Double New Year's Eve Bill

Making My 2018 New Year's Resolutions Early

If I make enough money, I just might get

A tax break. If I join the 1% and belong

to the right club.

Then, I can schmooze with the right

fancy folk, forget the middle class

joke, nothing more than a pig

in a poke.

Or, maybe, I’ll just become a Pass-Through

Corporation.

And when I do, I’ll make sure

all that extra cash

   t
    r
     i
      c
       k
        l
         e
          s

d
o
w
n.

© Gil Hoy

Senate passes sweeping GOP tax bill, but House to vote again

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy received a B.A. in Philosophy and Political Science from Boston University, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. Hoy’s poetry has appeared, most recently, in Ariel Chart, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, The New Verse News and Clark Street Review.



Winter Lacerations

Feeling paper cuts,
Add tax cuts for the wealthy,
Thinking cut and run.

© Kay Weeks

Kay Weeks worked for 30 years for the US National Parks Service in the area of National Historic Preservation, retiring in 2005. She writes and publishes poetry in the US and the UK.

Degree of Support

The Ambassadors to the UN

were called upon today to cast their votes

for or against the Motion

condemning Trump’s decision

to capitalise JERUSALEM.

Israel, of course, voted with America.

As did Guatemala and Honduras.

Togo went along with it too.

The Federated States of Micronesia

lead the way and in their wake followed

the Marshall Islands, Nauru and Palau.

Let’s call them ‘The Seven Dwarves’.

The Dwarves account for 0.5%

of the seven billion.

© Richard Devereux

Jerusalem: UN resolution rejects Trump's declaration

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Passports, please!

Blue is the Colour

Give out cigars, pass round the port;

we have some news of your passport.

In two years time the document’s hue

from old burgundy will change to blue.

The leavers hailing the move as iconic

said that this gesture is also symbolic

but the remainers, being melancholic,

view the situation as utterly shambolic.

Over and over they were heard to say:

“Time will come when we rue the day

because we have left the EU’s support

for the sake of the tint of the passport”.

Yet the government decision to reissue

that legal instrument is not the issue;

let’s try to get an objective perspective

as it was not the Eurocrats’ directive.

© Luigi Pagano

'Iconic' blue British passport to return after Brexit

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.



My Father's Passport

I have it still my father’s Italian passport
Worn and green, showing a thin man
That had spent too long
At war in desert heat
And in a broken homeland.

Soon after emigrating
To the victor’s country,
A new blue British passport
Was provided, followed later
By the EU’s crimson document.

He smiled: ‘All the same now,
You and me
And me and you’
We shook our heads
It was nothing to us

But perhaps for him
Much more meaningful;
What would he say now?
The old passport in his hands,
Flicking through its pages.

© David Subacchi

'Iconic' blue British passport to return after Brexit

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Miami Beach Christmas When We Got Snow

Christmas is 83° and light shows

turning stucco bungalows rainbow colors,

winking Santa hugging a fake chimney.

Christmas is dwarf palmettos draped

with twinkling lights, bougainvillea

and red hibiscus stuck with plastic holly.

Christmas is terrazzo patios

with aluminum trees, grass littered

with inflatable elves, pipe-smoking

snowmen and cherry-nosed reindeer.

Cardboard cutouts of snow-laden firs

with Mickey Mouse in a Santa outfit.

Christmas is singing

Jingle Bells in flip-flops and bikinis,

until some guy with a refrigerated

truck dumped piles of the white stuff

in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. It cost

$3 a head to jump around in it.

Cousin Pam got all excited because

she’d never seen snow before,

but it melted pretty fast, so we snuck

into the Deauville and went swimming.

© Nancy Scott

Poet's note: Nancy Scott remembers one earlier Christmas when snow was trucked from Orlando to Miami Beach. Having grown up in Chicago, she knew hardpack snow from November until late March.

Florida flurries: Sunshine State gets a sprinkling of snow

Nancy Scott is author of nine books of poetry. Many of her poems deal with social justice issues.
She resides in New Jersey, USA.

Statistics of hope

Count to three: one two three, there’s another

one two three, and another displaced person,

one every three seconds, somewhere in the world.

One two three. In Chad a woman travels in a cart

30km to a mobile clinic, collapses 300m short.

A doctor checks Bless, a seven month old girl,

suspected malaria. One two three

In Tripoli: women are detained, 30 in a small room,

one blanket each, they’ve been there months,

it may become years, no access to law, no medical care.

Fifty-eight refugees adrift in the Med in one small boat.

412 rescued from the water, escaping

Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh.

One two three: one little boy sits alone

on a floor in a corridor in a former resort in Greece,

now used for refugees needing mental health care.

In Nairobi 400 people each month arrive at one clinic.

In Nigeria 45,000 refugees pack one camp

for displaced people from Cameroon.

One two three. Gloria, aged 11 years,

displaced in Malawi, HIV and TB positive.

8,000 in a camp near Raqqa, Syria,

there for months, years.

Hundreds of thousands from Myanmar

seek shelter from the monsoon in rice fields in Bangladesh.

Drowning in hope, they wait for permission to move.

One in every 113 people on the planet is a refugee

in 2017

Someone is displaced every three seconds

One two three. 65million displaced people

in the world, now, one two three

Debora Njala, 18, HIV and TB positive, in Malawi, says:

“I will achieve my dreams and the future is bright.”

One two three. A man, a woman, two children

in a camp in Lesvos, not allowed

to leave for mainland Europe.

The father, Karon says:

“It is my true dream that my children will live

in a country without war, without bloodshed.

This is the only thing I wish for.”

All it takes is the will of the developed world …

one two three …

*

In the time it takes to read this poem 100 people in the world will become displaced.

© Jackie Biggs

A Year in Pictures 2017

Jackie Biggs has had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies, both print and online. Her first collection is The Spaces in Between (2015). She blogs at: The Spaces in Between. Twitter: @JackieNews

Christmas sonnet, 2017

I saw no Christmas in September

when adverts appeared in the shops.

I saw no Christmas in Lapland

with the snow and the ice in retreat.

