Pyongyang Pampering Regime Makeover Bid
(instigated by Ri Sol-ju and Kim Yo-jong)
Kim Jong Un must have fun
it's beauty regime time
an eyebrow trim a dermal skim
Dear Leader's in his prime.
Creams and soap help him cope
we'll work upon his weight -
a new hairstyle, the current's vile
and mocked by heads of state.
Kim's lost shine, it is a sign,
DPRK needs frills -
some blame Trump, the stupid lump,
the cause of Kim Jong's ills.
Dearest Un the day is come
for pampering after tea
it's eyemasks on binoculars gone
a break from DMZ.
© S.O. Fasrus
From missiles to moisturiser: Kim Jong-un visits North Korean cosmetics factory
S.O. Fasrus: Social Justice Campaigner & Social Research
Interviewer. Her verse and poems; some comic; satirical; and serious;
can be found online. Recent poems are in New Verse News, Culture Matters, and Poems for Grenfell Tower.
TRUMPed-up
no other way
I will stay back
a day later
we will decide
let him know no hurry from our side
let's be clever
I'd never want
forever to lose
this golden chance
we must uphold our emboldened stance
to our dismay
plan goes haywire
our wayward faith
betrays and yet
we are supposed to play life's roulette
© SK Iyer
Trump cancels US-North Korea summit with Kim Jong-un
SK Iyer is a commerce graduate, leading a retired but busy life in Pune, India. His poems have been published. He is a member of PK Poetry List, UK.
Sunday, 30 September 2018
Saturday, 29 September 2018
The Butcher's Son
As the butcher’s son
Is held high
I look to the skies
Where Bacon rolls
Gravely under
Parameters squashed
Of science applied
This life’s eclipsed
Humanity’s lost
Is held high
I look to the skies
Where Bacon rolls
Gravely under
Parameters squashed
Of science applied
This life’s eclipsed
Humanity’s lost
Some welcome
Generations of generated
Neutral networks
With arms
Open
Another tool up the sleeve
Of the creative sorcerer
But paint me soul
Paint me passion
Over matters grey
And the truth of beauty
We will take to our grave
Closed
Generations of generated
Neutral networks
With arms
Open
Another tool up the sleeve
Of the creative sorcerer
But paint me soul
Paint me passion
Over matters grey
And the truth of beauty
We will take to our grave
Closed
© Mark Coverdale
The Lumen Prize - 2018 Winners
Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry.
Twitter: @cov_art
Friday, 28 September 2018
Class 2A
It’s Monday morning, half past eight
There’s chitter chatter at the gate
The bell rings loud at ten to nine
Children straggle into line
Sleepy Monday morning faces
Amble in to find their places
MSPs defeat government to call for 'halt' to P1 assessments
Government unveils controversial plans for testing four-year-olds
There’s chitter chatter at the gate
The bell rings loud at ten to nine
Children straggle into line
Sleepy Monday morning faces
Amble in to find their places
Miss Parker takes a long, hard look
At what's written in her planning book
Then she looks at class 2A
Just about to start their day
At what's written in her planning book
Then she looks at class 2A
Just about to start their day
Mary, Mary away with the fairies
Can’t pay attention it seems
She’s designing new dresses for Arctic princesses
Bedecked with gold stars and moonbeams
Can’t pay attention it seems
She’s designing new dresses for Arctic princesses
Bedecked with gold stars and moonbeams
Olivia Santz has ants in her pants
Miss Parker wants her glued to the seat
But she needs to wriggle and wiggle and jiggle
Who cares if her writing is neat?
Miss Parker wants her glued to the seat
But she needs to wriggle and wiggle and jiggle
Who cares if her writing is neat?
Her wriggly body is composing a song
That she hears in in her brain, heart and feet
But it’s time to sit still and listen in class
And Miss wants her glued to the seat
That she hears in in her brain, heart and feet
But it’s time to sit still and listen in class
And Miss wants her glued to the seat
Kitty Kahoon
Heads off to the moon
Leaving her desk far behind
Intergalactic calculation
Is her motivation
Doing sums bores her out of her mind
Heads off to the moon
Leaving her desk far behind
Intergalactic calculation
Is her motivation
Doing sums bores her out of her mind
Then there’s
Billy who daydreams
He got three out of ten
On last Friday's spelling test
But out in the woods he knows the song of each bird
And he'll show you where nightingales nest
Billy who daydreams
He got three out of ten
On last Friday's spelling test
But out in the woods he knows the song of each bird
And he'll show you where nightingales nest
Scatter-brain Zain
Finds lessons a pain
As his head floats among clouds in the blue
Looking down from above
He sees a world lacking love
And wonders what we need to do
Finds lessons a pain
As his head floats among clouds in the blue
Looking down from above
He sees a world lacking love
And wonders what we need to do
Miss Parker
Takes another look
At what's written
In her planning book
And decides the curriculum can wait
She invites Olivia to sing
Lets Kitty do her thing
And asks Zain to lead them in debate
Takes another look
At what's written
In her planning book
And decides the curriculum can wait
She invites Olivia to sing
Lets Kitty do her thing
And asks Zain to lead them in debate
Mary shares a dress for an Inuit princess
Billy trills the song of a thrush
The bell rings at four
2A line up at the door
But today
they don’t leave
in a rush.
Billy trills the song of a thrush
The bell rings at four
2A line up at the door
But today
they don’t leave
in a rush.
© Bex Tate
Bex Tate is frustrated with the data driven education system, left behind her teaching job. She now spends her time writing, pondering life and wonderińg what to do next. Writing poetry helps her to try and make sense of the world as well as giving her the chance to rant a bit!!
Just the ticket?
The British Heart Foundation,
with the best of intentions,
offers high blood pressure tests
in salons, pubs and train stations.
But the latter is the worst place
to conduct such health checks
considering that passengers face
high fares, delays, cancellations;
the very cause of hypertension.
with the best of intentions,
offers high blood pressure tests
in salons, pubs and train stations.
But the latter is the worst place
to conduct such health checks
considering that passengers face
high fares, delays, cancellations;
the very cause of hypertension.
© Luigi Pagano
Boris Trumps
Anything May can do
I can do better
I can do any deal
Better than May
I can do better
I can do any deal
Better than May
No you can’t
Yes I Can
Ada
Yes I Can
Ada
© S. O. Fasrus
Thursday, 27 September 2018
That Was the MUSE That Was
The Philosophy of Drinking
Rationalist: I drink therefore I am
No alcohol safe to drink, global study confirms
Rationalist: I drink therefore I am
Existentialist: I saw that my life was meaningless so I made a commitment to alcohol
Hedonist: Alcohol can be a problem. I hate it when parties run dry.
Platonic: I am in platonic dialogue with my drinking self
Ascetic: I only drink for religious purposes, As I am devout, I imbibe small amounts from a chalice all year round.
Stoic: I’m only half way down this bottle of Jack Daniels but I’m determined to keep going
Nihilist - Yeah right. I’m heading for an early grave by getting out of my head every night. And what’s it to you.
Relativist. One man’s binger is another man’s occasional drinker.
