Ending up a vegetable, by Ray Pool

ENDING UP A VEGETABLE

Russell Sprout was rather stout
As wide as he was tall,
His appearance was hysterical
Verging on the spherical
Exactly like a ball.

As marmite’s not to everyone’s taste
While others seem to love it,
Russell drew a parallel
With some put off by a rotting smell
While others rose above it.

In one thing he was much admired
And worthy of a mention,
His green credentials were intact
An essential way of life in fact
And worthy of attention.

He never thought to change his name
Thinking that his shape was good,
While some it’s said look like their dog
He was a blend of toad and frog
Trying to be Robin Hood.
Let’s take leave of Russell Sprout
A tale as wide as tall,
It had its moments magical
But also some more tragical
It’s poetry after all.

 

Purple? Purple?, by Simon Williams

Purple? Purple?

When I am an old man
I shall wear a hi-viz teal hoodie
with a cerise one in reserve
and cord trousers that aren’t black, brown or Navy
and Gore-Tex hiking boots when I’m asked out for tea.
I shall gorge on giant Toblerone –
we’ll need to move near an airport –
Tempura prawns, Tiramisu
and other delicacies beginning with T.
I shall eat them all with my fingers.
No Tofu.

I shall ride a Tango unicycle, read reviews
in Unicycle Plus of the 10 best unicycling helmets
and pick one made from repurposed oil tank baffles
or genetically enlarged walnut shells.

I shall demand real cocoa when others order coffee
and lace it with Jack Daniels from a hip flask.
I’ll take copies of the Daily Mail
and throw them on the floor in Smiths.

Since old is still 10 years away,
as it has always been, I have time to develop this further.
Purple isn’t where I’m going.

 

Humpback, by Ross Maclean-Bryant

A disgruntled humpback emerged from the shiny briny.
Spitting furious rainbows atop the disco ball granite
And levelling a settlement of sandcastles.

He asked if we could keep it down.
Although the tone suggested that it wasn’t a question.
Tensions as high as the tide.

A slender majority were politely obliging.
The resulting memorabilia was mediocre at best.

 

Learning a decade later what I stored in my fridge, by Beth McDonough

Learning a decade later what I stored in my fridge

Newly back from Salzburg
Alex the Milliner waltzed
into the staffroom and my new post.
Just three coffee breaks into November,
after I’d left the job from hell.
Pure pantomime, he passed around his swag-
Don’t look! Just take a feel,
and grab the first one that you rub!
Yes you, new woman, you!
Well. I did.

Something like a lightbulb
rolled around my palm.
I hid it in my pocket, but
cupped it in the dark.
Then I laughed. Of course I took it home.
Allegedly, it’s filled with cream liqueur.
The other sort had added chocolate.
Who cared either way? The lid
is still intact. Presumably the contents
have long evaporated or gone off.

But I like it in the top shelf, a sphere
of welcomes, care and craic.
I told him once how much it meant,
after all the dark. He did his most
magnificent only-Alex roll of eyes.
Whit? Ye’ve really still kept wan o Mozart’s balls?

 

Flying Corgette, by Jackie Juno

FLYING COURGETTE

I took a courgette out for a walk
Boris Johnson made me do it
Have you heard that sinister meringue talk?
I slipped on some fresh new bullshit.
I know that he’s lying
the courgette went flying

My baby is a jumbo jet
my supersonic mean courgette
see how high he flies
they’re building castles in the sky

Careful what you agree to
wipe the wool from your eyes
cauliflowers have ears now
there are parsnips in disguise
my potatoes are totally mashed
I think that’s why I crashed

We’re in a stew, me and you
we’re up to our necks in gravy
we’re in a pickle, Dr Jekyll
can you smell burning, baby?

My baby is a jumbo jet
my supersonic mean courgette
see how high he flies
they’re building castles in the sky

Jackie Juno is a performance poet based in Devon. Her website can be found at http://www.jackie-juno.com

 

Model Boat Club Blues by Charlotte Harker

The decline began after a spree of sinkings.
I think it was a submarine.
Someone is disobeying the finely streamlined rules.
I am facing a flotilla of ruse,
I’ve got those model boat club blues.

I am losing the plot and my concentration,
I keep getting the bow and the stern mixed up,
I’m caught in a storm at a lake so artificial,
Infighting and resignation over the sailing schedule,
Should a clipper give way to a frigate?
Yet more dispute,
I’ve got those model boat club blues.