I saw no Christmas in the White House

where goodwill to all is fake news.

I saw no Christmas in the ocean

where three ships sailed by made of plastic.

I saw no Christmas in Yemen

where innocents are slain by a king.

I saw no Christmas in Bethlehem

where the star that means peace slowly dies.

I feared I would see no Christmas at all

till it shone in my granddaughters' eyes.

© Charlie Lambert

Charlie Lambert is a former journalist and sports broadcaster who turned to a different form of media in 2016 when he started writing poetry. He lives in Liverpool.

The Trump Days of Christmas

Christmas hasn’t been great for years. So sad. I’m going to make Christmas great again.

On the first day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the second day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the third day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the fourth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the fifth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the sixth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the seventh day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

climate change denial,

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the eighth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

a travel-ban on Muslims,

climate change denial,

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the ninth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

fake news aplenty,

a travel-ban on Muslims,

climate change denial,

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the tenth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

renewed mistrust of Cuba,

fake news aplenty,

a travel-ban on Muslims,

climate change denial,

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

a North Korean tweet-war,

renewed mistrust of Cuba,

fake news aplenty,

a travel-ban on Muslims,

climate change denial,

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my Trump-love sent to me:

tax-breaks for the richest,

a North Korean tweet-war,

renewed mistrust of Cuba,

fake news aplenty,

a travel-ban on Muslims,

climate change denial,

abortion-funds withdrawal,

FIVE GOOOOLDEN WIGS…

Obama Care dismantling,

murky Russian rumours,

dreams of brick-wall borders, and

a violently grabbed pussy.

© Sarah Doyle

Trump Says 'Fake News' Won't Show Crowd Size As CNN Shows Crowd Size

Sarah Doyle is the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s Poet-in-Residence. She has been widely placed and published, and is co-author of Dreaming Spheres: Poems of the Solar System (PS Publishing, 2014). More at www.sarahdoyle.co.uk

Two For Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

I am a boy of four or five –

Father Christmas is real and alive!

By bed-time on Christmas Eve

he’s loaded the presents onto the sleigh,

he’s taken off from the cold North Pole,

he’s flying fast through darkened skies,

reindeer straining at the reins,

jingle bells ringing, he is bringing

presents for all good girls and boys.

He’s bringing me my Big Present.

I want it more than anything else;

he’ll leave it under the Christmas Tree,

I know I’ll find it waiting for me.

He’s coming to fill the empty stocking

I’ve just hung up at the end of my bed.

He only comes if you’re asleep.

But I am awake and I can’t sleep

and the more I try, the more I can’t sleep

and I’m becoming crosser with me.

Perhaps – he came already, saw I was awake

and flew on by without stopping;

and now he’s gone and won’t come back,

and I’ll be getting no presents at all!

Sob, sob, sobbing, I go downstairs

to Mum and Dad, who say ‘Don’t worry,

Father Christmas hasn’t come yet.

Go back to bed. You’ll soon fall asleep

if you don’t try too hard.’

I hope they’re right and before I know it

I’ve slid down the slide to the Land of Nod.

When I wake up,

there’s something heavy

at the end of my bed and,

though my room is still

more dark than light,

I can see well enough to see

it’s my stocking!

Father Christmas has been!

There’s a cracker sticking out of the top,

the stocking’s all lumpy and bumpy

and it’s full of lots

of I-can’t-guess-whats!

Underneath the Christmas Tree

my Big Present is waiting for me.

© Richard Devereux

NORAD Santa Tracker 2017 LIVE: Find Father Christmas' location on Christmas Eve as his reindeers fly over UK

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.


Holy Office

Silent night, holy night!
Bright and calm with jets in flight,
As the servants of our lords
Cleanse us of the migrant hordes,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night!
Sky a passport-blue delight!
Cherubim in white Kevlar
Unto hells conveniently far,
Hustle the migrants away;
Hustle the sinners away.

Silent night, holy night!
True Brits quiver at the sight
While the lesser, alien breeds,
With their dark un-Christian creeds,
Wait on this holiest morn,
Wait for the knocking at dawn.

© Philip Challinor

UK to deport Afghan torture survivor on Christmas Day

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Conundrum

Well,

it depends

on the size of the angel

and the size of the pin.

The In-Pin,* now,

could very possibly accommodate

legions of mountaineering

minor divinities,

clustering and crying

like guillemots.

With an ordinary pin, though,

of the hat or

haberdashery variety,

the dance would have to be such

that only one angel

had its foot on the pinhead

at any one moment:

a kind of vertical sword dance,

if you will, requiring such skill

that only angels

could execute it.

Imagine

an infinite corps de ballet angélique

circling, dipping, alighting

and springing away again in

an eternal 

celestial liftoff –

every one of them

forever

en pointe

*the Inaccessible Pinnacle, crowning glory of the Cuillin ridge on the Isle of Skye

© Mandy Macdonald

Britain’s problem is not with Europe, but with England

Mandy Macdonald lives in Aberdeen, trying to make sense of the 21st century. Music, poetry and gardening keep her sane. Her poems appear here and there in print and online.

Yet another thorough review

(in memoriam Bijan Ebrahimi, Iranian refugee murdered in 2013)

Yet another report concludes

that a man is guilty

until he is proved innocent

especially if he does not have white skin

but they are extremely sorry yet again

and will carry out

yet another thorough review.

Yet another report concludes

that the police ignore complaints

from a man who is disabled and an immigrant

but they are extremely sorry yet again

and will carry out

yet another thorough review.

Yet another report concludes

that a man can be kicked into unconsciousness

battered into lifelessness

dragged out of his home on to the street

have fuel poured into his face

over his clothes and set on fire

and that this is quite normal

but the culprits have been detained

and they are extremely sorry yet again

and will carry out

yet another thorough review.

Yet another report concludes

that hatred is the barbed wire

lodged in and around the human brain

anger and resentment the electric charge

that surges through it

disrespect the stinking stain

but they’re extremely sorry yet again

and will carry out

yet another thorough review.

