A Feeling of Light-Headedness, by Simon Williams


By Robert Garnham
 
A Feeling of Light-Headedness
 
It started as one of those party games; all take a gulp of helium and talk like Mickey till your lungs deflate. Only, the effect didn’t stop; our voices never dropped to their normal timbres, our heads swelled and began to swing in the breeze. This was a little disconcerting; I think it was Angela stepped up first. When her feet reached the top of the sofa, Jim had lifted off, too, then Clare and Stephen, until all eight of us were butting the ceiling. Without the Prosecco, we could have been scared. Lucy, down a bottle and a half, managed to bounce to the hall, float up to the landing and steer into the bathroom. She came to realise how difficult it is to aim from high above the bowl. The lightheadedness wore off eventually; we floated down as gently as we’d risen. Lucky, really, it wasn't a garden party. With the prevailing wind, we could have reached Norwich, at 30,000 feet.

Just Sayin’, after William Carlos Williams, by Derek Adams


By Robert Garnham
 
Just Sayin’
after William Carlos Williams

I have chucked
the plums
you left in 
my fridge

and which 
you would probably
say
were in date.

FORCHRISSAKE!
they were disgusting
sweaty
and growing mould.

Derek Adams is a professional photographer, living in Suffolk. He has an MA in Creative and Life Writing from Goldsmiths. His most recent collection is EXPOSURE – Snapshots from the life of Lee Miller. Sometimes he tries to be funny!www.derek-adams.co.uk

The Thirty-Five Seconds University, by Phil Knight


By Robert Garnham
 
THE THIRTY-FIVE SECONDS UNIVERSITY

In The Thirty-five Seconds University
You will learn all you will remember
Thirty-five years after taking a Degree.

Economics
Supply will rise to meet the demand.

Religion
God is in us all in every land.

Physics
All forces have their opposite and equal.

Media Studies
The first film was better than the sequel.

Creative Writing
Write about yourself and what you know.

Politics
Know yourself and know your foe. 

History
Everything gets to happen twice.

Social Studies
People really should try to be nice.

The best thing about
The Thirty-five Seconds University
Is that your tuition has been absolutely FREE!

Phil knight is from Neath, South Wales. He had poems published in Planet, Poetry Wales, Earth Love, Roundyhouse, Atlantic Review And other publications. In 2014 Green Arrow published his chapbook Dylanation and in 2015 Red Poets published his collection You Are Welcome To Wales.

Why I Shall Never Invite You to a Passover Seder, by Bryan Franco


By Robert Garnham
 
Why I Shall Never Invite You To A Passover Seder

I thought of you the other day
when the grocery store had
over a dozen jars of gefilte fish
marked down to half-price.
 
I remembered when I confided to you
how I drink the detritus liquid
after I finish off the fish:
it’s basically slightly gelatinous chicken broth
that is sweetened by the fishy Passover dumplings.
 
The next day you read a poem at an open mic
about drinking Gefilte Fish Detritus.
I felt as if my shrink was paid fifty-thousand-dollars
by the National Enquirer to reveal my dietary misgivings.
 
And though what you achieved
was a few cheap laughs
by our fellow poet friends
without mentioning my name,
I felt like you nailed me to a cross
and drizzled my private admission
in honey over my naked body
before taking a mallet to the glass wall
of a colony of Puerto Rican Fire ants.
 
Due to the triggered trauma
of your egregious betrayal,
I bought no jars of Gefilte fish
even though they had over a year till expiration. 


Bryan Franco is a gay, Jewish poet from Brunswick, Maine who competed in the 2014 National Poetry Slam in Oakland, California. He has been published in anthologies, journals, and literary magazines in the US, Australia, England, Germany, Holland, India, Ireland, and Scotland and has featured in the US, Canada, England, Ireland, and Scotland. He performed at the New York City Poetry Festival in 2022 and is hosting a stage in 2023.  He was a finalist in the 2022 and won 2023 NAMI New Jersey Mental Health Poetry Contest and is a Best Of The Net nominee. He has facilitated poetry workshops for Brunswick High School, Tumblewords Project, and Phynnecabulary. He hosts Café Generalissimo Open Mic, is a member of the Beardo Bards Of The Bardo poetry troupe, painter, sculptor, gardener, and culinary genius. His book "Everything I Think Is All in My Mind" was published in 2021.

Envy: So, Who made the Mouse King?, by Royal Rhodes


By Robert Garnham
 
ENVY: So, Who Made the Mouse King?
An Apology to T.S. Eliot

A cold coming I had of it,
just the worst, assigned to the rear --
was that fair? -- for the journey:
Uriah Heep to your Becky Sharp.
Where are my gloves in this dead-on winter?
Have a Camel? My lungs are refractory,
my wellies wet in the melting snow.
But were there times the rest regretted,
in their time-share condos, floored in terrazo,
and their lackeys bringing cigars?
Then my Camels went stale -- curses and grumble --
while the Fates ran ahead with those winos & women,
and the turista hostile and toilets untidy
and the diners dirty, charging fortunes for chili.
The others had a great time of it.
At the end they made me travel all night,
snatching a nap at an old Motel 6,
while they pocketed shampoo and packets of Puffs.
In the end it's always penis envy.

Did my sore, freakin' neck get
broken or deadened for this? I lost breath, certainly;
I have evidence, not that they care. It was death,
but mine was harder than theirs; my breath
was hard, bitter-tasting. They acted like Abel,
that goody-goody boy on our block;
they stepped out to places, like the Magic Kingdom,
while I had to settle for Epcot's cheap sensation,
with those alien tourists clutching their VISA Cards.
I should be glad if they're trampled to death.

Royal Rhodes is retired and living in the rural farmland of Ohio. His poems have appeared in: Snakeskin Poetry, Ekphrastic Review Challenge, New Verse News, Lothlorien Poetry, and The Montreal Review, among other journals.

How to Write a Job Reference for Someone who Thinks you have Forgiven Them, by Clive Oseman


By Robert Garnham
 
HOW TO WRITE A JOB REFERENCE FOR SOMEONE WHO THINKS YOU HAVE FORGIVEN THEM
 
 
 
Thank you for giving me
the opportunity to supply
a reference for Billy, or sweaty bollocks
as he was known in prison.
Not without some justification, I'm lead to believe.

I met Billy in the heyday of football hooliganism.
Admittedly I was only doing a stretch
for ATTEMPTED murder
and playing Adam & the ants
in a public place
(sentences running concurrently),
but I looked up to Billy
for having the courage of his convictions
in his hatred of Oxford United.
Ok, he took it a bit too far
but he was young.

We became friends and
committed a few armed robberies together
when we were released,
but we never got caught
as we framed the local Tory election candidate,
who incidentally is due out
in a couple of weeks,
but I can honestly say
he has turned his back on violence
and did some voluntary work
as treasurer of the bowls club
until they went bankrupt.