Fatalist: Drunkenness runs in my family. I’m a fifth-generation alcoholic.
© S. O. Fasrus
S.O. Fasrus: Social Justice Campaigner & Social Research Interviewer. Her verse and poems; some comic; satirical; and serious; can be found online. Recent poems are in New Verse News, Culture Matters, and Poems for Grenfell Tower.
An Event of Great Importance
There was a young woman who closed a car door.
They say it never ever happened before.
The people were shocked,
Her critics were mocked,
And the BBC cried please, please gives us more.
They say it never ever happened before.
The people were shocked,
Her critics were mocked,
And the BBC cried please, please gives us more.
© Phil Knight
Wednesday, 26 September 2018
Freedom's Imposition
Scissors know our healing does not
France, Australia Naval exercises in South China Sea
Always come from books:
Does...
As the wind does.
Does... arch
As the hand raised over-long.
Does... concentrate
On every pose.
Does... cheat
For the sake of comfort.
Does... define
Both prong and tail.
Does...
The daylights from the living.
Does... assign
A dearth stance
Of which
We are too familiar, cut
From the background
As the wind does.
Does... arch
As the hand raised over-long.
Does... concentrate
On every pose.
Does... cheat
For the sake of comfort.
Does... define
Both prong and tail.
Does...
The daylights from the living.
Does... assign
A dearth stance
Of which
We are too familiar, cut
From the background
What scrap is
To the stock-piling.
To the stock-piling.
© Stefanie Bennett
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry – worked with Arts Action
For Peace, & ‘Equality’ [Human rights]. Of mixed ancestry – Italian, Irish Paugussett
-Shawnee, she was born in Queensland, Australia.
For Peace, & ‘Equality’ [Human rights]. Of mixed ancestry – Italian, Irish Paugussett
-Shawnee, she was born in Queensland, Australia.
Democracy at work
This is a government
that we don't like;
they are very cruel
and lack goodwill.
Let's kick them out
via a general strike
even if the country
comes to a standstill.
that we don't like;
they are very cruel
and lack goodwill.
Let's kick them out
via a general strike
even if the country
comes to a standstill.
© Luigi Pagano
Tuesday, 25 September 2018
The Full English
The kitchen is in turmoil;
the chef has said at last
that on British soil
breakfast means... breakfast.
that on British soil
breakfast means... breakfast.
But it is fundamental
that we distinguish
between continental
and the full English.
that we distinguish
between continental
and the full English.
Some people complain
that it is on the cards
the fare will be plain
and the eggs too hard.
that it is on the cards
the fare will be plain
and the eggs too hard.
Many others reckon
that we will be unable
to put foreign bacon
on the breakfast table.
that we will be unable
to put foreign bacon
on the breakfast table.
It does my head in
to see the chef's menu,
what is within,
and what it offers you.
to see the chef's menu,
what is within,
and what it offers you.
There has been a kerfuffle
among the anxious staff
who ask for a reshuffle
to remedy the gaffe.
among the anxious staff
who ask for a reshuffle
to remedy the gaffe.
© Luigi Pagano 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.
Monday, 24 September 2018
But...
while the machines we build
learn to live without us but…
…arrogance, hubris,
our smug pretence to be superhuman,
contrived devices to set us free
to do less with more but…
our smug pretence to be superhuman,
contrived devices to set us free
to do less with more but…
…first of all, we thought
the world could not promise
such freedom but…
the world could not promise
such freedom but…
…if mechanisms could be made
with simple rules to do
what we would not but…
with simple rules to do
what we would not but…
…no deal was brokered…
…for all the time we saved
no-one was ever freed
from the enslavement
of our clockwork schemes but…
no-one was ever freed
from the enslavement
of our clockwork schemes but…
… the machines are still learning
as we descend into an ignorance
of our own design but…
as we descend into an ignorance
of our own design but…
…for us, now,
contentment algorithms decide,
let fall dice we had already loaded,
squander our last resolve but…
contentment algorithms decide,
let fall dice we had already loaded,
squander our last resolve but…
…we played at being god,
having declared no god
was ever true in our affairs;
we set the code world loose but…
having declared no god
was ever true in our affairs;
we set the code world loose but…
…the coded messages
that built our mind-machinery
were the cobbled-up pieces
of our half-wit minds but…
that built our mind-machinery
were the cobbled-up pieces
of our half-wit minds but…
…if there had been a god and,
in god’s image, ourselves, made out
to be gods with whatever godhood
we thought gods should assume
and, by the end, we built
what we imagined into circuitry
and let that become a god
we never believed in but…
in god’s image, ourselves, made out
to be gods with whatever godhood
we thought gods should assume
and, by the end, we built
what we imagined into circuitry
and let that become a god
we never believed in but…
…with power over everything
we would ever do.
we would ever do.
© Brian Hill
Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).
The bare facts
I have read it in the papers
and watched it on the box:
six hundred people naked
to welcome the equinox.
But this massive nudity
was all in aid of charity.
and watched it on the box:
six hundred people naked
to welcome the equinox.
But this massive nudity
was all in aid of charity.
© Luigi Pagano
Sunday, 23 September 2018
Goodbye
I was much more depressed than you knew
only calling on the days I could cover this truth
I lost the music in my voice, I’m sure you heard it
I stayed in my room, and slept, and couldn’t bear it
Suicide rate rises among young people in England and Wales
S.O. Fasrus: Social Justice Campaigner & Social Research Interviewer. Her verse and poems; some comic; satirical; and serious; can be found online. Recent poems are in New Verse News, Culture Matters, and Poems for Grenfell Tower.
only calling on the days I could cover this truth
I lost the music in my voice, I’m sure you heard it
I stayed in my room, and slept, and couldn’t bear it
Some days I felt nothing, and only fed my shadow
in my tunnel of sorrows a ghost train of ruined memories
the spirits of regret making me jump from my thin skin.
When you feel worthless and wrong, you will never guess
just how long a minute takes to pass
in my tunnel of sorrows a ghost train of ruined memories
the spirits of regret making me jump from my thin skin.
When you feel worthless and wrong, you will never guess
just how long a minute takes to pass
Your voice was so far away, that day
your words skirting round me like concerned bees -
Who am I when I am not myself.
I don’t know if you can be my dearest old friend
If I’m now somebody else.
your words skirting round me like concerned bees -
Who am I when I am not myself.
I don’t know if you can be my dearest old friend
If I’m now somebody else.
I am sorry I could not wait for the day
the poetry would peep through the curtains again
and make me smile again
the poetry would peep through the curtains again
and make me smile again
I’m so sorry I was drowning as I waved goodbye.
© S. O. Fasrus
Saturday, 22 September 2018
Horror on Pennsylvania Avenue
Too late strolling down Pennsylvania Avenue
I was caught by a large thunderstorm and
so it was upon this midnight dreary
I ran wet and weary to a large white house.
It extended up into the night as though upon
Bald Mountain whose stormy heights were
circled by five hundred thirty-five flying demons
most grand and old with huge jowls and glaring eyes.
