Maid of Harlech

(To the tune ‘Men of Harlech’)

Maid of Harlech buried in Welsh sand

In World War Two forced to crash land

When both her engines they cut out

So near the air force base.

Down in two feet of water,

Extensive damage to her,

Guns removed but fuel intact,

At low tide the waves uncover

Maid of Harlech, US Fighter

A protected wreck

We will preserve her,

Victim of human error

And warfare,

Rarely exposed to view.

© David Subacchi

The Maid of Harlech: The World War Two American fighter plane that's spent decades buried under the sand of a Welsh beach

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has five published collections of his poetry in English and one in Welsh. You can find out more about David here.

Prosecco

Prosecco sales are said to be peaking
In Britain, because of the snob factor
Working against products too popular;
For the select frown on Chavs imbibing
The same bubbly they're partial to quaffing;
So load the trailer and fetch the tractor
And cart away these wine bottles vulgar,
Now unfit for fashionable drinking.

Sell them cheap for respectable causes
Or give them to a favourite charity,
For the discerning drinker now pauses
Before choosing this fizz from Italy;
Even though such behaviour exposes
The madness of a class based society.

© David Subacchi

Have we reached peak prosecco?

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).

Thanks Padre

(For Guy Mayfield)

Young airmen at war,

So fresh childhood

Still clung,

In the folds

Of blue uniforms

And between the threads

Of hurriedly

Sewn on wings.

One told you

He could smell death,

Asked how best

To live with it,

You wanted

To tell him

You didn’t know,

But didn’t.

Night after night

Into the blackness,

Those that returned

White faced

And weary;

‘Don’t let them

Drink too much'

An officer implored

But you joined

Them in the bar,

Shoulder

To shoulder,

Bought a few

Moderate rounds;

Thanks Padre

They whispered.

© David Subacchi

RAF Duxford chaplain's account of Battle of Britain 'heroism'

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).

This Fragile Craft

Iron, steel, carbon reinforced plastic

Down she plunges towards the earth

Product of technologies fantastic.

Chinese space lab no longer active

Now beyond control

Subject of monitoring intensive.

Where she lands nobody knows

Predictions only speculation

Of desert soil or ocean flows

And when she starts to disintegrate

Falling through the atmosphere

All contact will terminate

As eyes are fixed on vacant space

In the hope of a glimmer

Some reassuring trace

Of anything remaining

From this fragile craft that once

With the stars went sailing.

© David Subacchi

Tiangong-1: China space lab's return approaches

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).

Testing Inflation

Away with pork pie and lager prices

For we no longer are interested,

Having resolved they be substituted

In calculation of key indices,

By mashed potato and women's leggings,

To ensure that inflation is tested;

Quiche and action cameras now included

Together with various soft play sessions.

The cost of leg waxing is also out,

Edam cheese prices too and camcorders;

We experts know what we're talking about

So all must meekly follow our orders;

This refined calculation beyond doubt

Based on great analytical powers.

© David Subacchi

Leggings in and pork pies out of latest inflation basket

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).

A Most Distressful Country

(After 'The Wearing of the Green" Trad.)

O and John Bull dear and did you hear

The news that's going around,

Our passports are no longer

To be made on British ground,

No more we'lł paint the coat of arms

Or the royal crown enhance,

For they're making British passports

In some factory in France.

Then since Euro procurement rules

Are very far from dead,

We'll not renew these documents

And stay at home instead,

For we've plenty manufacturers

Of our own who live much nearer

And if they charge a little more

Their quality is superior.

O I met with my member of parliament

And I stretched out my hand,

Asking how is the United Kingdom

And how does she stand,

She's a most distressful country

Being led such a merry dance,

For they're making British passports

In some factory in France!

© David Subacchi

UK passports 'to be made in France 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).

Grey Beards

My dear quite frankly it's an impertinence,

To suggest that I was anything

Other than a model of innocence,

My reputation questioned in this way

By men I have never encountered,

Is just too much for a lady

To even countenance.

And every few years the same treatment,

From another 'biblical scholar',

An article with well worn content

Implying my lack of morals,

Discussing matters personal

That are nobody else's business,

All in the cause of entertainment.

The saviour and I were well acquainted,

He was an inspirational character

And I was not as I was painted

By camp followers and ageing hangers on,

Yet almost two thousand years later

I still suffer hurtful speculation

From the tales those grey beards related.

© David Subacchi

Think you know Mary Magdalene? Think again

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).

In Training

In a pressurised suit

That weighs eight stone

I sweat like someone

Tortured

In a desert prison;

Around me

All seems unreal,

A mirage

Or some other vision.

An astronaut

In a Sultanate,

Preparing for space;

I place one foot

Before the other,

Moving forward

With difficulty,

Raising one arm

My face to cover.

We care not whether

There is life on Mars,

For we will advance

Regardless;

This is our mission,

That trained in a cauldron

They call Oman,

We will be ready

To conquer

All opposition.

© David Subacchi

The barren desert preparing astronauts for life on Mars

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).