You would be lucky indeed
to employ someone of Billy's quality.
With what you pay I have to
think back to the days where he would
only consider working for you
if he was eyeing up embezzlement opportunities,
to be honest.
What giant strides he has made.

On the hygiene front,
I'm told his bollocks are no longer sweaty.

I am sure that provided
you allow him to smoke weed on duty,
he will be a loyal employee.
He is intolerant of heavy handed opposition
to drug use at work,
but he maintains that
the shrooms were not his.

I hope you will give him the job,
as he owes me that five grand
I lent him to bribe the coppers,
and I want it back.

He is not an arsonist.


Clive Oseman is a Swindon based Brummie. He writes humorous poems and gets some funny looks, which he thinks is a fair trade.

The Sad Life of the Shared Scone, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham
 
The sad life of the shared scone 
 
It sits, lumpen like, on two plates,
severed from its non-identical twin.
A bun in the same oven, torn apart.
 
Everyone wants the top half with its slightly
crisp layer above cumulus dough.
No one on ‘Bake Off’ tests the bottom.
 
It’s a desecration commited by those without
their own teeth, or on a budget tighter
than an overproofed crumb.
 
You could cut between the middle top,
a knife attack through the crown chakra,
but that’s the wrong way to break bread,
this way, expect more sadness.

Cumbria native Terri Metcalfe began submitting to journals in March 2022 and has been published in places such as Abridged, Green Ink Poetry, Skylight 47 and Black Bough. She has appeared on the Eat the Storms poetry podcast twice and was invited as a featured reader for the 20th anniversary of Over The Edge Literary Events. Terri now lives in Mayo and is currently working on her debut collection.

Father knows best 2023 reunion show, by


By Robert Garnham
 
father knows best 2023 reunion show
 
ten three-quarter-pound burgers with plain-bun no-mayo oodles-of-ketchup
Kathy if you talk while eating or eat while talking, you’re done
don’t try to upsell me take-out window dudette, just burgers, don’t fuck up
 
Betty if you go to the bathroom, you must come back to the table, be a grown-up
James junior eat what’s on your plate you’re not getting something else son
ten three-quarter-pound burgers with plain-bun no-mayo oodles-of-ketchup
 
no phones at the table, no screaming, don’t call daddy asshole, shuT-UP
Andersons can we eat a family meal together without rules, junior give me your bb-gun
don’t try to upsell me take-out window dudette, just burgers, don’t fuck up
 
junior put on your protector, get your shoulder-pads knee-pads, and hockey puck
Kathy you can’t eat cereal for dinner, drip salt-free soy-sauce on wontons
ten three-quarter-pound burgers with plain-bun no-mayo oodles-of-ketchup
 
Betty five lovers, to stay in father’s house, NOW pee in this Styrofoam cup
junior you can’t have an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle because of our budget overrun
don’t try to upsell me take-out window dudette, just burgers, don’t fuck up
 
junior before you eat corn, spread butter and shake salt and bite like a woodchuck
Andersons every time our family eats together without the cops we won
don’t try to upsell me take-out window dudette, just burgers, don’t fuck up
ten three-quarter-pound burgers with plain-bun no-mayo oodles-of-ketchup

**

Robert Fleming (b. 1963) is a visual poet from Lewes, Delaware, United States. Books: Con-Way in 4 in 1, #4, by Four Feathers Press and 11/2023 White Noir by Devil’s Party Press. Contributing editor of Old Scratch Press and shortlisted for Blood Rag Poet of the year. https://www.facebook.com/robert.fleming.5030 .

Overhearing, by Carl Tomlinson


By Robert Garnham
 
Overhearing
 
Out with the two-legs the other day
one of the ones who sits down to pee
asked the one who sometimes goes in the hedge,
like me, if it’d seen on something called Twitter.
“You had to say what you’d ask your dog.
If they had the power of speech for an hour.”
Why I’d need speech is beyond me.
They seem to know what I need.
And can tell me nothing I haven’t already smelt.
I’ll chew on a bone all day, but no way
am I chewing the fat with that. I’m staying stumm.
In case I fetch up in a poem.

Hoodie / English Major / Word Games, by Karol Nielsen


By Robert Garnham
 

Hoodie

I dressed up for work because I was going to a play that evening. My office mate who always looks professional noticed. “That blue compliments your eyes,” she said of my navy blue pants. Usually I wear leggings and sweatshirts to work. My pink hoodie is my favorite. I was devastated when I noticed black bird poop on the sleeve and back and hood. When I tried to wash it out with soap the spots turned purple. I thought it was a goner. But I tried my father’s trick. I poured detergent on the spots and let the hoodie soak overnight. Unbelievably the hoodie washed clean in the morning. My other office mate who is a poet like me often tells me she dreads ever looking for another job. She doesn’t want to dress up. I chuckle in my pink hoodie, still intact.

English Major

I used to work until the middle of the night plugging data into a spreadsheet, analyzing the data, and writing articles based on the results. My journalism colleague always left at a reasonable hour and he once gave me advice. “Just make up the numbers!” He had an affinity for fiction, as an English major at my alma mater. I had wanted to study English, too, but my mother vetoed English as impractical so I studied International Relations and Economics instead. I always envied English majors until I realized we might end up in the exact same place.

Word Games

I never cheat at Wordle or the Spelling Bee—New York Times word games that I play on my iPhone every morning. I like to share my legit ups and downs with my brother in law, who excels at these games. But I sometimes google crossword clues—like the many obscure pop culture references—when I play the Times’ Mini Crossword. I also google word scrambles to solve problem words on WordScapes, an app on my iPhone. I never share my illegitimate wins at these games. Cheating is my dirty little secret, a harmless crime that keeps things fun.

Karol Nielsen is the author of the memoirs Walking A&P and Black Elephants and three poetry chapbooks. Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. Her full-length poetry collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her poem “This New Manhattan” was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.

Not too Big, not too Blue, by John Lanyon


By Robert Garnham
 
NOT TOO BIG, NOT TOO BLUE

Yes, she said,
some art
not too big
“that big”
that’s what I’m looking for
something blue
but not too blue
it's got to go with
the paint on the wall -
it’s Farrow & Ball.
 
John Lanyon
 
John Lanyon lives in the Cotswolds. He works as an organic gardener, linguist, musician, and writer. Having failed his English Literature O Level, he came to love literature through reading it in French and German. He writes about art, the body, childhood, society, nature, the spirit of places, the secret lives of words. He believes you can create complex things from simple means.