Tap, tap, tapping – I rapped on the door and
was admitted by a young yet balding advisor
and ushered into a rocky horror show of staffers
singing oaths of loyalty to an odd god beyond.
We walked through labyrinthine halls lined by
emptied rooms and abandoned computers
the floors littered by shredded documents
of previous staffers now no longer named.
From a passage guarded by foreign orderlies
we entered into an oval-shaped office
over which was a reading to my dismay:
Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
There I saw walls glistening with gold and
an orange king gorilla of long blond hair
escaped from the island of Manhattan
aided by those from the street of Wall.
He had no hands and a circular mouth
and proclaimed with loud atomic breath:
My oration is to make great the nation;
I rule as the best over the cuckoo’s nest.
I ran through the nearest exit of the house
barely escaping into the outside storm and
running toward dawn’s first sign of blue
away from the horror on Pennsylvania Avenue.
© Jim Hanson
Jim Hanson is a retired Senior Researcher at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, He is a sociologist and lay-ordinated Zen Buddhist. He is a member of the St. Louis Poetry Center.
Punch and counterpunch
There doesn't seem to be
an alternative prospect
to the Chequers deal
devised by the cabinet
with the utmost zeal
but which in Brussels
has failed to appeal
and one that Europe
has decided to reject
without showing the PM
the appropriate respect
but she has responded
with true British phlegm.
an alternative prospect
to the Chequers deal
devised by the cabinet
with the utmost zeal
but which in Brussels
has failed to appeal
and one that Europe
has decided to reject
without showing the PM
the appropriate respect
but she has responded
with true British phlegm.
© Luigi Pagano
Friday, 21 September 2018
Dry wipe board
Does the GOAT,
Dickensian like,
speak of the
best of times
and of the
worst of times blud?
Dickensian like,
speak of the
best of times
and of the
worst of times blud?
when
“uneducated" ???
roadmen,
chests and jackets puffa’d up and out
beef-ting fam,
whipping up a
Stormzy
from Croydon- not forecast
“uneducated" ???
roadmen,
chests and jackets puffa’d up and out
beef-ting fam,
whipping up a
Stormzy
from Croydon- not forecast
and the Feds
swear down
the whole truth and nothing but ...
wagwanning
as they slap down
an ASBO here and there
swear down
the whole truth and nothing but ...
wagwanning
as they slap down
an ASBO here and there
© Bex Tate
Bex Tate is frustrated with the data driven education system, left behind her teaching job. She now spends her time writing, pondering life and wonderińg what to do next. Writing poetry helps her to try and make sense of the world as well as giving her the chance to rant a bit!!
Bert & Ernie
There were 2 in a bed
so the viewers all said:
“YOU’RE LOVERS,
YOU’RE LOVERS!”
So they both rolled their eyes:
so the viewers all said:
“YOU’RE LOVERS,
YOU’RE LOVERS!”
So they both rolled their eyes:
“WE’RE PUPPETS”,
they cried!
they cried!
© S. O. Fasrus
Thursday, 20 September 2018
Liar
Is it so very strange of me
Salisbury novichok suspects say they were only visiting cathedral
to hold this burning wish to see
the great church spire in Salisbury?
I hear it is the tallest spire
(we have no spire in Russia higher!)
I’ll go all the way to Wilt-Shire.
But sadly I have little time
and doubt I’ll have enough to climb
the spire (they say the view is fine).
Indeed, if I can only see
it from a distance that may be
enough - I so love Salisbury!
My Great Uncle Stalagmite
used to read to me each night
by smoky yellow Moscow light:
“England’s Great Churches And Their Spires”
instilling in me this desire
that sets my heart and brain on fire
(much like a dose of Novichok
or a red hot bullet from a Glock...)
Oh - is that the time? Just seen the clock!
Must go, things to do, plans to hatch
- just leave the front door on the latch
but mind the handle - who knows what you’ll catch...
© Marc Woodward
Marc Woodward lives in rural Devon and has been published in a number of magazines and websites including The Poetry Society, The Guardian, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Broadsheet, Forward Press, Otter etc. He blogs at: http://marcwoodwardpoetry.blogspot.co.uk
Off Course
Theresa May's brexit plan
is said to be chequered
but it looks more and more
that it is in fact knackered.
is said to be chequered
but it looks more and more
that it is in fact knackered.
© Luigi Pagano
Wednesday, 19 September 2018
James
“I’m really sorry to trouble you
Homeless man spray-painted by yobs found dead just days later in graveyard
I never thought I’d sink this low
But I’ve just got out of hospital
And I’ve got no place to go.”
“I’m really sorry to trouble you
I’ve never done this before
But I’ve got no money,
I’m sleeping on a garage floor.”
“I’m really sorry to trouble you,”
As he edged towards my side.
“I’m recovering from Sepsis.
Honestly, I could have died.”
“I got out of hospital
And went back to my flat
But the landlord had changed the locks
That was the end of that.”
“I lost my job, see,
Because I was ill.
I couldn’t pay the rent,
I couldn’t pay the bills.”
“The landlady at my local
Let me sleep behind the pub
She brings me cups of tea
And sometimes even grub.”
We’re standing in a down pour
Outside a no-frills store
I usher him to shelter
Beside the open door.
He pulls at his trackies
To reveal a bare and skinny hip.
“I’ve got nothing, not even boxers.”
I bit my trembling lip.
A bloke drove up to the bollards
And beckoned with a shout
“Here you go, mate.
A couple of quid to help you out.”
He talked of going to a hostel
I doubt he ever did
But I fumbled with my purse
and pulled out twenty quid.
“Thank you so much miss
So grateful for what you’ve done”
Said the man without boxers
No older than my son.
© Sally Wheatman
Sally Wheatman has three adult children and lives in Sale with her husband. She is a trained journalist but now runs a PR company. In her spare time she rides her Irish Sport horse, Hobson, and digs her allotment.
Halloween comes early
Child's voice drifting
Over Ipswich
From spiders running across
Company security sensors;
Residents getting
Hee-bee-gee-bees
Ingenious way
To target trespassers.
Over Ipswich
From spiders running across
Company security sensors;
Residents getting
Hee-bee-gee-bees
Ingenious way
To target trespassers.
© Amanda Derry
Yep!
Richard Branson
Swings in a hammock
Swings in a hammock
the pillock!
© S. O. Fasrus
Tuesday, 18 September 2018
Wealth Creators
the money man stands
What Jeff Bezos spending $2 billion would feel like to the average American
Whole Foods employees step up efforts to unionize, cite laundry list of grievances under Amazon ownership
The 1% are the very best destroyers of wealth the world has ever seen
Janey Colbourne is a writer, performance poet and musician, exploring nature, culture and politics. Her feminist poetry challenges rape culture and its perpetuating myths. Twitter: @JaneyColbourne
to make it minted
shafting those who graft for him
still skint and claiming benefits
to pay the rent
aching bones and broken homes
are not sufficient sacrifice
for now he beams with hand outstretched
to those whose torture
raised his fortune
buy back what you made he says
at twice the price
the money man stands
to make a killing
sweat shop hell holes
selling souls
as workers feud
between themselves
this modern form of feudalism
‘free market’ capitalism
really fundamentalism
steals our freedom
all encompassed exploitation
slaves to market
mark up margins
profits bulging
built on breaking backs
while others fall
between the cracks
the money man stands
to make a profit
as he passes goods from hand to hand
then makes demands
drives down the price
and takes his slice
why should we not sack this guy?
he bleeds us dry
unending greed
bureaucracy
chain of command
this blatant cashing in on artisans
his plan
to gatecrash our endeavours
will the real
creators please stand?
time to sever
upstart business
profiteering
managers forever
© Janey Colbourne
Lingua franca
I remember Ted Heath, by jingo,
trying to speak the French lingo;
it was not a success, to be blunt.
