Senior Sonnet Shakespeare Style by Betty Taylor


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My body wilts despite the good I did–
The Brussels sprouts and suchlike I took in.
Now bunioned bones bring anguish to my feet,
Yet old appendix scar still looks quite neat.
My hip holds out now that it has a pin
And gallstones gleam within their clear glass jar.
Son phones, “Hi Ma, just wondering where you are,
The weather’s cold don’t stay outside too long.”
They fret, I know my irritation’s wrong–
Unanswered phone calls set them in a spin.
Exciting moments now a dwindling few,
Forgetfulness exhausts the will to live.

I smirk sardonically, my mood is blue,
As addled brain now morphs, becomes a sieve.

Betty Taylor confesses to habitual scribbling.  She is a founder member of her local writers’ group encouraging aspiring writers for 30-plus years.  As her dotage looms she is aware that  no six-figure publishing offer is coming her way, therefore a daily blog bears the brunt of her drivel.  She edits her writers’ group website and messes about on her beloved laptop to fill her days.

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Fish Frown by Pat Tompkins


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Dogs smile but fish
are serious.

Without a doubt,
sober are trout.

The gar, smelt, and crappie
thrive yet are not happy.

Glum are the salmon,
and carp tend to harp.

Piscatory life
is not without strife.

Cold and wet, stuck in schools,
baited hooks catch the fools.

Sad is the fish who
struggles with issues.

I wonder if
fish wish.

(Previously published in Thema)

Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Confingo, The A3 Review, bottle rockets, and other publications.

Green Graffiti by Tom McColl


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Buds, arranged to spell “Fuck U”,
have sprouted up along the edge
of every flower-bed in our local park.

Police psychologists conclude
that this spate of horticultural graffiti
has been committed by a lone teenage individual
whose background is an explosive mix
of broken home and well-kept garden…

Thomas McColl has had poems published in magazines such as Envoi, Rising, Iota and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and his first full collection of poetry, Being With Me Will Help You Learn, is out now from Listen Softly London Press.

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Daydreaming by Bee Lewis


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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


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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.

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Ducks by Peter Yates


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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


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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.

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


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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.

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Page Three by Mab Jones


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(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


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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.

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