Yet another report concludes

that we’re extremely sorry for our failings

yet again

and will carry out

yet another thorough review

but owing to circumstances beyond our control

some changes cannot be made.

© Dave Urwin

Bristol refugee murder review accuses police of institutional racism

Dave Urwin lives in west Wales and performs his poetry live regularly. 'Towards Humanity' was published in 2015 (Pinewood Press, Swansea). He also publishes on his blog, jadedmountain.wordpress.com.

The air crumbles

as he closes the office door.

Turning, he pins you

like a butterfly to velvet.

His voice the only soft thing about him;

his cologne a sharp sting of spice.

If he were your husband, it would be no worse;

you are the target, the trophy, a conquest too easy.

Helpless, your voice to protest lost

in his power, his very destruction of the air.

Slow spider approach; he draws near.

Strokes, strokes your hair, then holds you there.

The kiss, lingering as chilled honey, just as thick.

A whisper, then a murmur; a promise, then the thrust.

You are his today, and you will be again, again,

until you become

                                                                                     unpinned.

© Michael Griffith

Creative Coalition urges victims of sexual assault and harassment to #KeepTellingPeople

Michael Griffith teaches and resides near Princeton, NJ. He writes poetry, non-fiction, and the occasional shopping list.

Searching for Inspiring Presidential Biographies Christmas Coming

Looking for a Christmas present

for my son.

He wants to be a politician.

Not the merriest of Christmases

nor the happiest of New Years

in American politics.

Abraham Lincoln is neatly

stacked next to Teddy Roosevelt

at our local bookstore

With award-winning volumes

of FDR and Washington

sitting comfortably nearby.

With another somewhat dusty

book standing far to the right

On a shelf in the non-fiction

biography section titled

"Donald Trump: America’s

Failing President."

Sitting next to a few dull

panned volumes excoriating

Richard Nixon.

My son is a passionate

progressive Democrat.

He, like the rest of us,

is wondering how a racist,

With money as his God,

occupies the White House

in America?

As billionaires get tax

cuts, beggared sick lay

ill in their beds

Those in government spew

anti-Muslim venom, gay pride

flags are burned, the NRA

controls Congress.

Did our commander in chief

really just tweet that a US

Senator is a whore?

Did he really say that Rocket Man

will be met with fire and fury like

the world has never seen before?

I want to set off the world's

loudest alarm. I want to bang

a hammer on the world's

noisiest can.

Looking for a Christmas present

for my son. Not an easy gift

choice to make. Perhaps FDR,

but he seems so far way.

My son wants to be a politician.

I can't imagine why.

© Gil Hoy

All the times Donald Trump has been called the worst president: a list

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy received a B.A. in Philosophy and Political Science from Boston University, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. Hoy’s poetry has appeared, most recently, in Ariel Chart, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, The New Verse News and Clark Street Review.

A Taxing Question

An EU commissioner said all firms

big or small, multinational or not,

should pay their fair share of tax.

She believes it is not a good idea

to let tax agreements be very lax.

And the Commission has concerns

regarding the Dutch-based Ikea

alleged to have reduced their gains

by shifting revenue to Luxembourg

where untaxed the money remains.

Also more profits of that franchise

went on the way to Liechtenstein

thus diminishing the tax bill’s size.

It may require a substantial fine

to make this company fall into line.

© Luigi Pagano

Ikea's tax affairs to be investigated by the EU

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

A Christmas Card

arrives at an empty house,

slips through the letter-box

and waits in the stripey stillness

of the draughty hall.

Face-down, the return address -

a woman in an apartment across town.

Only the card knows what she has written

and how long it took to write.

© Maurice Devitt

Have you sent your Christmas cards yet? Here are the last dates for posting this season

Maurice Devitt was runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, he has had poems published in Ireland, England, Scotland, the US, Mexico, Romania, India and Australia, runs the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site and is a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.

Sonnet for Young Hackers

School heating systems via the internet,

Controlled from afar but prone to hacking,

At risk of the power disconnecting

Caused by some geek that teachers have upset;

Modern technology’s not ready yet

To deal with those whose good sense is lacking

And who love to feel temperature dropping

Because of some immature dare or bet.

Police being unlikely to take action,

Head teachers must rely on common sense

And move to protect the comfort of schools

By pulling out cables, the best option

To defend against such interference

From hostile pupils and mischievous fools.

© David Subacchi

Schools warned over hackable heating systems

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

I Had A Nightmare Last Night

I had a nightmare last night,

A nightmare deeply rooted

in an American nightmare.

Where churches and schools,

theaters and city streets

were dying.

Where military weapons

were firing into unsuspecting

innocent crowds

Tentwentythirtyfortyfifty

pigeons intheblinkofaneye.

I awoke in a terrified sweat

as bleeding children wailed

and cried and screamed.

While those to protect us tasked

slept soundly in their beds.

A nightmare deeply rooted

in an American nightmare,

I had a nightmare last night.

© Gil Hoy

House passes concealed carry gun bill in win for GOP and NRA

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy’s poetry has appeared, most recently, in Ariel Chart, Poetry24, Social Justice Poetry, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, The New Verse News and Clark Street Review.

Deal or no Deal

French President Emmanuel Macron

believes that the U.S. will soon return

to the Paris climate change agreement

which was torpedoed by Donald Trump

but he has stated that he will say‘ Non’

to the demands of the American chump

to re-negotiate the terms of the deal.

Monsieur Macron is in no doubt

he must pursue his objective with zeal

to counteract the United States’ pullout,

the consequences of which were plain:

their withdrawal would hurt the world.

America's difficulty is China's opportunity

as they are in favour of the Paris accord.

Business leaders have shown their unity

in condemning the recantation as insane.

The U.S.’ emissions would still fall but

they will fall by half as much as planned.

To be successful co-operation is the key;

without progress our planet is doomed,

if everything fails there won’t be a Planet B.