At the podium steps Jeremy Hunt
who says he will speak Japanese.
I can't help it but I feel ill at ease.
trying to speak the French lingo;
it was not a success, to be blunt.
At the podium steps Jeremy Hunt
who says he will speak Japanese.
I can't help it but I feel ill at ease.
© Luigi Pagano
Idling
Brum Brum
foot off the peddle
3 days to work
4 days to diddle
foot off the peddle
3 days to work
4 days to diddle
© S. O. Fasrus
Monday, 17 September 2018
The Propaganda Panda and the Autocratic Cat
took a trip around the world in a new Learjet.
Champagne for breakfast and caviar for tea;
when recession hit, lived a life of luxury.
Within a double-dip, lived a life of luxury.
Everything on credit,
no money was required;
mortgaged off the pea-green boat,
sold it short ten times,
creating first world problems
of a global crisis kind
and when it came to pass
that the economy was fucked,
they developed Teflon shoulders
and tried to pass the buck
onto all the working people
whose pay was less each day,
then took away their benefits
while giving bankers bonuses,
forced the unemployed onto Workfare schemes
and didn’t give a toss about the Bong-tree lands,
just plunged them into ever-deeper debt,
deeper debt,
just plunged them into ever-deeper debt.
© Laura Taylor
Laura Taylor believes in the power of poetry as a means by which silent voices speak and hidden ears listen. Flapjack Press. Facebook.
A tale of five squirrels
Twisted and tangled
And all in a knot
Five little squirrels
In a pickle
Had got
© Bex Tate
And all in a knot
Five little squirrels
In a pickle
Had got
🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿
Sunday, 16 September 2018
The Rise of the Right
After crashing banks spat
people out of jobs into gutters
austerity normalised dissent.
People in poverty lost hope.
Distant and unreachable,
the wealthy found too easily that
responsibility means nothing.
Blame burns on the streets.
See him the man in a dress,
his son took my job.
He takes my money.
My State, my money, my country.
Nordic cold bites, but he doesn’t feel.
He doesn’t see the snowflakes fall
like the dust that didn’t settle.
A mound of sand sticky with blood,
rings attached to a finger, detached.
Explosions rock the ceiling, a hand in his bag.
His eyes close on his father’s head rolling away.
Father, my father, his heart contracts
cries pain all over the floor.
Snow falls, hope is lost
to the young men who lear.
He’d go but his son has a job,
he’d go but his daughter is young.
The Far Right rises against him,
and fallen snow flies.
© Emma Woodford
Emma Woodford is a social activist and poet living in the Belgian countryside with her family and many animals.
Phone alert
Nearly every cellphone owner
Will receive a national security text
From the President of the United States
Just testing, it will say, in case of a
National Emergency
As if the myriad of other social contact
Wasn't enough
No one can opt out-
Personal data protection doesn't apply
For the Government.
Will receive a national security text
From the President of the United States
Just testing, it will say, in case of a
National Emergency
As if the myriad of other social contact
Wasn't enough
No one can opt out-
Personal data protection doesn't apply
For the Government.
Saturday, 15 September 2018
Eighty Four
Eighty-four young men die each week
In a country that said we’d look after the weak
Those who need help, love understanding
Those to whom life became too demanding
We need to change the way we talk about suicide
The Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM)
In a country that said we’d look after the weak
Those who need help, love understanding
Those to whom life became too demanding
Eighty-four young men die each week
And unless we’re related we do not seek
To understand that frustrated breath
Which exhales life and inhales death
And unless we’re related we do not seek
To understand that frustrated breath
Which exhales life and inhales death
Eighty-four young men die each week
We’re reluctant to talk or even to seek
To understand the torture that does reside
In the mind of those choosing suicide
We’re reluctant to talk or even to seek
To understand the torture that does reside
In the mind of those choosing suicide
Eighty-four young men die each week
12 per day does that not seem bleak?
The highest killer of young men today
We need suicide prevention, what do you say?
12 per day does that not seem bleak?
The highest killer of young men today
We need suicide prevention, what do you say?
Eighty-four young men die each week
How can we tell them its okay to seek
Help to talk, to reach out without shame
To share their fears, to give it a name
How can we tell them its okay to seek
Help to talk, to reach out without shame
To share their fears, to give it a name
Eighty-four young men die each week
Whilst society remains reluctant to speak
Of any illness that impacts on the brain
From such inhibitions, we need to refrain
Whilst society remains reluctant to speak
Of any illness that impacts on the brain
From such inhibitions, we need to refrain
Eighty-four young men commit suicide
Each week, here, where we reside
Leaving a friend, partner, sibling, a mother
Let’s all pull together to prevent any other
Each week, here, where we reside
Leaving a friend, partner, sibling, a mother
Let’s all pull together to prevent any other
© Karen Mooney
Karen Mooney has had work published by The Society of Classical Poets, The Hedgehog Poetry Press, I am not a silent poet and Poems for All. See more at www.observationsinrhyme.com
Friday, 14 September 2018
Unmitigated Cycle: War Games Now
This frenzied star of an afternoon,
Heavy with the sway of
Wild flowering ti-tree;
Strands of the last
Mefistofele – its
Liturgy, where
Seduction wrote
Damnation in the sand.
Russia gears up for biggest war games since Cold War
Heavy with the sway of
Wild flowering ti-tree;
Strands of the last
Mefistofele – its
Liturgy, where
Seduction wrote
Damnation in the sand.
And along the sandstone cliff annexed
To an indigo sky
Passing into violet,
We too have passed
In reticence.
There’s the sojourn
Of ‘39 – wry idioms...
The conscious sceptics.
To an indigo sky
Passing into violet,
We too have passed
In reticence.
There’s the sojourn
Of ‘39 – wry idioms...
The conscious sceptics.
But I trounce within the space
Of a once common day
Feeling the polar-pulse
That beats out
Accepted crass-Gods:
Warheads: inventive
Poison cowering
A spent Pacific.
Of a once common day
Feeling the polar-pulse
That beats out
Accepted crass-Gods:
Warheads: inventive
Poison cowering
A spent Pacific.
Could it be conjectured up – the aged
Dictum? Poetic populists caught
On the rebound – and
Choice made,
No matter
How shrill. How
Contextual... setting
A precedent, now?
Dictum? Poetic populists caught
On the rebound – and
Choice made,
No matter
How shrill. How
Contextual... setting
A precedent, now?