Rider, by Mark Cassidy


By Robert Garnham
 

From Birmingham via the Isle of Wight, Mark Cassidy is an almost retired radiographer now living in Bury St Edmunds. He writes in the gaps between family, birdwatching, and Oxfam books. His poems have appeared in various European magazines and anthologies, and may also be found online athttp://markbcassidy.blogspot.co.uk

Lemoga, by Heather Wastie


By Robert Garnham
 
Lemoga

Get bendy with lemurs,
warm your belly in the sun,
look up from your downward dog 
and see a lemur’s bum!

This is lemur yoga 
Lemoga is fun
Lay your wrists across your knees, 
meditate awhile,
ignore the piles of lemur poo, 
these primates have style

This is lemur yoga 
Lemoga makes you smile
Lemurs need publicity
to stop deforestation,
people hunting them for 
food threatens their population

This is lemur yoga 
Lemur education
Marvel at their stripy tails,
let them share your mat,
sit cross-legged and breathe with them, 
support them on your back

This is lemur yoga 
Protect their habitat

Heather Wastie is a poet and musician from the Black Country, living in Kidderminster, Worcestershire where she was Writer in Residence at the Museum of Carpet in 2013. She was Worcestershire Poet Laureate in 2015/16, and has published eight poetry collections. For more see wastiesspace.co.uk. On Twitter she is @heatherwastie

My dreamed hedgehog. The new-Celtic elegy according to Mr. Pawel Markiewicz, by Pawel Markiewicz.


By Robert Garnham
 
My dreamed hedgehog.
The new-Celtic elegy according to Mr. Paweł Markiewicz
 
I lost the cute hedgehog in last summer.
I can just only dream overnight - mourn.
The amaranthine body lay on grass.
Moreover, it was dark time of Blue Hours.
 
My life became unending lunar-dark.
Then moon shone palely without enchantment.
The Erlking at dawn, morn, dew and star cried.
Dark dazzlingly ovidian for his sake.
 
Without the hedgehog the time is so sad.
The bards singing the song of tender nights.
The hedgehog sits in a fair paradise,
dreaming of enchantment of butterflies.
 
The choir: >O, bewitch soft bat, the ontology of night.
The mourning dreamery lies, with the pearl sparks - cemetery.
Long live ghost of hedgehog, in spirit of the dreamy ghosts!<
The choir, I and animal are drunk of the musing wings,
shrouded in tenderness of  hereafter-fogs, moonlit stars.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems.

Too Hot to Handle?, by Paul Francis


By Robert Garnham
 
Too Hot to Handle?
 
Lea and Perrins were specific:
This should kick, just like a horse.
Far too much, though calorific,
so they shelved it, with remorse.
Ten years later, it’s terrific –
they’ve invented Worcester Sauce.
 
If your meal’s uninviting
do not file for divorce.
Don’t submit your plea in writing
don’t demand another course.
Make your diet more exciting
with a dash of Worcester Sauce.
 
Discontented with your ration?
Sometimes bland, and sometimes coarse?
You’re not dining in the fashion
that celebrities endorse.
Treat your palate with the passion
that you get from Worcester Sauce.
 
Would you like to be more scary?
Spell your message out with force?
Watch your enemies get wary
as you tap it out in morse?
Weaponise your Bloody Mary -
double down on Worcester Sauce.

Paul Francis is a retired teacher, living in Much Wenlock, who’s active in the West Midlands poetry scene and has won national prizes. During lockdown in 2020 he posted a sonnet a day on his website www.paulfranciswrites.co.uk. Recent publications include Rescue from the Dark and Poems for Ukraine.

The Poetry Reading, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham
 
Here he comes, again.
Our Graham.
With his big hands.
Big books.
Big words,
about buying Spoons in June,
about buying Forks in York,
about never gifting a knife, to your wife.

We will sit enraptured,
knowing he will never improve.
We ask why he isn’t published.
He says he is too far ahead of his time,
his words bending to his technique,
his stanzas, his line lengths are never uniform.
Still, it is only once a month,
and as bosses go,
he isn’t that bad.

Review of the Sky at Night, by Ruth Aylett


By Robert Garnham
 
Review of the Sky at Night
—
An uneven performance with some gripping parts:
Orion a definite success, just a pity the belt
is used only once; but then there is Hydra,
a random line of faint stars with no oomph at all.

The Milky Way really needs more volume,
we can’t all visit a desert for its full effect,
just dial it up a little for we city types,
and remove some astrology duds like Pisces.

The arrangement of Venus, Jupiter, Crescent Moon,
was a bit of a triumph, more conjunctions please,
and more often: waiting some twenty years
strains the patience of your audience. And brighter comets.

As for the Northern Lights – very fetching indeed,
but what a waste keeping them so far north
where hardly anyone lives. Try them in London,
say every few weeks, and vary the colours more.

Ruth Aylett lives and works in Edinburgh and has been known to attend readings with a robot. Her poems are widely published in magazines and anthologies, and her pamphlets Pretty in Pink (4Word) and Queen of Infinite Space (Maytree) were published in 2021.

Back Up Girl, by Elaine Reardon


By Robert Garnham
 
I have the soul of a rock & roller; 
I was born to sing. You started
in a church choir. I did, too.

The director told me to mouth 
the words, not to sing them. 
Sometimes I sang anyway.
He always looked baffled, 
tried to figure out who was off key.

But Tina, you made it big, 
from gospel music to icon, on 
the cover of The Rolling Stone.

How did it feel when you first 
belted out a song and people 
shouted and swooned, when
you traded a choir robe for a short, 
short skirt?
                 Tina, just for one show, 
could I be a back up girl? I'm really
good at shoo be doo, doo wah
and I've got some great moves, too.

Elaine lives and writes in forest in Western Massachusetts. Her first chapbook, The Heart is a Nursery For Hope, won first honors from Flutter Press in 2016. Her second chapbook, Look Behind You, was published in late 2019, and her third will be published next year. Her writing is published in a variety of journals and anthologies. http://elainereardon.wordpress.com.

The Responsive Awakening of Springtide, by Pawel Markiewicz


By Robert Garnham
 
The responsive
awakening of springtide
 
The springtime wakes up
in may glory and dreams
in May-tender homeland
 
O! Dreamy moony spring
immortalize the enchantment
of the Naiad forever!
 
the pensiveness of a feather from crows
you are black such a muse-like falchion
thinker with many oboli
I listen to the obol that thinks in muses-paradise
the skepticism is blooming in me
…
the courage of violets
you are heavenly blue like cherub-like gem
poet with a handful of oboli
I see the obol that writes about muse-like spell
the eudemonia is budding in me
…
the delight of a birdie
you are gray such a mermaid sesame
dreamer with all sorts of obol
I smell the obol that dreams of embers of sempiternity
the Epicureanism  is flourishing in me
…
the beatitude of a cat
you are golden like druidic land
philosopher with a little of oboli
I taste the obol that philosophizes about amaranthine ambrosia
the stoicism is flowering in me
…
Oboli – plural of obolus

Safe Word, by Hilary Willmott


By Robert Garnham
 
SAFE WORD

Keeping it simple is for the best
Choose nothing hard to say
Something easy, sharp and short
You'll be better off that way.