© Luigi Pagano

Climate change: Trump will bring US back into Paris deal - Macron

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

The Pope's Prayer

Oppressed people

Who art in Myanmar

Rohingya be thy name

The soldiers come

And killing is done

Of Muslims

As it is of Hindus

Give them this day the right to live

And forgive them their namelessness

As we forgive those who ethnically cleanse them

Lead us not into silent assent

But deliver them from genocide

For thine is the military

The state and the power

To destroy forever

Their name

© Janine Booth

Pope Francis Suggests Changing The Words To The 'Lord's Prayer'

Janine Booth lives in Hackney, East London. She writes and performs poetry, and has had three slim volumes of poetry published. Janine posts poems and political polemics at www.janinebooth.com

Sound and Silence

He was unwantedly

   

   relentless

in his impetuous prolix

pronouncements

Could bend even

  the most patient

  sturdy ear to

the breaking point

with his crooked

                     rivers of words.

Did the President really just tweet

    That the FBI’s reputation is

In tatters,

That the FBI’s reputation

   is the worst in history?

As they close in on him.

I wish, instead,

That he’d strode confidently

  into a garden

                           of roses

Winked on top of a dry

        wry smile,

Opened his mouth, and said

   nothing at all---like a stone---

As inquisitive listening flies gathered

      in his suddenly silent mouth

   While fluttering flocking pigeons

flitted

on suddenly scarecrow arms.

As squirrels around the man’s

     stone cold feet

squirreled away

  just enough acorns

for a suddenly warmer winter

While the felicitous sun

     rose and set every day

After day

After day

After day.

And the man never spoke again.

© Gil Hoy

FBI chief Chris Wray defends bureau after Trump says its reputation is 'in tatters'

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy’s poetry has appeared, most recently, in Ariel Chart, Poetry24, Social Justice Poetry, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, The New Verse News and Clark Street Review.

That ****!!

I must admit that although I enjoy attention

Cementing my head into a microwave, never

Really crossed my mind as an option, just not clever,

Rather demonstrating a lack of comprehension

Of the importance of emergency attention,

When the lives of poor people are really in danger

As the result of some accident or disaster;

Not the daft actions of some idiotic chancer.

But I take into account that you are still youthful,

For who amongst us has not behaved as dumb as that,

When in our salad days we sought to appear skillful

In the art of pulling rabbits from out of a hat;

Away with you, repeat not an action so awful,

Lest forever your name results in cries of 'That ****!'

© David Subacchi

Prankster defends cementing head in microwave

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

La Bella Confusione, or The Trump Administration as a Fellini Movie

            Making sense has been declared a capital crime

for the next eight years, punishable by hanging. Wall Street

CEOs impersonate priests in order to rob the peasantry, who

are given red hats in exchange for their food stamps.

            Salvador Dali paints Trump’s portrait. Trump’s face

is hard to make out, blending in as it does with the orange

color wall in the Oval Office. Clocks melt behind him and run

only backwards. Outside

            at a press conference, men dressed in clown suits

ride unicycles while juggling golf balls. Some of the golf balls

fly off, knocking out reporters who ask impertinent questions.

The reporters are officially declared to be “collateral damage”

in the war on fake news.

            Tired of sitting for his portrait, Trump raises Marilyn

Monroe from the dead, rushes a bill through Congress making

polygamy legal and takes her as his second wife.

            Melania, bored with her anti-bullying campaign, offers

workshops on comportment to high school girls. Those scoring

in the top 1 percent will advance to apprenticeships as Handmaids.

            Over-stimulated by THE BEST SEX EVER IN HISTORY

with Marilyn, Trump consumes all of the bandwidth in the Twitter

universe. The tweets normally carried by small blue birds are

delivered –in repeating refrains—by pterodactyls wearing

long red ties. Citizens flee for underground shelters to escape

the unusual amount of excrement falling from the sky, and begin

to pray.

© Debbie Hall

Inside Trump's Hour-by-Hour Battle for Self-Preservation

Debbie Hall is a psychologist and writer whose poetry has appeared in a number of literary journals. She is the author of the poetry collection, "What Light I Have" (2017, Main Street Rag Books).

Ship-Wrecked Scrappers

All those

American citizens

With no food

No water,

On an island

Surrounded by

Big water

Ocean water,

Are getting

rowdy and unruly.

Let the wild winds howl,

Let the flooding rains run.

© Gil Hoy

Puerto Rico's Death Toll May Be 1,052, New York Times Analysis Finds

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy’s poetry has appeared, most recently, in Ariel Chart, Poetry24, Social Justice Poetry, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, The New Verse News and Clark Street Review.

Leave it aht!

Transport for London – Leave it aht!

Electric taxis can do eighty?

Eighty miles per hour?

Leave it aht!

That’s illegal and anyway

I’ve never got her above twenty

Especially in rush hour!

Panoramic views?

Leave it aht!

They’ll need them

While we’re stuck

In traffic,

Or being shunted

Out of the way

By the gas guzzlers!

And charging points

Are you kiddin’ ?

Leave it aht!

We’ll get booked

On a thirty minute

Dawdle for power

And who’s going

To pay for that eh?

Transport for London?

Electric taxis?

Leave it aht!

I say

Just leave it aht!

© David Subacchi

London's black cabs go electric

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Memories

Their homes, cone-shaped wooden

poles covered with buffalo hides.

Set up to break down quickly

to move to a safer place.

She sits inside of one of them,
adorning her dresses, her family’s

shirts, with beads and quills.

Watches over her children, skins

cuts and cooks the buffalo meat, pounds

clothes clean with smooth wet river rocks.

When she sees the blue cavalry coming,

she starts to run again.

Is that what made America great,

back then?

African families working hard

on hot cotton farms. Sunrise to sunset,

six days a week. Monotony broken only

by their daily beatings, by their singing

of sad soulful songs. Like factories in fields,

dependent solely upon the demands

of cotton and cloth.

You could buy a man for a song, back then.

Is that what made America great,

once again?

There are swastikas in our schools today,

gay pride flags being burned. Whitelash.

While those in government spew anti-Muslim

venom, rant of white power.

As the old new man at the top

solemnly swears, he’ll make America

great again.

They say the full moon was bigger and brighter

last year than it’s been in 69 years.