A wave hiss quivers its quatrain
To the walker upon it; recaps,
Best let be.
Esprit-de-corps! “Black glows
The sun and solid
Is the sea.” *
Well word trampled,
Mudie. I stop-watch
Today’s necromancy, and go.
To the walker upon it; recaps,
Best let be.
Esprit-de-corps! “Black glows
The sun and solid
Is the sea.” *
Well word trampled,
Mudie. I stop-watch
Today’s necromancy, and go.
© Stefanie Bennett
[*Quote from Ian Mudie 1911-1976]
[*Quote from Ian Mudie 1911-1976]
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry – worked with Arts Action
For Peace [No Nukes], & Human Rights ‘Equality’. Of mixed ancestry – Italian/ Irish
Paugussett-Shawnee, she was born in Queensland, Australia.
For Peace [No Nukes], & Human Rights ‘Equality’. Of mixed ancestry – Italian/ Irish
Paugussett-Shawnee, she was born in Queensland, Australia.
Trouble at t' mill
Gina Miller wants to end chaos.
She's the one who went to court
to make sure Parliament was boss
when voting on leaving the EU.
Now she says that politicians are
“stuck in their Westminster bubble
and wants to take them to task
But one is entitled to ask
if she's bent on causing trouble.
She's the one who went to court
to make sure Parliament was boss
when voting on leaving the EU.
Now she says that politicians are
“stuck in their Westminster bubble
and wants to take them to task
But one is entitled to ask
if she's bent on causing trouble.
© Luigi Pagano
Thursday, 13 September 2018
Money-rich and Time-poor
Money-rich but time-poor,
A scenario common for high earners, some full-timers
And maybe Chiefs who are skimming
Extra profits and perks
The workers could get.
Give workers four-day week following advances in technology, says leader of UK's trade union bloc
A scenario common for high earners, some full-timers
And maybe Chiefs who are skimming
Extra profits and perks
The workers could get.
Create a more equal distribution?
Take the cream off the top of the milk
And spread it below-
Recompense the workers by subsidising
A free day; so give them four.
Take the cream off the top of the milk
And spread it below-
Recompense the workers by subsidising
A free day; so give them four.
Why do peeps need to have no life
Asides from the weekend
Wearily scraping back some sleep,
Time with kids or
A bit of housekeeping.
Asides from the weekend
Wearily scraping back some sleep,
Time with kids or
A bit of housekeeping.
A free day during the week
Doesn't have to be, time-rich, money-poor.
Doesn't have to be, time-rich, money-poor.
© Amanda Derry
Amanda Derry joined a Creative Writing class, following a breakdown, which played a significant role in her recovery. She now embeds literacy skills into classes that she teaches. Amanda also runs the Facebook Group, I Love Writing.
The Birds in The Eye of the Hurricane
Many species of bird
maintained a steady speed
in the eye of the hurricane
Hurricane Florence is slashing the Carolinas in the opening act of a 3-day, coastal disaster
Birds in the eye of a hurricane
S.O. Fasrus: Social Justice Campaigner & Social Research Interviewer. Her verse and poems; some comic; satirical; and serious; can be found online. Recent poems are in New Verse News, Culture Matters, and Poems for Grenfell Tower.
maintained a steady speed
in the eye of the hurricane
birds from every nation
of every plume
gathered and flew
of every plume
gathered and flew
they organised formations
made patterns
the stillness comforted them
made patterns
the stillness comforted them
strong birds
steered young birds
some sang as they tired
steered young birds
some sang as they tired
the birds were a painting
turquoise orange yellow and speck -
their own rapture
turquoise orange yellow and speck -
their own rapture
small swift birds skirted
slow ponderous birds
a bird crowd beyond species
they moved as one
they flew
neck and neck
beak beside beak
slow ponderous birds
a bird crowd beyond species
they moved as one
they flew
neck and neck
beak beside beak
a cluster of hope
© S.O. Fasrus
No more fight with Kryptonite
Devoted fans of Superman,
played by the actor Henry Cavill,
have been reported to be agape
hearing he was hanging his cape
but had to swallow the bitter pill.
© Luigi Pagano
Wednesday, 12 September 2018
Face Mask Poet
no-one knew me for what I am.
To be seen but remain unseen
I took cover behind a geisha hand;
I let my masculine glare disguise me;
I bent my smile into a Mona smirk.
I took cover behind a geisha hand;
I let my masculine glare disguise me;
I bent my smile into a Mona smirk.
My cheerful half-wit grin
made lightness of being
into dead weight.
made lightness of being
into dead weight.
I wore insouciance like a veil
my thoughtless face shone through;
I contrived to look indifferent.
my thoughtless face shone through;
I contrived to look indifferent.
I tried to become mysterious,
both poet and spook, a secret agent
of the mean streets, metaphorically rubbing
my poison pen on the locks and handles
of doors closed in my face.
both poet and spook, a secret agent
of the mean streets, metaphorically rubbing
my poison pen on the locks and handles
of doors closed in my face.
I could not abandon false modesty,
would not discard my furtiveness;
any more than I could reveal myself
or draw attention to my concealment.
would not discard my furtiveness;
any more than I could reveal myself
or draw attention to my concealment.
Oh, I tried to keep the mask from slipping:
its elastic tugged at my Byronic locks,
constricted the blood-flow in my scalp,
in short, threatened to give the game away.
its elastic tugged at my Byronic locks,
constricted the blood-flow in my scalp,
in short, threatened to give the game away.
I grew tired of it all: this life and its mirrors,
my conceited reflection in shop windows
staring back at me over the heel of my hand
looking sideways round an obscuring book.
my conceited reflection in shop windows
staring back at me over the heel of my hand
looking sideways round an obscuring book.
I had tried so vainly to be heard.
No-one knew me though I wanted them to,
every one looking while I stowed away
inside my illusion.
every one looking while I stowed away
inside my illusion.
No-one knew me as I wanted them to;
everyone looking at a figure they imagined,
hiding in the shadows I had cast.
everyone looking at a figure they imagined,
hiding in the shadows I had cast.
© Brian Hill
Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
It’s A Crime To Sleep When You’re Homeless
sleeping on the streets
Blackburn ukelele busker arrested – for falling asleep
is a criminal behaviour
no nodding off
or the plod will carry you off
and slap you with a fine
for napping
busking is permitted
just don’t let those lids
shut for a minute
or you’ll be in the shit
snoozing is prohibited
limited by law
even if you’re sober
don’t let that head loll over
or they’re onto you
so what if you are down and out
as long as we can’t see it
out in town
when you hit rock bottom
and your bottom’s on a rock
use matchstick props
till nine o’ clock
so you’re not locked up
in the slammer
© Janey Colbourne
Janey Colbourne is a writer, performance poet and musician, exploring nature, culture and politics. Her feminist poetry challenges rape culture and its perpetuating myths. Twitter: @JaneyColbourne
Answers on a postcard
I am sorry sisters
I find it sinister
that you want the right
to be loutish and badmouth
a tennis umpire
because your male
counterparts do the same.