I would suggest a few words here
Such as 'North' or 'East' or 'South"
And never words that can't be formed
With an orange in your mouth.

Hilary Willmott 


Hilary has been published and sometimes shortlisted over the years by Templar Press, The Exeter Broadsheet, Leaf, Velvet, Obsessed with Pipework  Bristol PoetryCan and Mr Garnham.

Jewish Penicillin, by Jane Shaer


By Robert Garnham
 
JEWISH PENICIILIN 

I am a saucepan full of Chicken Soup
Like Mama used to make.
There is no alternative.
Of that make no mistake.
For normal penicillin will fail to do 
The trick
Of getting you back upon your feet
When you're feeling sick.
You see the everyday Chicken Soup
Lacks character and Finesse.
What you need Is a recipe
To get you out of this mess.
But the recipe I'm afraid is secret
Which I'm sworn to never divulge.
But it's good for adding on a pound
Or two
If you need to enlarge that bulge.
I hope that you feel better soon
And are shortly back on your feet.
Must go and feed the family.
They're starving and waiting to eat.

Masseuse Musings, by Mohammad Zahid


By Robert Garnham
 

Mohammad Zahid is a poet and translator from Kashmir, India. His maiden poetry collection The Pheromone Trail bagged the Best Book Award from the Academy of Art Culture and Languages, Jammu & Kashmir in 2015.

His poetry has appeared in many Indian and international journals. He is a translation editor for Kashmiri Language at Muse India and Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts.

Play Story, by Clive Donovan


By Robert Garnham
 
PLAY  STORY

                         I

And so the story begins:
with a house in which our hero prince resides.
It can be empty – or full – as you choose.
Our hero is torn between two states:
Solitude and Company.

                         II

Let us say he wishes to be alone
and there the leading lady is, polishing the grate,
or some such earthly task
and the smell of the polish offends
and disturbs and he banishes this personage.

                        III

A gross mistake: Because that character
was the one who kept the household alive and viable,
though nobody realized it or thought it through
and now hero suffers inconvenience and dark night
of soul and wishes for solace. Door knocks.

                        IV

And a charming stranger offers solace and delight
at end of tunnel and hero is gladly accepting,
without checking references.
Fatal flaws: Impulsiveness and bad judge of character.
Grate unpolished, no promised light and candlesticks stolen.

                        V

Final act: He misses the smell of polish. Sings a bit,
cathartic lesson learned, remorseful, [also evicted].
lives in a hut now with new, paradoxical desire:
Solitude in Company and Company in Solitude.
With advancing senility, it is all delivered.

                  THE  END

Clive Donovan is the author of two poetry collections, The Taste of Glass [Cinnamon Press] and Wound Up With Love [Lapwing] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Crannog, Popshot, Prole, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022’s best individual poems.

This poem hopes to find you well, by Ben McNair


By Robert Garnham
 
This poem hopes to find you well

I hope that this poem finds you well.
I hope that it finds you with a tall, dark stranger,
or a short blonde friend.
This poem makes no judgement.

This poem hopes that you have been keeping to the five a day,
three a week, or fourteen a month, whichever
the latest advice deems to be the best.

I hope that this poem enlivens your day,
and that some of the words are answers on Wordle.

I hope that this poem finds you in a beautiful house,
with a beautiful wife.
If the beautiful wife and beautiful house belong to someone else,
this poem hopes you have a good reason for being there.

This poem hopes that Politicians do the right thing.
This poem is too old to still believe in that.

This poem doesn’t know the first thing about you,
but would like you to answer a few questions.

This poem hopes to find you in another three months,
where we can renew our fleeting acquaintance,
before you decide that the spam filter really was the best place for it.

I’ll take a look under the sonnet, by Arran Potts


By Robert Garnham
 
I’ll take a look under the sonnet

Tis clapped out and broken; wanting of parts,
Its paint, sheen and lustre are shed.
This wreck of a carriage will take all my arts,
I fear it is already dead.
It wails as it drives, it clanks and it ticks,
The engine is silent and cold,
I fear this is something, that I cannot fix,
Your car, I’m afraid, is too old.
Perhaps I can salvage, some cogs and the gears,
From this conked-out, rusty old nail;
You’ve had this poor thing now for too many years,
I doubt I could put it on sale.
T’would not make me much, and I would be brassic,
A miserable end, for such an old classic.

Arran Potts is from Wolverhampton, UK. He has taken up poetry as a hobby to rekindle a love for writing; and is finding Jo Bell’s ‘52 Poems’ book really useful. He recently won the inaugural Blackness on Sea Poetry Prize. He is supported by family and friends. He is hindered by his job.

Feral Dogs of Riogordo, by Hilary Willmott


By Robert Garnham
 
Feral Dogs of Riogordo

It's three a.m and I need a pee which I have been delaying
since it takes but the slightest movement to rouse the feral dogs of Riogordo.  The dog who sleeps behind the house likes to conduct proceedings.

In my half sleep I see him with a baton which he raises and with two sharp yelps has the rapt attention of all dogs within a five mile radius.  They quickly reach frenzy pitch to become a canine
cacophony of sound echoing across the countryside  and down into the pueblo.

Pleased with tonight's turnout the conductor discards his baton and after a perfunctory nibble on his testicles, curls into a ball and sleeps.

The choir note his absence and become sotto voce until they too
abandon the proceedings to await the next tap of the conductor's baton.

Hilary Willmott

Hilary has been writing for many years and has been published by Templar Press, Bristol PoetryCan, Leaf, Velvet, The Exeter Broadsheet, Obsessed with Pipework and Mr Garnham himself.  She lives close to the river in the south west of England, with her partner and a small pack of dogs.

Double Entendre, by Jeff Burd


By Robert Garnham
 
Double Entendre 

The doctor says you’ll have to
remove your pants.  You’re 
there in the exam room with 
him  and his intern.  She’s young.  
Blonde.  Her eager eyes sparkle 
as she hovers beside him.

“Do you mind if she’s in here for this?”
the doctor asks.  “She’s got
several requirements
I don’t want her to miss.”

The intern clutches a clipboard.
You imagine a neatly typed checklist. 
This next task looms at the bottom
next to a barren, untouched little box.

It’s okay with you.  The doctor probes 
and talks his way through several 
tender angles and steps aside.  The intern 
reaches for a glove, and you realize too late 
that the ‘here’ she’s going to be ‘in’ 
is much more than the exam room.

