Alive in the Age of Stupidity, by Chad Norman

ALIVE IN THE AGE OF STUPIDITY

Here in
Nova Scotia
the party in power
overlooks
the importance of
protecting and
allowing to stand
the structures
and buildings
from the Past
(somehow still with us).
Mostly men
unfortunately
who
without knowing
each day include
their names
by believing
there is no profit
in being wise enough
to be part of History
through its preservation
and making sure
as politicians they avoid
a category of fools.

Chad Norman lives and writes beside the high-tides of the Bay Of Fundy, Nova Scotia, Canada. His poems continue to appear in various literary publications and anthologies around the world. His latest book, Simona: A Celebration Of The S.P.C.A., is out now with Cyberwit.Net (India).

 

Recently Reactivated Twitter Account, by Stephen McNulty

Recently Reactivated Twitter Account

My name is @barryotoole12345
but you can call me BOT
if you wish.

Though we have been
seen in the same chatroom
I am no relation of
@barryotoole54321.

I will respond to your
each and every tweet
regardless of insult.

Trust me, I have the time.
I speak fluent algorithm
do ratios in my
faceless oval head.

I am a shuttlecock
of political opinion
flying from one
Twitter racket to the next.

Or at least I would be
if I was capable of metaphor.
I detest the left as they cannot afford me.

My parents were opinion polls
before I strangled them to death
with a hashtag.
Between elections, I sleep.

Bio:
Stephen scribbles poetry whenever he is not forcing a member of the public into a CT scanner. His poems have appeared in Boyne Berries, Drawn to the Light, ROPES, Strukturriss and Vox Galvia.

 

A Spin Through Time by Judy Darley

Uncle Webster gave me the formula
for the time machine, where x = the growl
of a strawberry-eating bear, and y, the dust
found in pockets of winter coats that
have been under the bed all summer.

I built the base from an old crate
painted scarlet, with bicycle wheels fitted
for extra velocity. It’s a blustery day,
leaves blowing every which way,
when I persuade the bear to crouch in the bow
and utter his sky-juddering growl.

A scatter of dust and we’re off,
blizzarding between eons
like a double pennant gale warning.

My aim? To visit Hadrian’s Wall at its beginning;
I have an essay due on Monday about the Roman Empire.
But spelling was never my strongest subject.
A typo sends us spiralling to the Hadean era
– more than a billion years prior
to the first multi-cellular life on Earth.

I hold my breath; the bear lets loose a howl.
Past travesties and calamities we spin,
to the end of all things and back again.

Homework forgotten, one goal remains.
We pause briefly in the 21st century,
collecting two new passengers,
Theresa and Donald.
They huddle on the bear’s warm lap,
eyes and lips streaming with fright.

Backside to the Hadean era we soar,
and on to the Devonian at the very moment
when the first clammy amphibians appear.
And there we leave them to evolve, or expire,
hoping for a brighter future for us all.

Judy Darley writes fiction, poetry and journalism. Her words have been published in literary magazines and anthologies. She’s read her short fiction on BBC radio, in cafés, caves, an artist’s studio and a disused church. Judy blogs about art and other things here.

twitter

 

I’m Getting Out Of Dodge by David O’Neill

Boar's head erased (scottish heraldry)

 

Brexit stage right, pursued by a bear

I’m getting out
Of getting out;
There’s no doubt
It will be a rout
So I’m getting out of
Dodge.

Everyone’s now obfuscating;
Boris, Mike and Nige are waiting
For
Our plan.
Who’s got it?

Messages on big red buses
Now elicit oaths and cusses—
All the world expecting something
From the hollow soundbites of the
Bullingdons; oh, Bullingdon,
What have your ox-brained old boys done?

I’m getting out of Dodge—
Going down the lodge—
I’ve got more things to
Go and bodge
I’m getting out of
Dodge.

Everyone’s confabulating;
Merkel, Jean and Nic are waiting
For
Our man.
Who’ll cop it?

Promises of wads of Rheingold,
Pups and PPI were missold—
All the world expecting something
From the nibelung ‘un of the
Camerons; oh, Cameron,
You’ve gone and göt a dämmerung.

I’m getting out of Dodge—
Off to make a splodge—
The caput apri
Mocks my todge
I’m getting out of
Dodge.

Right.

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