Than it’s been since Jackie Robinson

played his first big league baseball game.

© Gil Hoy

Supreme Court allows full enforcement of Trump travel ban

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy received a B.A. in Philosophy and Political Science from Boston University, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. Hoy’s poetry has appeared, most recently, in Ariel Chart, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, The New Verse News and Clark Street Review.

Dilemmas

It’s eight o’clock, reminds Chris Evans.

Katie’s teeth are unbrushed

and she can’t find legal school shoes

but there are other priorities.

She tugs Geography from her rucksack -

deadline the day before yesterday.

The last paragraph now,

then check for mistakes on the school bus?

‘Katie, Katie.’ Her mother’s voice,

thin with effort and gratefulness.

The last detention for late homework –

an hour in a classroom

cold under the glare of Mrs Cartwright -

meant finding Mum spread-eagled,

still clutching a saucepan handle,

her palm and fingers blistered.

Katie mopped up chicken soup,

tears, and adult dignity

while her friends’ eager Snapchats

stayed futile monologues.

She persuades her pyjama-clad mother

back into the rumpled downstairs bed

where she’ll be still and safe

while Katie learns the algebra,

coastal erosion and social care policy

her teachers say are essentials.

Out of the window, she watches

the school bus rumble past,

her classmates pressing gurn-faces

to its steamed-up winter windows.

Her mother’s expression is guilt-grey

as Katie tucks and smooths sheets,

says, ‘Spit the toothpaste into this glass,’

and lays pills in a row by the lamp.

On the doormat, a curt envelope

with the school’s frowning logo.

Katie slips it into her blazer pocket

and shoulders her rucksack

feeling its weight as she calls goodbye

and waits for an answer she’s happy with.

© Fran Hill

Young carers: 'I was tired when I was at school'

Fran Hill is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.

Much More Fun

Here comes the bed

Back in Margate,

All two million pounds worth

Maybe even more today,

Yet poor Tracy

Still has a little moan,

She doesn't drink now

So the vodka bottle

And a few other things

Are no longer

Err...contemporary.

But I still love the bed,

It makes me smile

And I've seen it

At different times,

In different places,

During different stages

Of my life;

It really hooked me

From the very start;

Much more fun

Than those bloody bricks!

© David Subacchi

Tracey Emin brings 'My Bed' to the Turner Contemporary

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Dr Elsie Inglis

When eventually her grave was found

Somewhere in Edinburgh,

The headstone was covered

In green algae. This patriot

Who on volunteering

For medical service

Was told to go home

And sit still.

Now her medals are displayed

Behind spotless glass,

Mounted and framed

With polished wood;

For Elsie paid no heed

To the advice given,

But went to war instead

Saving countless lives,

Treating wounded and dying,

Comforting the bereaved,

Setting up field hospitals

And raising the necessary funds;

Captured by the Germans,

Detained only a short while

Until allowed home in 1917;

They had 'had enough'.

Crippled by fatal illness

She was carried from ship to hotel

In Newcastle, dying only

A short while later;

Dr Elsie Inglis a supporter

Of female suffrage,

Who refused to sit still

Until she'd done her duty.

© David Subacchi

The female war medic who refused to 'go home and sit still'

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Conversation with a rival

Did you come in pieces by special delivery

with instructions for easy assembly?

Or laid out like a bride on a bed of polystyrene

with DO NOT BEND emblazoned on the box?

How was he about that? Scissors or knife?

Was he careful when he opened your packaging?

Were there instructions? Did he follow the instructions?

How many times did he swear?

Ok, so then what? So he put you on charge.

Did he hold your plastic hand and wait with you?

Or did he take a snack to the TV room

and stay there for the whole of the game?

How was he with you, would you say?

Was he in a hurry to get started?

What does he call you? Did he get to choose?

Or are you all pre-programmed with a name?

He used to call me nice things once.

I was his bunny-wunny-boo-boo.

That was years ago, of course.

Things have changed since then.

But it’s not my fault. He’s told me that

And he’s told me he still loves me.

It’s just a man has certain needs.

And a man, unlike a woman, can’t pretend.

So you and I must rub along.

Mostly I keep to the kitchen.

I’ve made up the bed in the small back room

but I’ve put you in with him.

He’s not the man he thinks he is.

It's sad to see it really.

Best to grit your teeth and try

to bear it with a grin.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

The Sex Robots Are Coming: seedy, sordid – but mainly just sad

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance in Cornwall.

Iceberg

Listen

hear me

as I break apart

Early morning

My massive frozen body

begins to soften

hard edges smooth away

waters around me are warming

my surface dissolves around the waterline

ablation takes my top layer

as I vapourise

drop by drop

into whispers of air over cold ocean

Melt ponds form in my centre

drip by drip

water seeps, murmurs and bubbles

Fissures form

among my crags, wider and deeper

until a gulch widens

pulling a crazy crevasse

chasm becomes abyss

my central ridge

fractures

I am breaking apart

my groans echo through the seas

mix with the songs of whales

as I am riven

my disruption makes waves

ice chunks break off

float away

I am splitting

sinking, rising again

and suddenly

crack crack crack

a battalion fires a million barrels

into fine clear sky

ack ack ack

the roar of planes

one after another

after another

after another

air rushing rushing rushing

whoosh whoosh whoosh

shells explode and smash

mortars rumble

water sucks gushes

as I rupture

as I break and breach...

         These are the sounds of the Earth

© Jackie Biggs

Large iceberg breaks off from Grey glacier in southern Chile

Jackie Biggs has had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies, both print and online. Her first collection is The Spaces in Between (2015). She blogs at: The Spaces in Between. Twitter: @JackieNews

When Meghan Met Harry

Edward Lear in a poem said

"O let us be married!

Too long we have tarried!"

but we cannot say that

of young Prince Harry.

The people now know

that he marrying a gal

by the name of Meghan.

We have been told

that she is a divorcee

(and older than he)

but they haven’t disclosed

if she is a vegan.

This royal is

as sharp as a razor

and is proving to be

a trailblazer.

He succeeded in doing

what Edward VIII

clearly failed to do.