Jeff Burd works as a high school English teacher in the north suburbs of Chicago. Mr. Burd spends a lot of time writing and thinking about writing, and worrying about not writing and thinking about writing.

A cornucopia, by Finola Scott


By Robert Garnham
 
A cornucopia

of crap and delight
my spam box overflows.
Pals tell me to clear, delete
those I’ve no interested in.

Concerned, they warn
my systems are endangered,
my back unguarded -
possibly metaphors?

Obedient I scan and identify.
Titan Power Spins -no, too late,
my Wonder Woman days are past.
Tooth Decay – really? People pay for that?
Harry’s Razor – he’s but a painful memory,

But maybe that Nuzzle mattress,
Tupi Tea Keep it Hard intrigues
(see Harry above)
and oh for a Contour Swan Pillow.
- I think of those nests at the loch.

Thanks to friends, I relish the surprise
of my winnings -today a Multi Drill King,
a Club Car Golf Cart, a cordless vacuum.
I can only be grateful for algorithms.
They know me so well.

Finola Scott confesses writing is an untreated compulsion. She’s grateful that her work appears in magazines and anthologies. She enjoys performing, finding the writing community welcoming. Her hobbies are chocolate cake, jumping waves, laughing with friends, tickling grand-girls. She can be      heard in a pub near you!

When the Palate Speaks, by Stephen Jordan


By Robert Garnham
 
When the Palate Speaks

In Greece I patronized cafes
they said their coffee was the best, 
they’d put one next to my entrees
to sample as their foreign guest— 
‘twas smoky, gritty, super sweet
and cooled too fast in tiny cups,
I didn’t say, they’d not believe
I’d rather have my giant mugs
be filled to brims with Dunkin’ swill 
and then befouled with too much cream 
to pat my tummy overfilled
and exhale clouds of coffee steam.

I think sometimes the palette says 
enough! I now know what I like-–
so no new gustatory threats
from gastro pubs with nouveau bites.

When in New England for a time
I prompted ire to suggest
that store-bought maple syrup’s my 
first breakfast choice—won’t acquiesce 
to haughty east coast claims that you 
must have Vermont’s elixir dream,
the syrup they insist you choose
is tapped from perfect forest scenes
with crunchy snow and birds above— 
traditions held in families since
they told their kin “It’s this we love
and not that fake and low-rent spin
on our pure draught the rubes have made”, 
but see I come from Illinois
a corn-fed hick like you’ve portrayed 
where thick corn syrup is our ploy
to jack up east coast maple’s faint
elitist flavor, now you see
sophisticated I just ain’t
‘cause I like what I like–agreed?

I think sometimes the palette says 
experimenting has to end—
give us this day our daily bread
our taste buds now need no new friends.

Stephen Jordan was born and raised in the Midwest, the son of Colombian and Serbian immigrant parents. He has taught high school English for over twenty years, taking occasional leaves of absence to live and work in South America, East Africa, and the UK.

Pissed as a Newt, by Sarah James


By Robert Garnham
 
Pissed as a Newt

The pub garden has pools
of spilt sky; the wooden tables
are rotting, the fixed benches
as immovable as rock.

Shadeless windows glare
in the midday sunlight,
making bar-proppers blink
and call for reed shutters.

The day’s fight starts early, 	
with a fast-flicking reptile
tail, riling a legless lizard
lazing in the lounge.

The last newt standing 
slams down his acorn tankard
and crawls behind the bar 
to pour a fresh absinthe.

A force not to be messed with,
he lets the gravity of upturned
stools pass him by 
and hiccups another optic.

The Newton’s Inn sign 
creaks with years of rust;
two more letters fall
face-down in the dust.



BIOGRAPHY: Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. For her, good laughter is a natural medicine. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.

Cucumber, by Susan Lindsay


By Robert Garnham
 
Cucumber                                                                                                                                                   

Cucumber cool man

definitely, if not definitively
wears a bowler hat
 
like the balloon man
blown up and twisted into shape
each twist a joint
in which to fit another
 
one quick swirl and in no time
the bowler hat man
becomes a sausage dog
elongated body, nose
short legs and perky tail.
 
Not the cucumber cool man
who is only a caricature
squash that tube
and you’ll get juice
seeds for small creatures
to feast upon if left too long
it’s better chopped
sliced into a salad
 
thinly enough, reputedly fine,
between refined slices
of brown bread - crusts off
 
where the upper crusts
might remove top hats to dine
with ladies and gentlemen
of their acquaintance
for afternoon tea
at Dublin‘s Shelbourne Hotel  
or other exaggerated theatre
of exquisite cuisine
 
or not. Twirls
of the vegetable scooped
by the latest sharp blades
more likely now, perhaps
to appear alongside
show-stopping capers
artisan food.
                                                                                               
 
      

Biography. 


Susan Lindsay … a most compelling and unique voice in Irish poetry, Eamonn Wall, at her February 2022 Reading, University Missouri-St. Louis. Milling the Air (2018) is Susan’s third collection from Doire Press. Her work is published in journals, she has read at festivals and facilitates Conversations mediated by poetry. Blog: http://susanlindsayauthor.blogspot.com

Lukewarm, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham
 
Lukewarm
 
I’ll forget you just like I forgot all the others.
It doesn’t matter that you’re hot
with the scent of youth, distant
 
as a phantom smell.
You’ll be lukewarm like lavender on an old hankie
once these stinking thieves of my attention
have faded to memories.
 
You’re no different.
Won’t slide past my respiratory passages any easier –
my insides stained rotten as a neglected toilet bowl.
 
Look, any minute now I’ll excite your molecules
back to life, so quit staring at me.
I offer the metallic tinged ting of the microwave,
or I can easily scald a new teabag.

Ode to the Best Medicine, by Phil Genoux


By Robert Garnham
 
Ode to the Best Medicine
 
I take it in the morning, I take it in the night,
I take it black as the gallows, l take it light and bright.
It gets me in the belly, it gets me in the face,
It gets me out of myself and back in the human race.
 
Give me your nonsense, your wordplay and your puns,
Well thought out or off-the-cuff, I`ll take them as they come.
Deadpan, dry, or epigrammatic,
Any time of day, I want to be at it.
 
Show me your innuendo and your folie de grandeur,
Rub me up the wrong way with your double-entendre.
Slap me on the arse with some Commedia-del-arte,
Hit me in the brain with your witty repartee.
 
Clownish, daft or plain idiotic,
It all feels better than antibiotics.
High-brow or low-brow, adult or adolescent:
They`re all way better than anti-depressants.
 
Off colour, dark, blue or black,
Give it a shot, because I` m up for the crack.
Salty, snarky or understated,
If it sets me off, I`ll advocate it.
 