In the clubhouse I’ve lost direction and rudderless
I struggle to make a course correction
to keep this armada in some order,
but there is no denying we are taking on water; oh whatever,
I am always on board,
to hell with the weather,
this is my ship and I’m going down with it,
I’ve got those model boat club blues.

Charlotte Harker is a Writer, Artist and Performance Poet. Her first collection of illustrated poems ‘The Wear and Tear of Conversation’ was published in 2018. Further information can be found at https://www.dempseyandwindle.com/charlotteharker.html

 

. . . arse, by Mark Totterdell

arse

I’m building an intricate mansion
from an infinite stockpile of stone,
and only I know where each stone has to go,
so I’m building it all on my own.

You might think that house is this poem,
but that would be really old hat.
It’s a stale metaphor that we’ve all used before,
don’t you think that I’m better than that?

I don’t simply write about writing,
how low do you think I would stoop?
Instead I’m now writing of writing of writing,
and on in an infinite loop.

I’m turning so self-referential,
it shows I have talent and class.
It would be no surprise if, in front of your eyes,
I disappeared up my own…

Mark Totterdell’s poems have appeared widely in magazines and have occasionally won prizes. His collections are This Patter of Traces (Oversteps Books, 2014) and Mapping (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2018).’

 

You liked me enough to give me a geranium, by Robert Garnham

You gave me a geranium.
I said,
‘You know I’m not into salad.’
You said, ‘It’s a houseplant.
Not even you could kill this’.

But it was your way of saying
I love you.
The geranium sat there in passive,
Filtering C02 and judging me,
Reporting back my foibles and transgressions,
Taking photographs
When it should have been taking
Photosynthesis.

But you looked at me,
Your eyes as dopey as a spaniel,
And I forgave you your hardy annual.
‘When will it flower and bloom?’, I asked.
‘When will it light up my room?
When will its scent take to the breeze,
Provide pollen for the bees,
Put me at my ease,
Probably make me sneeze,
Each one of which is
One eighth of an orgasm,
That eight of these
And I should think of you?’

That night I trailed my fingers through a box of
J. Arthur Bowyer’s Syncho-Boost Houseplant Compost,
And it reminded me of you, Pete.
The geranium made me complete, Pete.
My life so recently deplete, Pete,
Of love,
Now suddenly filled like the pot,
This upturned cranium
With the roots of the geranium,
Need I explainium?
Sorry for being a painium.

Because you liked me enough
To give me a plant
And I liked you enough
To keep it
Pot it, plant it, deadhead it,
Water it, feed it, treat it for greenfly,
I even gave it a name, ‘Dirty Liza’,
Because she liked her fertiliser.
Every time I looked she was there
And still alive because I still care
And even though you eventually
Disappeared
Like the pests I treated,
Like the greenfly,
I never did
Glean why
You gave it to me to begin with,
Suffice to believe
You liked me enough
To give me a geranium.

Robert Garnham has been performing comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had two collections published by Burning Eye. He has made a few short TV adverts for a certain bank, and a joke from one of his shows was listed as one of the funniest of the Edinburgh Fringe. He was recently an answer on the TV quiz show Pointless. Lately he has been writing short stories for magazines and a humorous column in the Herald Express newspaper. He is the editor of Spilling Cocoa. In 2020 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His website can be found at https://professorofwhimsy.com

 

Exercising my Demon, by Aaron Williams

I was possessed by a demon so lazy,
He left the Priest feeling slightly hazy.
He wanted some ecclesiastical action,
But this Demon didn’t give him no satisfaction.

My Priest said “you’ve got to stick it to him!”
So I took us both to the local gym.
I did some cardio and did some weights,
I stayed there until really very late.

Finally, when doing some cross-training,
My chest started straining,
And a voice (not mine) wailed like a Banshee,
“The power of exercise compels me!”

So that was how my Demon was exorcised;
Bloodless, sweaty Holy exercise.
Now I’m a major fitness fanatic
Thanks to forces oh so Satanic!

Newly middle-aged male who wrote a short ‘poem’ on a whim a few months ago and is quite enjoying writing rubbish when the whim takes him. Also, still harbour a mild grudge against a former English teacher’s cruel and public comment questioning my intellect 😂