When you raise banners
demanding equality
are you saying that
to be equal to them
you are prepared
to sanction bad manners?
I find it sinister
that you want the right
to be loutish and badmouth
a tennis umpire
because your male
counterparts do the same.
When you raise banners
demanding equality
are you saying that
to be equal to them
you are prepared
to sanction bad manners?
© Luigi Pagano
Monday, 10 September 2018
Stopped
We're a couple of miles short of Northallerton
suspended in time; one train ahead of us held
at the station. In front of that, the one that hit her.
© Nicky Phillips
Suicide rate rises among young people in England and Wales
Nicky Phillips had poems nominated in 2017 for Best Single Poem category in the Forward Prizes and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Jam in Aisle 3, was published by Dempsey & Windle in 2018.
suspended in time; one train ahead of us held
at the station. In front of that, the one that hit her.
It's been two hours now.
They've brought in another driver to carry on;
police are still on the crime scene. Nothing moves.
police are still on the crime scene. Nothing moves.
12.15 pm.
Just before lunchtime on a Tuesday in September. What led
to such desperation on a breeze-blessed summer's day?
to such desperation on a breeze-blessed summer's day?
Trains back up in each direction, terminate unexpectedly;
coaches are laid on from York. Connections are missed,
flights take off with unfilled spaces, meetings cancelled,
funerals conducted without next of kin.
coaches are laid on from York. Connections are missed,
flights take off with unfilled spaces, meetings cancelled,
funerals conducted without next of kin.
Rail companies reel as compensation costs clock up.
At home, or work, or at school, a seat stays empty.
At home, or work, or at school, a seat stays empty.
Eventually, our train limps on, passengers over-
heated, impatience replaced by resignation,
two hours of their lives lost for ever.
heated, impatience replaced by resignation,
two hours of their lives lost for ever.
Just two hours.
Rants, jeers and tears
Serena Williams was not serene
as she confronted the tennis umpire
whom she accused of being mean,
unfair and sexist, a thief and a liar.
as she confronted the tennis umpire
whom she accused of being mean,
unfair and sexist, a thief and a liar.
© Luigi Pagano
Sunday, 9 September 2018
That Was the MUSE That Was
Who's being oppressed?
TITANIC DISASTER NEWSPAPER ARCHIVE
"Women and children first!"
The infamous quote we all take
From the tragedy that was the Titanic.
The infamous quote we all take
From the tragedy that was the Titanic.
This was around the time
Suffragettes resorted to appalling acts
To receive the vote.
Yet the motto was always,
Women and children first.
Suffragettes resorted to appalling acts
To receive the vote.
Yet the motto was always,
Women and children first.
The Great War started soon after
The men were military fodder;
Granted nurses were sacrificed
Including Edith Cavell
And the canary girls had poisonous dust
On their fingers
From making bombs which blew up
Men on the battlefield.
The men were military fodder;
Granted nurses were sacrificed
Including Edith Cavell
And the canary girls had poisonous dust
On their fingers
From making bombs which blew up
Men on the battlefield.
But "Daddy, what did you do in the War?"
Ensured that men signed up
Including underage ones
(The largest percentage of whom were shot at dawn)
Otherwise they risked a white feather
From an outraged female-
Because men had to protect them and their children,
And fight for King and Country
In the War.
Ensured that men signed up
Including underage ones
(The largest percentage of whom were shot at dawn)
Otherwise they risked a white feather
From an outraged female-
Because men had to protect them and their children,
And fight for King and Country
In the War.
© Amanda Derry
Amanda Derry joined a Creative Writing class, following a breakdown, which played a significant role in her recovery. She now embeds literacy skills into classes that she teaches. Amanda also runs the Facebook Group, I Love Writing.
A Flaming Torch Dressed in Peaceful Flowers
You can hide the flaming torch
behind a blue and yellow daisy
but Sweden’s memory
needn’t be so short
lazy voters and lazy thinkers.
I hear you refusing to make difficult choices -
claiming neutrality
was never neutral, and by doing so you must know you are complicit.
behind a blue and yellow daisy
but Sweden’s memory
needn’t be so short
lazy voters and lazy thinkers.
I hear you refusing to make difficult choices -
claiming neutrality
was never neutral, and by doing so you must know you are complicit.
Call yourself non-political, anarchist, or fence sitter,
sometimes you need to take a stand.
You can hide behind your flower of peace
but I will always save my deepest contempt
for all who refuse to take sides.
Let’s remember how Hitler’s army was allowed to tramp
through Sweden
on the not so very long journey
to nazify Norway.
sometimes you need to take a stand.
You can hide behind your flower of peace
but I will always save my deepest contempt
for all who refuse to take sides.
Let’s remember how Hitler’s army was allowed to tramp
through Sweden
on the not so very long journey
to nazify Norway.
Hard choices were always hard choices.
© S. O. Fasrus
Saturday, 8 September 2018
Past Glories
From laying of the Treasury to waste,
And slurping of Fitzherberts in his cups,
A King must have a refuge in good taste
To rest his paunch and hold his throwing-ups.
George IV's restored Brighton pavilion saloon unveiled
And slurping of Fitzherberts in his cups,
A King must have a refuge in good taste
To rest his paunch and hold his throwing-ups.
Let silver spurt in blobs victorious,
And golden dragons warm his humble hut;
Let sunflowers blast forth like glorious
Projectiles from his blesséd regal gut.
And golden dragons warm his humble hut;
Let sunflowers blast forth like glorious
Projectiles from his blesséd regal gut.
All overhung with silks, exotic fish,
And stencilled lozenges all beauteous,
He'd foregather and, at his royal wish,
Dispense the fragrance of his gluteus.
And stencilled lozenges all beauteous,
He'd foregather and, at his royal wish,
Dispense the fragrance of his gluteus.
© Philip Challinor
Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles at The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available at Philip's Store.
Lend me your ear
Rumours of a royal
pregnancy swirl.
I hope that I
don't seem disloyal
if I say: Atta girl!
pregnancy swirl.
I hope that I
don't seem disloyal
if I say: Atta girl!
© Luigi Pagano
Friday, 7 September 2018
Ticks in Burning Boxes
They walk with no shoes
Through the Mississippi mud
Of their national pride
Past the sweatshop pyre
Burning with the weakness
Of their rage
This cowards bonfire
Smokes with the ghosts
Of the enslaved
People pointlessly burn their own Nike gear in response to Kaepernick ad
Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry.
Twitter: @cov_art
Through the Mississippi mud
Of their national pride
Past the sweatshop pyre
Burning with the weakness
Of their rage
This cowards bonfire
Smokes with the ghosts
Of the enslaved
The bullet headed put
Ticks in burning boxes
On voting forms
Their burning crosses
As in the red zone
The ineligible
Information receiver
Cuts off his own jock-strap
To spite his face
Ticks in burning boxes
On voting forms
Their burning crosses
As in the red zone
The ineligible
Information receiver
Cuts off his own jock-strap
To spite his face
They want to talk about
Fought and died
They should
Look to the other side
Where with heads held high
Not fought under stars and stripes
People died trying
Equally qualify
Fought and died
They should
Look to the other side
Where with heads held high
Not fought under stars and stripes
People died trying
Equally qualify
Look to the other side
You see me
You'll see many
Taking a stand
Taking a knee
A more powerful
Display of loyalty to our fellow
Than their ad man's wet dream
Of patriotism
Will ever be
You see me
You'll see many
Taking a stand
Taking a knee
A more powerful
Display of loyalty to our fellow
Than their ad man's wet dream
Of patriotism
Will ever be
© Mark Coverdale
Twitter: @cov_art
Just do it
Hey there Nationalistic Ned!