Cringe, parodic, surreal or sardonic,
Sarcastic or bombastic, it`s all a tonic.
Juvenile, slapstick or totally hyperbolic:
All good ways to cure the melancholic.
  
So, don`t be downcast, have a blast,
Keeping them coming thick and fast.
Being miserable? I just can`t be arsed.
Because the honest truth is:  He who laughs, lasts.

Phil Genoux lives in Glastonbury. He has always enjoyed entertaining people and making them laugh. He did it for 12 years as a mime artist travelling all over Europe. Now he is using words.”

Bloody Crows, by Agnes Warren


By Robert Garnham
 
Bloody Crows

 
My morning cup interrupted
I burst from the door
A demented whirling dervish
In a pink fleecy robe
Gesticulate wildly,
Hurl foul abuse
 
They scatter 
In all directions
A black feathered diaspora
Momentarily exiled
But ever watchful
They bide their time
Never doubt their rightful return
 
My poor beleaguered hens
Seize the moment
Occupy the feeder
Under the protective eye
Of a garishly clad
UN Peacekeeper
 
The farmer offers
To shoot one
Hang the carcass on a pole
A warning to the others
Just say the word he says
Surprised, as I recoil
  
I retreat down the rabbit hole
Of internet advice
From BB guns
To hawk shaped kites
My head spins
 
Out of nowhere they come
A grandmother's words 
Be gentle with nature
Take care of the wild things
Feed the birds
 
I stand, cup in hand
Watch, admire
My unruly visitors
 
Disgruntled hens and trigger-happy farmers aside
Equilibrium is restored

Agnes Warren lives in the West of Ireland. She started writing poetry in 2021 and participated in a series of workshops with Kevin Higgins, through Galway Arts Centre.

To Blandly Go, by Neil Fulwood


By Robert Garnham
 
TO BLANDLY GO …

In the great lost episode of Star Trek
the inexplicably renamed Captain Keir
pilots the Starship Empty Promise
on its five-missions mission to seek out
new economies, use clean energy
for all intergalactic travel (the tax-
payer still picking up the tab, natch),
expedite self-referral to Bones
after briefly Googling one’s symptoms,
make the streets of the Federation safe
(tough on Tribbles, tough on the causes
of Tribble), break down barriers
to becoming - well, not a Starship captain,
obvs, but at least a spaceport sanitation
officer - and to blandly go where every
second-rate opportunist has gone before.

Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. He has published three full collections with Shoestring Press and a volume of political satires with Smokestack Books.

Dracula’s Cock, by Colin James


By Robert Garnham
 
Dracula's Cock

                                   It unexpectedly turned up
                                   on a peasant cart
                                   outside a railway station
                                   in northern Bulgaria.
                                   Seems it was severed from
                                   a live one, or not, depending
                                   on your perspective.
                                   Blood in the straw
                                   pooled despite
                                   a plethora of fodder.
                                   A devout looking crowd,
                                   caped to the nines
                                   loitered for a look-see.
                                   A few "Yikes" and 'Yowsers!"
                                   could be heard singing
                                   joyfully atonal in
                                   made up accents,
                                   that danced on the air a bit
                                   before being, save piety,
                                   proportionately bludgeoned.

A misuse of fruit, by Anne Babbs


By Robert Garnham
 
A misuse of fruit
 
It was meant to be erotic.
The strategically placed strawberries,
The cream-covered nipples,
but all I could think was
that the sheets would need changing
before I could sleep.
 
 
Anne is a poet who regularly takes part in open mic events and the occasional slam. A selection of her poems can be found in the ‘New Voices’ anthology published by Offa’s Press in 2022.

A Fleeting Glimpse, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham
 
A Fleeting Glimpse

A man going about his business.
An expression asking, Alright Mate?
A three-day beard.
A collar pulled up against the wind,
like Elvis in Vegas,
melancholic sepia
replaces the bright lights.

He has Daniel Craig’s ears.
A Peaky Blinder’s hat.
Laughter Lines.
A smile as wide as a piano,
missing all of its keys.

He could have been more,
like all of us.
He is happy with his life,
like some of us.
He knows his past is longer
than the days that remain.
Slippers, a Pipe and a loyal dog
await him at home,
with the peeling wallpaper,
the newspaper cuttings,
Rotherham’s Junior Disco Dance Champion, 1982.

Life isn’t all unsolved murders by the sea, by Casey Jarrin


By Robert Garnham
 
Life isn’t all unsolved murders by the sea

gaunt detectives drown in another pint 
old pains swim inside suits and bones 
a savior complex walks into a bar
sits next to a gentle sex addiction
both in search of a wall to punch 
immutable truths
to prove.

mom’s eyes swallow horizon 
dad sits frozen in his car 
little sisters listen
at the door

a scarf washes ashore
a body floats in with the tide 
we realize this is how
life comes undone.

meanwhile
wild turkeys cross city streets 
necks wiggle in winter fog 
uninterested in the price of gas 
or whether a stacked Court 
this December morning
will decide who dies
and when alive
begins.

Casey Jarrin is a poet, painter, and educator whose writing appears in Irish, UK, and US journals (Banshee, Abridged, Washington Square Review, Belfield Literary Review, Banyan Review, Buzzwords, Grand Journal, Perisphere). She’s received the Verve, York, Goldsmith, and Fingal Poetry Prizes, been on the Bridport shortlist, and performed as a featured poet at Lime Square and the Nuyorican Poets Café. A Jewish-Catholic atheist raised in New York who’s since lived in Dublin and Minneapolis, she received her PhD in modern literature/film, taught at Macalester College for several years, and is founder-director of Live Mind Learning. She’s now completing her debut collection, Untethered. Website: www.caseyjarrin.com

Satan’s LinkedIn Status (Sponsored) by Stephen McNulty


By Robert Garnham
 
Satan's LinkedIn Status (Sponsored)
 
Today
I wrote a letter
confessing all my sins.
 
I mean I omitted a few things
barely enough bloody ink
to address it to myself.
 
But the main things were included
Piers Morgan
capitalism
Dublin City traffic.
 
Licked it shut
stuck on
Spotify's Daily Meditation Playlist
and fed it to the flames.
 
Proceeded to cross my hooves
inhale the misdemeanors
exhale pure relaxation
 
wipe the slate clean
so to speak.
 
Then
crashed a car on the M50
chartered a flight to Rwanda
sponsored the FIFA World Cup.
 
Thanks Spotify
I've never been more #productive.

Stephen scribbles things whenever he is not forcing a member of the public into a CT scanner. His poems have appeared in A New Ulster Boyne Berries, Drawn to the Light, ROPES, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Strukturriss and Vox Galvia.

