On the street where I (kind of) live

(with apologies to Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe)



I have often walked round these streets before,

but I’ve not so often dragged my weary feet before.

As I write this rhyme,

it’s the thousandth time

that I’ve walked round the streets where I live.



Oh the trees grow high in the heart of town,

and the crows and seagulls cry in every part of town!

Though the air is clear,

I’m imprisoned here;

I’m locked down on the street where i live.



I hear that people are fleeing

overseas by plane, car or boat.

So disempowering seeing

it’s allowed by prats for whom I did not vote …



Politicians’ faces all bother me.

I can’t tell you all the places I would rather be!

As the time goes by,

I’ll most likely die,

just stuck here on the street where I live.

© Mandy Macdonald

Thousands arrive at Heathrow in last-ditch bid to flee the UK before Thursday

Mandy is surviving the pandemic era by writing Lockdown Lyrics and gardening a lot. Her pamphlet The temperature of blue is available from Blue Salt Collective.

POEMS FOR THE PLANET - ‘Our little brown rat’

‘Our little brown rat’

Ever heard of Melomys rubicola,

late of Bramble Cay? Ever heard, even, 

of Bramble Cay?

Look it up. 

Pretty name, don’t you think? 

for a death-trap. This tiny scrap of sand

held together by grass 

has hit the headlines

because

Melomys rubicola, a tiny rat

which lived only there

is now formally listed as 

the first mammal to die out

through anthropogenic

climate change. 

We did this.

Or rather, we did nothing.

Oh, there was a plan – there’s been a plan

for a decade now, to save

the Bramble Cay melomys – 

but 

the island is very small

the animal is very small 

          (and a rat, anyway)

and the wave that washed the last one 

out to sea, possibly before 2014, 

just an ordinary wave

          far too small for surfing.

So no-one bothered. 

Bramble Cay will probably be gone, too,

before long. A few years, and it will swoon

into the warm arms of the rising Pacific

with hardly a sigh.

How long before

we are all being drowned by inaction?

© Mandy Macdonald

Bramble Cay melomys: Climate change-ravaged rodent listed as extinct

Mandy's latest published poems are about vegetables (Vaster than Empires, Grey Hen Press), sex (The Ramingo's Porch  #4), and – most important of all – climate change (Multiverse, Shoreline of Infinity).

Croc(k)ery

Croc(k)ery

A mighty salty at our sink

had cleaned the plates off in a blink.

‘Bonzer dinner, mate’, he cried,

and burped – but that was Dad inside!

© Mandy Macdonald

20,000 homes at risk in Australia floods as crocodiles, snakes wash up

A very English Bank Holiday

Phew! Local elections over. Relax,
settle down with the papers and the telly.
Put your feet up, enjoy the sun,
try to forget it.
It was all topsy-turvy, anyhow.
Success was called failure, failure success.
Win or lose, the parties were delighted,
except when the results were
disappointing.
Language suborned, truth reinvented.
Believe nothing.

             But at least the sun shone
             and you could get out into the garden

Once upon a time there was a secret ballot,
a jewel in democracy’s crown. Not any more.
Four thousand turned away from polls
for lack of photo-ID. A trial, to combat
the major issue of electoral fraud
(28 bad votes, at the last election,
out of 32 million).
Also works on
~        poor people,
~        homeless people,
~        old people,
~        young people,
~        transgender people,
~        disabled people, and
~        ethnic minorities.

             But at least the sun shone
             and you could get out into the garden

‘We're here to help you with your journey needs
24 hours a day.’
Except on Sundays. Nothing stops
Planned Engineering Works on Sundays.

Particularly on the forecast
‘hottest May Bank Holiday
ever recorded’; particularly
on the London–Brighton line
via Gatwick airport, so that
people can neither go to the beach
nor leave the country,
their weekend one long despondent queue.
It’s their own fault, of course:
they were warned.
‘Due to overcrowding, customers for
Brighton & the south coast are strongly advised
not to travel today.’

             But at least the sun shone
             and you could get out into the garden

© Mandy Macdonald

Britain set for hottest ever early May bank holiday

The media treads a thin line between truth and lies
Local elections: 4,000 people turned away from casting their ballot in voter ID pilot
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.

Of Snakes and Stags

Tiny

People can be attracted to the exotic-

The unusual, the dangerous.

I knew an art student with a pink Mohican

Who sat on her own in the Art Hall

She kept white rats

I thought she was intriguing

I felt especially chosen.

The friendship ended one night

Involving boyfriend swapping;

A Ouija board

Followed by a plate thrown at me

And attempted knife attack

The boyfriend barred her way.

The man who owned the snake

Was asphixiated by ‘Tiny’

Befriend the ones others steer clear of

And you’ll find out why.

© Amanda Derry

Snake enthusiast killed by 8-foot python he had owned since it 'fitted in the palm of his hand'

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.

Monarch of the Glen

The Monarch – my dears! – of the Glen

is touring the country again.

They propose Stag Weekends –

what’s the message that sends?

Quite frankly, it should be a hen.

© Mandy Macdonald

Monarch of the Glen painting tour locations revealed

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.

Two short poems - on the button

Button Moon (a tanka)

We’re off to Button

Moon we’ve followed Mr. Spoon

Button Moon but on

Twitter oh my trending days

Say button it Mr. Spoon

© Mark Coverdale

Trump taunts North Korea: My nuclear button is 'much bigger,' 'more powerful'

Mark Coverdale was born in Darlington, grew up in the hills of Saddleworth. He now lives in London, writing and performing poetry around the subjects of politics, homelessness and social justice. Twitter: @cov_art Blog: www.cov451.com

(a senryu)

for ‘button’, read

'penis' – will someone please

take his phone away?

© Mandy Macdonald

Trump to Kim: My nuclear button is 'bigger and more powerful'

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.

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.

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.

Thoughts in the bar at Richard Strauss’s Salomé

 

Oh, bring me the head of the bad politician

the false prophet

of failed multiculturalism

peddler of division, stirrer-up of strife

populist pubcrawler

gurner extra

                   ordinaire

Bring it to me on that silver platter over there

and I will dance around it gleefully

will slalom down the grand dress circle stair 

slashing through the billowing veils

of obfuscation

       isolationism

            chauvinism               

                           and the rest of that hot air

How everyone will stare!

What’s that you say? Drink up, there goes the bell?

Sorry, I was miles away, saving us from hell

©Mandy Macdonald

Inspired by Nigel Farage's glee at election of first UKIP MP


Mandy Macdonald is an Australian writer living in Aberdeen, Scotland. She has been writing poetry clandestinely for as long as she can remember, and is now finally letting other people see it.