Yeah you man,
you freedom loving sports fan.
You just go ahead and burn your 100 dollar Nikes,
yeah you just go ahead and
Just Do It.
Burn all your overpriced sneakers
in protest of Colin Kaepernick’s
million dollar endorsement
too
Just Do It.
Yeah Patriotic Peter,
you just go and burn
all your t-shirts and shorts,
your headbands
and ankle socks
covered in swooshes
too!
And while you’re at it
constituion clutching Chuck
why don’t you
just shred those Air Jordans and
flush that number 23 jersey down the toilet.
Dump those Kobe Bryant Mamba Hyperdunks
in the polluted sewers flushing out into the poisoned Pacific.
And while your at it tell your wife to
sell off all those Serena William’s Court Power dresses
to some psychopath trolling around on Craigslist.
Yeah Man!
Go ahead and
Just Do It!
Just Do It!
Get it done with
once and for all.
You go and show your true
red, white and blue
in the face colors.
Yeah, you too #2ndAmendment Sally
go ahead
and
Just Do It
burn those synthetic swooshes into toxic ashes
and then get on with
your small minded nationalistic
clickbait lifestyles choices.
Cause the freedom that
you claim
to hold so dear and which
allows you to do just about
anything in the U.S.A.
is a freedom that
thousands of American black men
never had
a chance to feel
and never will
ever will
be able to
Just Do Anything
because they
are dead.
So yeah, you just
go ahead
and
Just Do It.
Do what you gotta do folks.
Cause Colin is doing
just what he
needs to do
too.
Go for it.
Go ahead
and
Just Do It
And when your done with it
go on down to
the Wal-Mart
and buy yourself
a new pair of
New Balance
or Reeboks
to keep polished as white
as your backass assumptions
about freedom
actually are.
Nike's support for Colin Kaepernick protest has some destroying their shoes
© Joshua Baumgarten
Joshua Baumgarten is an ex-pat New Yorker living in Holland. He organises the Irrational Library evenings - nights of poetry, rock n roll and casual chaos, and performs as a Standup Spoken Word artist.
Thursday, 6 September 2018
Treble Chance
It was one-all in our winter house
when the first frosts came back
and my father, alone by the fireplace,
filed in his pools, his vigorous pen,
putting crosses on the lines.
When we win the 75,000
and our boat comes in…
and our boat comes in…
…no more with crans of herring
destined for the factory gates
where he tipped his hat:
a wink to the drivers passing,
an obligement for the fish-women
going in turbaned behind.
destined for the factory gates
where he tipped his hat:
a wink to the drivers passing,
an obligement for the fish-women
going in turbaned behind.
His hopes were a treasure-map;
X marked the spot a hundred times,
a thousand, more like, over and over,
and he sent them, stamped and sealed,
into this wheeling game of fortune.
X marked the spot a hundred times,
a thousand, more like, over and over,
and he sent them, stamped and sealed,
into this wheeling game of fortune.
All of it was guesswork;
my father followed no team
I knew of, never stood on a terrace
to cheer the play on any pitch
yet he tried to predict the scores,
draws and wins for the promise
of an easier life, for riches
beyond his weekly wage.
my father followed no team
I knew of, never stood on a terrace
to cheer the play on any pitch
yet he tried to predict the scores,
draws and wins for the promise
of an easier life, for riches
beyond his weekly wage.
It was a dream; he never won;
like all dreams, it fizzled out
in the way time has to dwindle them
and send them up the lum, up in smoke.
like all dreams, it fizzled out
in the way time has to dwindle them
and send them up the lum, up in smoke.
And now the whole place has burned,
that hallowed palace where bets paid out,
when your number was up, but in a good way;
as if fortunes, decided in the heat of moments,
had spontaneously combusted in the night
and burned away to nothing but pools of light.
that hallowed palace where bets paid out,
when your number was up, but in a good way;
as if fortunes, decided in the heat of moments,
had spontaneously combusted in the night
and burned away to nothing but pools of light.
Perhaps my father’s ghost had come back
to take this sweet revenge beyond the grave;
he too, burned and scattered as he was,
might have wanted to rekindle lost fortunes
for all the lonely punters like himself
who marked out their tomorrows
like knitting patterns or the fates
weaving something better
from the thin strands of today,
from whatever tedious lives
they were tangled in.
to take this sweet revenge beyond the grave;
he too, burned and scattered as he was,
might have wanted to rekindle lost fortunes
for all the lonely punters like himself
who marked out their tomorrows
like knitting patterns or the fates
weaving something better
from the thin strands of today,
from whatever tedious lives
they were tangled in.
© Brian Hill
Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).
We can do better
(with apologies to Conor Maynard)
We can do it better than you, Donald,
Better than, much better than you.
We can tell you that we're watching you
And let you know we're not loving everything we see.
The way you act is a proof you're crazy
We'll make you wanna dance with us
You've been walking 'round like you just don't care
Got everybody thinkin' you are a true player
But your time is up.
I see you staring but you know, don't you,
That it would be better if you were to go.
Better than, much better than you.
We can tell you that we're watching you
And let you know we're not loving everything we see.
The way you act is a proof you're crazy
We'll make you wanna dance with us
You've been walking 'round like you just don't care
Got everybody thinkin' you are a true player
But your time is up.
I see you staring but you know, don't you,
That it would be better if you were to go.
© Luigi Pagano
Wednesday, 5 September 2018
All Aboard
There are going to be a few changes
on the island of Sodor, begorra!
The Steam Team might be in danger
of becoming Sodom and Gomorrah
with three males and females aboard
if they do not behave as they should.
But we are told they are just friends
and they have promised to be good.
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.
on the island of Sodor, begorra!
The Steam Team might be in danger
of becoming Sodom and Gomorrah
with three males and females aboard
if they do not behave as they should.
But we are told they are just friends
and they have promised to be good.
The new crew will be international:
we shall have a Chinese, Yong Bao,
who says that he hails from Beijing
but we know that he is from Macao.
His position will be highly regarded
and he'll be on the locomotive's tender.
He is quite open about his lifestyle
and reveals that he is a transgender.
we shall have a Chinese, Yong Bao,
who says that he hails from Beijing
but we know that he is from Macao.
His position will be highly regarded
and he'll be on the locomotive's tender.
He is quite open about his lifestyle
and reveals that he is a transgender.
An addition from India will be
Ashima a young girl from Mumbai.
She is tough and stands no nonsense
and is known to make the boys cry.