Some say it is a rum do

how he managed to fix it

and think it’s a ploy

to soften the effect of Brexit.

The royalists feel joy

that the event will take place

but young Turks maintain

that all the opulence

is a slap in the face

of the working class.

© Luigi Pagano

Prince Harry Casts Aside Ghosts of Royal Marriages Past

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

Dream Team

(with apologies to Will Shakespeare)

Double, double toil and trouble,

Gove and Johnson in a huddle!

Israel or Tehran – wha’ever --

Mike and Boris, back together,

Boil up their hard-Brexit magic!

Should be comic, but it’s tragic

How they hover here and there

Through the fog and filthy air.

Each no more the other’s rival

all they want’s their own survival.

Let that woman Nazanin --

Only half a Brit, it seems --

Rot in jail, and as for Priti,

Well, of course, it is a pity,

But her fall’s a handy veil

To mask our Bojo’s latest fail.

Daft woman! How was he to know

That journalism in Iran’s no-go?

We do love him -- the rascal – but

That mouth should sometimes be taped shut!

Lies, damned lies and obfuscation

They think will still deceive the nation,

And so the dream team reconvenes

To stir the pot, e’en if it means

Scuppering their lovechild, Brexit –

Gods! What will they ruin nexit?

© Mandy Macdonald

Brexit’s real string-pullers are operating behind the scenes

Mandy Macdonald lives in Aberdeen, trying to make sense of the 21st century. Music, poetry and gardening keep her sane. Her poems appear here and there in print and online.

When You Just Can't Help Yourself

If you've an aerosol can

and a stairwell wall

You've a ready-made canvas

for a spray-on cock and balls

If you're sitting at your desk

and the lesson's getting boring

Then you whip out your ballpoint

and you do a bit of drawing

The bus window's steamed up?

You can't fight the temptation

to add some decoration

to the condensation

If you're poised on the khazi

and the door's looking bare

And you've got a felt tip

then you'll do it if you dare

If you're serving up dinner

and it's meat and two veg

Arrange them rather tastefully

with sauce around the edge

But if you are a pilot

then what else can you do

But fly a contrail cock

and balls against the blue?

© Janine Booth

US Navy pilot who drew huge penis in sky with plane is banned from flying

Janine Booth lives in Hackney, East London. She writes and performs poetry, and has had three slim volumes of poetry published. Janine posts poems and political polemics at www.janinebooth.com

Jesuit Diplomacy

Your civil conflict's been so long

That some would almost say it's wrong.

There can be room, nevertheless

For some divergent godliness.

The road to peace is arduous,

So I'm not here to make a fuss:

My Church has not lived to these times

By telling Power of its crimes.

Some platitudes, and then I'll run -

For that's what my Christ would have done.

© Philip Challinor

Pope Francis fails to mention Rohingya in Myanmar speech

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

What shall we tell the kids?

If we tell you about the wild blue oceans

and all the beautiful seas,

miles of deserted beaches,

of dolphins, whales and seals;

must we tell you about melting glaciers,

plastic debris, choking pollution,

rising sea-levels,

acidification and bleaching of coral reefs.

If we tell you about huge tropical rainforests,

and wonderful temperate woodlands

of beech, oak and birch, elm and ash;

must we tell you about deforestation,

raging fires, unrestricted destruction.

If we tell you about the joy of tumbling streams

and rambling valleys,

the peace of wide slow rivers;

must we tell you about toxic run-off,

dying fish, increased rainfall,

extreme flooding.

If we tell you about magnificent mountains

and rolling hills,

how it is to breathe the freshest air

in all the big wide world;

must we tell you about benzene, xylene,

cfc, carbon and sulphur dioxide.

If we tell you about wildness

of badgers, otters and ospreys,

swallows, swifts,

hedgehogs and hares;

must we tell you about missing butterflies,

and dying bees, the BSE and bTB.

We will tell you of all

                     the lovely things,

but must we tell you

must we tell you

how we have wrecked

how we have wasted,

this Earth?

© Jackie Biggs

My granddaughter will be 35 in 2050. I grieve that she will know silent and empty places

Jackie Biggs has had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies, both print and online. Her first collection is The Spaces in Between (2015). She blogs at: The Spaces in Between. Twitter: @JackieNews

Forty Years On

I was accused of a heinous crime

and told I’d have to serve my time.

I shouted my innocence to the wind

and waited for the judge to rescind

the verdict that was certainly wrong.

It was said the evidence was strong

as witnesses had sworn they had seen

a man acting suspiciously at the scene

who looked the spitting image of me;

that was the reason I lost my liberty.

Because I did not have a valid alibi

I had to wave my freedom goodbye.

The thought that I’d be behind bars

and that I would suffer mental scars

for a long time, filled me with dread;

it was tantamount to being dead.

My barrister argued points of law

and then they found a serious flaw:

it looks as if the specialist didn’t latch

on the fact that there was no match

between DNA found on the deceased

and my genetic code. I was so pleased

that the charges had been dismissed

but furious that I had been so dissed.

It is true I shall have the consolation

of quite a substantial compensation

but I shan’t forget my bitters tears

and I won’t get back the lost years .

© Luigi Pagano

Jerry Brown Pardons Man Imprisoned for Decades for Murders He Didn’t Commit

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

Sunday 'Shorts'

Cricket bread

Though Mother’s Pride is so last year

and granary bread a stale idea,

we can go far too far, I fear,

and Finland’s brand-new loaf is

a veritable insect feast

which adds in crickets with the yeast.

They’re on a roll with mini-beasts.

Mind if I stick with Hovis?

© Fran Hill

Finland rolls out bread made from crushed crickets

Fran Hill is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.

Sonnet for a Swastika

Digging foundations for a changing room

To be enjoyed for sporting purposes,

A German excavator exposes

A concrete swastika, symbol of doom;

More evil than a witches hat or broom,

Half a metre below calm surfaces,

That for several decades showed no traces

Of a twisted cross buried in the gloom.