Meet me at the toilet rolls, by Margaret Jennings


By Robert Garnham
 
Meet me at the toilet rolls


I’m tired of meeting you at the toilet rolls
where we unravel the traffic of years 
that dragged us here

At the toilet rolls we’ll have a tryst
arguing about petty things
a tryst without a kiss

Yes, buy a new comb
to slick back your persona
but remember there’s a man 
changing light bulbs in the eaves
who is watching you

I will buy the toilet rolls
and later you will ask 
if I bought new or used

As if I would do that to you

I’m tired of meeting you at the toilet rolls


is all

Margaret Jennings is a poet, novelist and short story writer. Her novel, ‘ The Worry List’, was longlisted in the Bridport first novel award. She has been published in anthologies such as ‘The Lighthouse’ and enjoys being part of the thriving literary world in Portsmouth. Margaret’s poetry book, ‘We Are The Lizards,’ is available from Dempsey and Windle.

Some of the Ones, by Kate Ennals


By Robert Garnham
 
Some of The Ones
after La Figlia che Piange by T.S. Eliot
 
One was a news correspondent who when stocious
whispered sweet nothings in Russian and Polish.
Each word was a rasp full of Zeds and Gizzards.
His tongue used to flick like that of a lizard
clicking like a gun, whipping my neck
so, I let him escape and moved on to Rex.
 
To be honest, Rex was not his real name
I say so because the sex was a shame
He was very attentive but had three little pinkies
and his finger work was not very kinky
I tried to use mine to work some magic
but nothing happened. It was tragic.
 
My first true love was away with the fairies
a fatal attraction for a naive young lady
He sang in a band, was charmingly late
had chocolate brown eyes, but refused to say
in words or ‘lots’ how much he adored me
so, finally, I left him and went to university.
 
There, I met a rigid boy whose body was agile
who had thick eyebrows and the sunniest smile.
He studied the Norman, Saxon, and Viking wars
And we too, were duplicitous with daggers and swords
Happily, in the end, I was victorious
but in my conquering, he grew less glorious.
 
As I got busy at work, I found my loves taken
in the office, snatched from other good women.
Their men loved my zest and liked to unzip
until one such man decided to flip.
Today, after 64 years of hard love and labour
I choose words of poetry over any lover.
 
 
 
Kate Ennals is a poet and writer and has published poems and short stories in a range of literary and on-line journals. She has published three poetry collections. You can find her blog at kateennals.com.

Boxes, by Rodney Wood


By Robert Garnham
 
BOXES

I’ve found your secret Daddy.
What have you found son?
There is a room beneath the shed. It’s full of little wooden boxes of different sizes.
You won’t tell anyone will you son. I’ve only told the butcher and undertaker.
Why only them Daddy?
The butcher has promised to cut up my body and put away what should be in boxes. While the undertaker has promised to collect everything else, bones, flesh, skin and so on and have them put in a box labelled “Miscellaneous”.
I’ve lived my life being put in boxes, working in a box, living in a box, travelling in a box, dreaming of boxes. When I die I want to be buried in lots of little wooden boxes and not just the one to show that I’m an individual.
How long have you spent making little wooden boxes Daddy?
My life son, has been spent making little wooden boxes. I’ve made boxes for my toes, my false teeth, my heart, my ears, my eyes and well, you get the idea son.
When will you be finished Daddy?
Next Tuesday. After that I don’t know what I’ll do son.
Daddy, what if you're cremated?

Platform 7 – with Apologies to William Wordsworth, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham
 
Platform 7 - With Apologies to William Wordsworth

I wandered, lonely as a train spotter,
that floats on high over platforms and rolling stock,
when all at once I saw a crowd,
a host of train drivers,
beside the cafe, beneath the eaves,
and thought what a strange sight were these.

They spoke of the time it took to get from
London to Carlisle,
in their eyes a look of romance,
on their lips the hint of a smile.
Continuous as the track
that took them away,
and bought them back
They reminded me of Ivor The Engine,
and Jones the Steam,
as vivid in life as in any dream.

The platforms filled with a giddy dance,
of people with journeys, to jobs, families,
and maybe to some romance.
A train spotter could not join in the revelry,
for unlike everyone else, he could never be free.

The weak lemon drink, the out-of-focus photos of trains,
discussing the findings with strangers on the internet
and for some, that is enough.

Who Needs?, by Neil Windsor


By Robert Garnham
 
Who Needs?

Who needs?
Not me for sure
Who needs?
Not inclined at all
Who needs?
Never in a million years
Who needs?
Christ , just give us a break!
Who needs?
Are you having a laugh?
Who needs another?
Yeah like there aren't enough already
Who needs?
Get a grip, life's too short
Who needs?
I've only just got rid of the last one
Who needs?
No one ,not now, not ever
Who needs?
If you do then let me know, 'cos I've got three under the bed.

Neil Windsor is a Writer of children’s short stories, Artist and Poet from Leeds who produces and performs all his work with an absolute passion and a slightly slanted off – kilter view of life.He also plays extremely bad left handed blues guitar.#neilwindsorart

Collage Machine, by Carla Scarano D’Antonio


By Robert Garnham
 
Collage Machine
 
Before the sun is the sun
Inhale exhale
Shine bright
 
Stay play say
Name hard sharp
Cake lake
 
Today is your day
Make it happen
Join the human
 
Be wild be wild
Wonder the universe
The desolate melody of the spoons
 
The skylark voices
The kaleidoscope
Of the rock and roll

Carla Scarano D’Antonio obtained her MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and has published her creative work in magazines and reviews. She published two poetry collections, Negotiating Caponata(2020) and Workwear (2022). She was awarded a PhD on Margaret Atwood’s work at the University of Reading in April 2021.

http://www.carlascaranod.co.uk/

Frailty, Thy Name is Gertrude, by Jean Taylor


By Robert Garnham
 
Frailty Thy Name is Gertrude

I always had the hots for Claudius
that man could turn a woman inside out
seduce her with a glance
blind her – just by placing
his bejewelled hand across her cheek.
 
But here’s the thing:
second sons do not deliver kingdoms.
I wedded Hamlet.
 
After our boy was born, that sour old git
chucked me like a worn-out jerkin.
‘Your place is with the ladies.’
‘Look to your son.’
 
Hamlet got what was coming to him –
splayed out below the apple trees
shrivelled like toad skin.
Can’t pretend I was heart-broken.
 
If I hadn’t gone along with Claudius,
Christ knows where I’d be now.
This way I’ve got my throne
and a king keeping me warm.
 
Young Hamlet’s time will come.
 
Right now he needs to man up,
get real, sort himself out,
stop mincing round Elsinore
like a dying corbie.

Jean Taylor from Edinburgh loves poetry and paper and folding poems into paper aeroplanes. Her poems have been published in a wide range of publications, anthologies and poetry websites.  