But she said that on this friendly train
she'll be nice and reasonable and quiet
and because she is also overweight
is prepared to go on a low-fat diet.
Ashima a young girl from Mumbai.
She is tough and stands no nonsense
and is known to make the boys cry.
But she said that on this friendly train
she'll be nice and reasonable and quiet
and because she is also overweight
is prepared to go on a low-fat diet.
From Down Under they will send Isla,
a woman pilot of a flying-doctor plane
and a man who is normally abstemious
and answering to the nickname of Shane.
Thomas wants more cultural friends,
many will come - the more the merrier.
To get representatives from all regions
he'll have to ask for a Yorkshire terrier.
a woman pilot of a flying-doctor plane
and a man who is normally abstemious
and answering to the nickname of Shane.
Thomas wants more cultural friends,
many will come - the more the merrier.
To get representatives from all regions
he'll have to ask for a Yorkshire terrier.
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.
President Non-Grata
They’re calling you President Non-Grata
we watch you pout and hiss and bare your teeth
a fake-tan version of the prisoner in Silence of the Lambs
we watch you pout and hiss and bare your teeth
a fake-tan version of the prisoner in Silence of the Lambs
It’s easy to see clearly without the fog of feeling
you know they can’t get at a man who doesn’t care
we know we won’t hurt a man with a reinforced screen of vanity
you know they can’t get at a man who doesn’t care
we know we won’t hurt a man with a reinforced screen of vanity
We can always incite your anger, though
knowing your last word will dissolve us in a pool of gall.
knowing your last word will dissolve us in a pool of gall.
President Non-Grata President Non-Grata
We can keep you from weddings and funerals.
but you’ll carry on forging your own rites of passage.
We can keep you from weddings and funerals.
but you’ll carry on forging your own rites of passage.
© S. O. Fasrus
Tuesday, 4 September 2018
Come Children
come children, gently down the corridors
© Lianne Kamp
Betsy DeVos Eyes Federal Education Grants to Put Guns in Schools
careful not to rattle a door, set off
an alarm, or draw undue suspicion
best to keep both your hands up in the air
come children, silently into your chairs
tuck your head between your knees
and worry not that you don’t comprehend
the unspoken in these exercises
your teacher has been well trained to look past
your desks, past the question marks on your face
to the windows and doors, to the echoes
in the hall and the strains of danger, with
one hand in the drawer and a finger on the trigger
Lianne Kamp resides in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poems and short stories appear in assorted print journals and on-line publications including: Poets Reading the News, Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, Scarlet Leaf Review, Poetry Quarterly, Dual Coast Magazine, and a number of Prolific Press anthologies. She writes poetry to make her world-view more panoramic by examining it more closely.
Hellopecia
Alopecia is the new rock and roll
if bushy eyebrows made a come back
and thin may no longer be in
and plump could be the new to die for.
Bring on the enticing facial moles
and the big black dress.
Make sure bingo wings are in the frame
we aim to rebrand and it’s grand -
remember what Rubens did for the fuller figure?
and what the pre-raphaelites did for ginger!
if bushy eyebrows made a come back
and thin may no longer be in
and plump could be the new to die for.
Bring on the enticing facial moles
and the big black dress.
Make sure bingo wings are in the frame
we aim to rebrand and it’s grand -
remember what Rubens did for the fuller figure?
and what the pre-raphaelites did for ginger!
Bald heads rock. Bald is edgy -
work with me on this.
Hellopecia!
© S. O. Fasrus
Monday, 3 September 2018
The Ship of Fools
The Ship of fools
Flows with the tide
Those on the shore
Asked far and wide
Who set her loose,
Who was it that lied?
Nuclear Mud Starts Being Dumped Off Penarth Next Week – And There's More To Come In 2020
Flows with the tide
Those on the shore
Asked far and wide
Who set her loose,
Who was it that lied?
It was the Men on the Make
The bringers of light
Answered a chorus
With all of their might.
The Mud it is good
Retorted our chiefs.
We believe what we're told
We are strong in our beliefs.
The bringers of light
Answered a chorus
With all of their might.
The Mud it is good
Retorted our chiefs.
We believe what we're told
We are strong in our beliefs.
The cargo we want
Cry the fools at the feast
We have danced
We have sang
And now we shall eat.
For the fruits of the Red world
Are both bitter and sweet.
Cry the fools at the feast
We have danced
We have sang
And now we shall eat.
For the fruits of the Red world
Are both bitter and sweet.
So the song and the singer
Became one and the same
And the Sun burned in crimson
When we played the Uranium game.
Became one and the same
And the Sun burned in crimson
When we played the Uranium game.
© Phil Knight
Phil Knight is poet from Neath in South Wales. His poetry collection 'You Are Welcome To Wales' was published in 2015 by The Red Poets.
Sunday, 2 September 2018
3:15 am (tunnel vision)
3:15, legs and sweat, 1997
tangled hands and black-eyed lust
smoke break interrupted
ears pricked, heads dipped
a heap of limbs in parody
four of us can say for sure
what we were doing then
when Henri Paul lost control
in Pont de l'Alma tunnel
and pixellated puckered tin
bathed bodies in the flicker
and a nation woke and mourned
while we just necked another
and dilated, changed the channel over
CHOON!
© Laura Taylor
Laura Taylor believes in the power of poetry as a means by which silent voices speak and hidden ears listen. Flapjack Press. Facebook.
Chips with everything
Nigella Lawson went to a Glasgow's
fish and chips shop, the Blue Lagoon,
ate their pommes frites there and then,
said they were exquisite and vinegary
and that now she was over the moon.
fish and chips shop, the Blue Lagoon,
ate their pommes frites there and then,
said they were exquisite and vinegary
and that now she was over the moon.
© Luigi Pagano
Saturday, 1 September 2018
The Spiked Baton
(for James Ricketson “Which country am I spying for?”) *
Why am I dreaming
Of the night’s
Mawkish
Militancy...
Of the night’s
Mawkish
Militancy...
A carnation, unwieldy bowed
Receding in a row
Of ‘old woman’
Saltbush
Receding in a row
Of ‘old woman’
Saltbush
That didn’t turn true-blue,
But peaked
Lacquered
Thin as
But peaked
Lacquered
Thin as
An oppressed mortal’s
Herring-
Bone
Shroud
Herring-
Bone
Shroud
And the stocked-up
Richet
Of attrition
On the run! Must be
Richet
Of attrition
On the run! Must be
Faust’s off-siders
Doing the rounds.
© Stefanie Bennett
Doing the rounds.
© Stefanie Bennett
Australian film-maker James Ricketson sentenced to six years' jail in Cambodia
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry – worked with Arts Action
For Peace, & ‘Equality’ [Human rights]. Of mixed ancestry – Italian, Irish Paugussett
-Shawnee, she was born in Queensland, Australia.
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry – worked with Arts Action
For Peace, & ‘Equality’ [Human rights]. Of mixed ancestry – Italian, Irish Paugussett
-Shawnee, she was born in Queensland, Australia.
*Spoken by James Ricketson – Australian filmmaker – jailed in Cambodia
for espionage 31st August 2018.
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