Seismic Sunday

Earthquake in South Wales!

Earthquake in South Wales, social networking reported,

'Don't contact us' begged the authorities,

'Unless you have something to report,

Nobody's hurt so chill out;

It's the weekend after all

So nobody's in the office,

Order another of what you fancy

Before you were rudely interrupted'.

Earthquake in South Wales, just a few plaster cracks

According to the early news,

No need to reach for insurance policies,

Pointless to evacuate;

'I felt it up here' posted Billy from Liverpool,

Yeah OK right,

I felt nothing in Aberystwyth

But I'd had a few you know.

© David Subacchi

Earthquake felt across much of England and Wales

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).

Earth wave

Sat on a bench the first warm day of the year

Teens cuddle a phone mangling songs

A car parked, windows right down

the Swan's game fast and loud on the radio

two men talk diesel and body work

A couple, he's always borrowing

never paying, she's always late, only saying

A girl whining pleasepleaseplease!

immense weight like a small town

being dragged deep under the ground

shuddering up through my soles, my seat

closer, louder, deeper

like next door's crashing through all around

but I'm out in the park, there's not even a wall

some forgotten old thing turns right under our feet

reminding us all of its uneasy sleep

then just in a moment, the earth snaps back

all quiet and still

but the waitress in the café doorway still chanting I'm too young to die

dragged by the scruff from our long dream of safety

everyone asking What was that?

Later the stories of

rattling doors and shaking floors

dancing pipes, jiggling panes

glasses dancing, cups in saucers, forks on tables

and stock scrambling off shelves in the convenience store

© Phil Coleman

Earthquake felt across much of England and Wales

Phil Coleman lives near Swansea and tries to balance work and the need to write. At the age of 50 he's still a complete tyro at everything except juggling words.

World of Greed and Waste

I'm young and hopeful, healthy too,

Eyes firmly focussed on the future,

Studying hard, know what it's all about

And I dine on food

The supermarkets throw out.

I'm not a druggie or a criminal,

Wouldn't hurt a fly,

Non violent beyond doubt,

Still I dine on food

The supermarkets throw out.

I open the bins at dead of night,

There's no dirt here,

'Come and get it' I shout,

Let's all dine on food

The supermarkets throw out.

In a world of greed and waste

Nothing is what it seems,

Still fresh fruit and shrink wrapped trout,

I'm proud to dine on food

The supermarkets throw out.

©David Subacchi

Dumpster divers: Birmingham students raid bins for food

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).

Hell Ships and Hiroshima

(For Herbert James Haines)

Not many like him are left,

The Brylcreemed young man

In RAF blue, looking up proudly

From folded newsprint;

He made it to ninety seven,

He was always lucky.

But time has taken its toll

On the family of a warrior

Who survived ‘hell ships’

And Hiroshima. None

Able to attend his funeral

In rainy North Wales.

Still a standard bearer

Will be present

And the local paper

Has appealed for support

To give a hero the send off

He deserves.

Jim didn't say much

About the war,

So we only know a little;

One visitor to his home

Remembers model planes

Hanging from the ceiling.

© David Subacchi

Appeal to public to give hero's farewell to Rhos on Sea WWII veteran who survived Japanese 'hell ship' and even Hiroshima

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).

O Carillion

O Carillion, it's gone,

The bill will be hundreds of millions,

Jobs will be lost and reduced pensions

For those who knew this was coming,

All along, so wrong,

O Carillion,

Carillion.

Ministers have made a commitment,

Telling everyone to turn up for work

And carry on, keep it strong,

Protect the public investment,

But for how long, how long,

O Carillion,

Carillion.

Hospitals, schools and prisons

And part pf HS2,

All Carillion,

But no more now,

Now that it's through,

O Carillion,

Carillion.

Live today and pay tomorrow,

That was the deal,

But tomorrow never ends

And paying goes on and on,

Like shareholder dividends,

O Carillion,

Carillion.

© David Subacchi

Carillion collapse raises job fears

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).

Twenty Five Years On The Ferry

Twenty five years on the Ferry

From this side of the water

To the other side of the water,

Then back again,

People watching

On the Mersey tide.

Pointing the lens,

Releasing the shutter,

Then later on

Going digital;

In all kinds of weather

‘What you doin’ lar?’

‘Jus’ takin a snap’

‘Can I ‘ave a copy?’

‘Course you can’

‘O go on den!’

Faces on the Ferry,

Smiles and scowls.

The auld fellahs

In jackets, caps

And horn rims,

The gels in the latest

Fashions and hair styles,

‘Get me best side lad’

Bicycles and helmets,

Pushing and shoving,

‘Come on mate –

I got work to go to’

Maintaining courtesy

‘Alright son, alright !’

Twenty five years on the Ferry

Recording changing times,

Changing styles,

Capturing bits of lives,

‘Ain’t ya got a proper job?’

‘I’m trying, you know!’

© David Subacchi

Ferry across the Mersey captured by photographer Tom Wood

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 (2017).

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).

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).

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).

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).

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).

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).