Now in Hamburg hammers are assembled

To break up this great abomination,

And as in days when the Third Reich crumbled,

Tracked vehicles advance from their station

Crushing defences, enemies humbled,

Destroying all sign of opposition.

© David Subacchi

Giant swastika unearthed under Germany sports field

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Tons of Toys

If life in the evening is boring

(Your partner incessantly snoring),

It’s time for a holiday cheer,

More potent than whiskey or beer.

You order online from the Joy Store,

The country’s most primitive toy store

A calendar filled with surprise—

The hottest of Christmas supplies.

The need for this stuff appears dire,

For interest is spreading like fire.

A ton ain’t enough; we need four.

The shipment will soon come to shore.

The product increases attraction.

We do guarantee satisfaction

(A bonus you cannot ignore).

We trust they will be twenty-four.

© Vala Hafstað

Kynlífsleikföng rjúka út í skammdeginu fyrir jól (translation courtesy of Google)

Vala Hafstað is the author of News Muse: Humorous Poems Inspired by Strange News. She lives in Iceland, where she has worked as a journalist and managing editor, and keeps her eyes open for any inspiring news.
    

All Consuming

Plenty makes us poor – Dryden

We travel heavy, weighted down with stuff

Acquiring more and more as time goes on

Not seeing that a little is enough

Those calling for restraint meet with rebuff

As we buy happiness and put it on

And travel heavy, weighted down with stuff

In thrall to fashion and the adman's guff

We buy, and by and by, what's bought is gone

We don't see that a little is enough

And scarcity can hardly be more tough

Than carrying a heavy load upon

Your back when you're indentured to your stuff

I have, therefore I am - I am my stuff,

My hoarding habit my sine qua non

I've got a lot but still it's not enough

This rutted track somehow becomes less rough

As we cast off the burden we took on

And travel light with just essential stuff,

Believing that a little is enough

© Peter Duff

Black Friday deals ‘not all they seem,’ shoppers warned

Peter Duff was runner-up in the Poetry on the Lake competition for formal poetry in 2013. He publishes a short weekly podcast, Discursive Poetry, which is available on iTunes Podcasts.

Wolf and I

I know he's watching, he knows I know,

Keeping his distance but on my trail,

Has been for over a week nearly two

Following wherever I go, his instincts are strong

He knows I have water, he knows of my food,

Does he trust me enough to ask?

Waiting patiently to make his move,

Pacing up and down with anxiety, starving, thirsty, on edge,

It all gets too much as I cook up a meal.

He makes himself known, slowly he walks towards me,

Crouching low and moving slow as too not scare me.

Still wary he gets closer, head bowed, tail down,

I reach out with some scraps. Stretching his neck he takes,

He wolfs down the offerings, backing away slightly, nervously.

I offer water from a bottle from which he devours, and doesn't spill a drop.

Our eyes connect, we have trust, understanding, and respect.

A friendship of unconditional trust brought by necessity.

I don't fear him, nor him me, we are one with the wilds,

A relationship so natural, a friendship, a companionship of convenience.

We are there for each other in support, he's watching my back,

I pack up and continue my journey, my new friend follows, closely.

He follows with hope.

I'm humbled to call him my friend.

© Robin Welsh

The Tories have voted that animals can't feel pain as part of the EU bill, marking the beginning of our anti-science Brexit

Robin Welsh writes poems and rhymes daily about all life in general...but mainly politics, human rights and world affairs. Performing at every opportunity he can get, not yet published because of procrastination.

Villanelle: Eyes On the Prize

The Pfizer guys are haggling with the NICE

And while they talk, the cancer spreads again

You’ll get your pills when they’ve agreed a price

You’ll get your answer when they’ve rolled their dice

And dealt your hand out in their counting den

The Pfizer guys are haggling with the NICE

So just be patient, please heed our advice

At some point, they will tell the patients when

You’ll get your pills, when they’ve agreed a price

Shareholders and Execs must get their slice

Your longer life lies with the money men

The Pfizer guys are haggling with the NICE

It’s hard for them to make this sacrifice

Each penny off’s a penny less for them

You’ll get your pills when they’ve agreed a price

Nine months of talks to get the charge precise

Let’s hope that you can stay alive till then

The Pfizer guys are haggling with the NICE

You’ll get your pills when they’ve agreed a price

© Janine Booth

NICE backs funding for Pfizer, Novartis breast cancer drugs

Janine Booth lives in Hackney, East London. She writes and performs poetry, and has had three slim volumes of poetry published. Janine posts poems and political polemics at www.janinebooth.com

The International Buffoon Contest

One Signor Berlusconi

the Italian judges sent

was somewhat understandably

cocky and confident,

but he became indignant

when upon arrival there

He saw Mr. Mugabe

and he sotto voce sweared

“Scusami Roberto,”

said the haughty Senor B

“I don’t think you should be here,

I know Donald will agree;

this isn’t for just amateurish

clowns and wannabes,

but undisputed idiots

like Mr Trump and me.”

© Peter Duff

Berlusconi’s Comeback Hopes Buoyed by Sicily Election Results

Peter Duff was runner-up in the Poetry on the Lake competition for formal poetry in 2013. He publishes a short weekly podcast, Discursive Poetry, which is available on iTunes Podcasts.

An Election Misread

a year later,

the election of Donald Trump,

still not understood by the ruling elite,

Donald Trump,

a living, breathing bomb,

thrown by the people of America,

at their government,

we want and expect structural damage to be done,

the parties and ruling classes have nothing to offer,

let them become casualities,

the war of ideology,

now an armed conflict,

while morons argue about Russia,

the ignorance of history,

profound,

elections are events,

begging to be influenced,

in 2012 the IRS did its part for the party in power,

the ignorant, naive illusion,

elections never influenced,

and virgin pure,

a mistake causing this election to be misread,

we the people are on the verge of revolt,

Trump was only the first grenade lobbed.

© Douglas Polk

One year later: For Trump, the 2016 election is ever-present

Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and son, two dogs and three cats. Polk has had over 1000 poems published in hundreds of publications.

