deliver ourselves from beastly sins,
let’s set free the bats and the pangolins.
 
 
With thanks to Professor David Macdonald, University of Oxford Science Blog, Jun 2021
https://www.ox.ac.uk/news/science-blog/wet-market-sources-covid-19-bats-and-pangolins-have-alibi

Sharon Larkin’s poems often begin with a visual stimulus but soon become ‘infected’ with psychosocial concerns, evident in ‘Interned at the Food Factory’ (Indigo Dreams, 2019) and ‘Dualities’ (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020). She runs Eithon Bridge Publications https://eithonbridge.com, edits ‘Good Dadhood’ ezine https://gooddadhood.com and blogs at ‘Coming up with the Words’ https://sharonlarkinjones.com

 

15 Love, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham 
15 Love

Tennis is a game,
where they talk about love,
but spare none for the ball.
The thwack of the racket,
played politely by vicars,
with more than the scriptures
on their minds.

We are left out for the dog,
when our playing days
are little remembered.
We are mouldering,
greener than jealousy.
Chewed up,
spat out,
over the line,
under the net,
one last game,
for old time's sake.

 

It’s Fine, by Phil Huffy


By Robert Garnham 
It’s Fine
A question to be answered, please:
Why do most men avoid M.D.’s?
 
At thoughts of office calls we scoff
unless there’s something falling off.
 
And if our ankle’s had a twist
we hop around and then insist
 
that it’s improving very well
although, of course, it hurts like hell.
 
Sinus pressures, nasty fevers,
failures of most pain relievers,
 
bellies sad and oozing sores
propel us not through clinic doors.
 
The answer to this riddle, though
is well concealed although we know
 
that such recalcitrant displays
are just one part of manly ways.

      first published by Light Poetry Magazine

Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table, casting a wide net as to form and substance. His work has appeared in dozens of journals and anthologies, including Schuykill Valley Review, Eunoia, Lighten Up Online, Orchards Poetry, The Lyric, andseveral haiku publications. Phil’s other interests are cycling, camping, pet care, potato chips, moonlight, and motor trips. He has published three collections of his poems and is proud to have recorded one of them (Magic Words) as an audiobook.