Sunday 'Shorts'

A Stile of Leaks


There was a crooked man who had a crooked smile

who found a crooked partner filled with crooked wiles

they made a crooked pact to build their crooked scheme

and they both fibbed together: Brexit’s no crooked gleam.

© Lavinia Kumar

UK government tensions rise after leak of Johnson-Gove letter to May

Lavinia Kumar has a new poetry book, The Celtic Fisherman’s Wife: A Druid Life, it can be found on Amazon (US & UK).



Apocalypse Now

Alas, the end of the world is nigh.
Italian expectations were high
of qualification for the world cup
but it seems they were sold a pup.
It is apocalypse, said the headlines:
the azzurri will be on the sidelines
as the finals get under way in June.
The fans will sing a mournful tune
instead of a joyous, uplifting song;
the national anthem seems wrong.
Football fans blamed the coach
and he was not beyond reproach.
Everyone thinks that the solution
can only be achieved by revolution.

© Luigi Pagano

World Cup shock: Sweden beats Italy 1-0 on aggregate to dump four-time champs out of Russia 2018

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

Even Ink Freezes

This may be the coldest village,

Verkhoyansk, where temperatures

Drop to minus sixty seven Celsius;

Still we have 3G so we can observe

Another world through Instagram.

A world where water flows from taps

And is not delivered in ice blocks

To be melted indoors

And where car engines are not

Left running all winter.

This is our delicacy, Stroganina,

Frozen fish slices eaten raw;

There is no fast food here;

What is the point

We have plenty time.

Our numbers are falling,

Many long for the nearest city

Hundreds of miles away,

For escape from a place where

Even ink freezes before writing.

© David Subacchi

Growing up in -60C

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Homeless

Last night I was so tired

I slept in my shoes,

was reminded

of the weightless abandon

of my bedroom after school,

where, slumped

fully-clothed on the bed,

I listened for your step

on the stair, your warm voice

calling me to dinner.

But here, as the hostel

coughs up another day,

I wake to the jagged sounds

of morning,

the too-loud details

of invisible lives

and the sticky voice

in my head, wondering

where I will sleep tonight.

© Maurice Devitt

"You get up in the morning and the first thing you say to yourself is 'where am I going to sleep tonight'?"

Maurice Devitt was the runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competition in 2015 and has been placed or shortlisted in many competitions including the Patrick Kavanagh Award, Listowel Collection Competition, Over the Edge New Writer Competition and Cuirt New Writing Award. With 200 poems published in Ireland and internationally, he has a debut collection upcoming from Doire Press in 2018. He is also the curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site and a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.

Scales of Injustice

Pick up the leaflet

pick up a pen

Rate on a scale of nil to ten

how broken is your heart

how much your life is rent apart

Rate your mental state

Is it three or six or eight?

Rate on a scale of nil to ten

Where nil is

I don't give a toss about them'

And ten is

'I'll never feel intact again'

Rate on a scale of one to one hundred

How many died

and how many live

How many flying ones you give

Rate on a scale of one to twenty-four

how many floors

how many storeys

What is the score

you'll give to the Tories?

How much do they care?

How much more can you bear?

How much are they willing

to foot the bill?

Rate on a scale

from zero to nil.

© Janine Booth

Backlash over Kensington Tories' Grenfell Tower leaflet

Janine Booth lives in Hackney, East London. She writes and performs poetry, and has had three slim volumes of poetry published. Janine posts poems and political polemics at www.janinebooth.com

No News

On Monday, I posted the following message on the Poetry24 Facebook page:

Hi All.

After tomorrow, Poetry24 will be publishing poems as and when.

It's been at least one per day for a little over three months, and I have to finally concede that maintaining such a rate is unrealistic. So please continue to send me your news inspired poems, 'as and when' the muse dictates.

I look forward to hearing from you, as ever.

Cheers

Martin (Ed)

This is Richard Devereux's response.

The news is there is no news

to depress the poet’s keys

or set his roller-ball rolling.

Words have lost their charm:

Brexit means Brexit. Ambiguity,

the poet’s coin, has rolled away …

down the drain.

The Tories are ‘at it’ again.

How will the NHS cope with a winter

epidemic of Tory-fatigue?

And who is shocked by another

natural disaster, by another storm

or earthquake? They happen.

Get over it. Some have to.

Stories about the ebb and flow

of the dead in the water –

are dead in the water.

There hasn’t been a terrorist attack

this week. When it comes –

we will all have been expecting it.

For a while, Trump trumped

all other news, fake or not, but now

we all play patience.

© Richard Devereux

Poetry24 Facebook Page

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

The Negotiator

sex a negotiation,

nothing more,

nothing less,

women displaying assets,

in the way they dress,

walk,

and speak,

nothing more than bargaining techniques,

sexual advances,

represent negotiating positions,

short and sweet,

hotel rooms,

part of the negotiation strategy,

going to a room,

implies certain concepts with which you agree,

Weinstein as a negotiator,

overplayed his hand,

time after time,

with women in numbers too big to ignore,

now these ladies negotiate from a position of strength,

holding all the cards.

© Douglas polk

After Weinstein: A List of Men Accused of Sexual Misconduct and the Fallout for Each

Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and son, two dogs and three cats. Polk has had over 1000 poems published in hundreds of publications.

Overcoming Our Divisions Is Going To Take Some Time

(After driving past a white supremacists’ gathering in a farm field.)

The pear tree is hardly taller than I am,

branches bent with ripe fruit

mottled gold and brown.

Each pear plucked

is a welcome

weight in the hand,

in the basket. Even

rotting fruit at my feet

is a celebration of hornets.

I think of these pears

in the mouths of children I love.

I squint at my neighbors’ homes,

recently shadowed by Trump signs,

want to offer this sweetness to them all,

want to ask blessings to cover every one of us.

Instead I carry the pears inside. This division is on me, too.

© Laura Grace Weldon

Trump Supporters Remain Loyal Despite GOP Abandonment

Laura Grace Weldon authored two books. She lives on Bit of Earth Farm where she spends too much time reading, cooking weird things, & singing to livestock. Connect at lauragraceweldon.com or @earnestdrollery