Her pamphlet Deliberate Sunlight was published by Black Agnes Press in 2019. 

Frustrations in the Office, by Sarah James


By Robert Garnham
 
Frustrations in the Office

i) Behind the blinds 

The office chair has an angle 
on everything. Going nowhere itself, 
it still feels it’s earned a higher position,
would floor all competition. 

Despite purpose-moulded plastic 
and a firm spine, it has learned 
to turn its back on others’ pressure,
cushions itself against stress.

It refuses to carry excess weight, 
won’t budge when asked to do more
than simple tasks, barely conceals 
its steel tones and hard edges.

But, once the blinds are closed
and the night watchman passed,
it spins round and round on the spot, 
imagines taking charge, and stock.

Instead of stationery, new wheels.
Oil, polish and, with the whole office
waiting on its orders, hope even 
of finding a desk that’s a perfect match.
 

ii) Non-PC Ideas

This desk is tired of feeling used,
fed up of ending up pushed
into a corner or back against the wall.
 
It’s had enough of being treated
as part of the furniture, overlooked
by all or constantly dumped on:

PCs, screens and mice; piles
of paper and files; coffee mugs,
dirty stains and laptops; boxes,

and more boxes. Five years too 
working with the same chair,
and, when their legs brush, no sign
 
that it could share the desk’s rush 
of anticipation, that hint of a shiver of 
a tingle of electricity, static or not, 

which lets ungrounded hopes thrive.
One day the chair will notice it – 
the battered desk wishes silently…

but remains stuck there ignored.

Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. For her, good laughter is a medicine, sometimes even a path towards positive change. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.

Holiday Memory, by Pat Jourdan


By Robert Garnham
 
Holiday Memory                          
 
From the coast road, springily square,
car-crammed, the family, bull-bumptious,
descends to the shore.
Aunt Maud mumbles a knuckle-Kyrie Eleison
of never-ending keeper-key prayers against rain.
Uncle Owen, bottle-party-bovate,
sets out drinks four-square
while Baby Ann, duck dummy
milkteeth-mine cry-baby,
spinach-spitting, sobs on the sand.
Cousin Willy two-times-tables the sandwiches
next to Father’s drum-duchy with his
spouse-special tobacco treasury
and orange-peel organisation.
Wearing her haberdashery-handy straw hat,
Mother, nightdress-nifty, certificate chatty,
sits Empress enigma on her silver strand,
despot-direct, drop-dwindle-feeding
the fidgety pastry-peckish children
as they bucket-bustle, sandcastle-building.
 
At Bank Holiday’s end
traipsing back to trunk-road Tuesdays,
the car’s hostage-houseful returns
to minute-book miseries and ashpan aspidistras
to wait, promising-proper, for the next
Jam-Jehovah all-allowed holiday
with a sand-scattered holdall-homecoming,
leaving the darkening beach
nightwatch-noble to the bow-legged breeze.
 
                                                 
Pat Jourdan was writing poems even while at Liverpool College of Art. She has published five collections of poetry, the latest : Citizeness. Broadcast on BBC poetry Please, Radio Eireann, Radio Norfolk, Radio Suffolk. Latest poems in Orbis, Tears in the Fence and poetrycooperative.org.

Wolf, by Rob Walton


By Robert Garnham
 
Wolf
 
To keep the wolf
from the door
I caught a wolf
trained it up
sold it
made a killing
 
Two months later
it returned
with some mates
who’d heard about the training
and the upskilling
and the attendant lupine employment opportunities
 
They ate me out of house and home
 
I tried to coral them
and sell them as a pack
but lost a fortune:
it wasn’t a bear
or a wolf
market

Scunthorpe-born Rob Walton lives in Whitley Bay.  His poems and flash fictions are widely published, and his debut poetry collection, This Poem Here, was published by Arachne Press in 2021.  He also writes for children. Twitter and Instagram: @robwaltonwriter

Destination : Land of Nod, by Jill Vance


By Robert Garnham
 
Destination: Land of Nod

High-pitched hum of mosquito,
chant of ten green beer bottles,
bizarrely clucking chickens,
yet no sign of winged Hypnos
with his magic dust to sink me into sleep.

Lagoons, balloons, candles on cake,
endless counting of fence-dodging sheep,
tipping towards anger as I’m more awake.

Breezes, sunsets, turtles in the surf, 
the whoosh-whoosh of waves, 
feet downing into the plashy sand, 
torso heavier, scent of lavender, 
but no blasted sleep.



Jill Vance is a poet and interdisciplinary artist. Her poems have appeared in Truth Serum Press, Pure Slush, Dirigible Balloon and Green Ink Poetry. She hopes one day to have a pamphlet published of poetry and artwork.

Treadmill, by Karen Jones


By Robert Garnham
 
Treadmill

The eve of Christmas Eve
Tills in overdrive, the carol
Of sale items no one wants
To give or receive
 
Cars snake into the underground
Of an out-of-town supermarket
Bulge in restrictive spaces
Swollen with purchases
 
Nearby at the chemist
Scripts arrive faster than FedEx
Inside a white-coated woman
Bags pills against the threat
Of rising inflammation, anything
To ease the innards of millions
Inhaling mince pies and Baileys
 
All to discard again
Dump from car to cistern
Via the slow mulch of bellies
Pressed against festooned tables
 
And now it is you bulging at the wheel
Rounding the corner on new year
Smelling of gift-boxed eau du parfum
That isn’t as nice as you had thought
 
But wager if nothing else
Masks the sulphur of January diets
En route to the gym again 
Of retail conveyor belts

Karen Jones began writing poetry in 2019, and was privileged to be a student of the late Kevin Higgins. Born in Northern Ireland, she lives in Dublin and works in public relations.

The new Celtic Ode to the dreamed mother Nature, by Pawel Markiewicz


By Robert Garnham
 
The new Celtic Ode to the dreamed mother Nature
 
Paweł Markiewicz
 
ABABACACA
 
You are an enjoyable juniper!
You are a pleasurable bush!
You are an agreeable poplar!
You are a delightful spruce!
You are a gratifying cedar!
You are an amusing birch!
You are a diverting corn!
You are a bonny pine!
You are a lovely palm!
 
 
Your sepal be alluring!
Your petals be delightful!
Your stamens be appealing!
Your carpel be graceful!
Your corolla be good-looking!
Your filament be pretty!
Your ovary be stunning!
Your ovule be foxy!
Your anther be ravishing!
 
You honor starlet-like dreamland.
You admire moonlet-like mirror.
You exalt moony fairyland.
You deify moonlit enchanted rose.
You praise starry gingerbread house.
You glorify starlit forest.
You apotheosize comet-like spell book.
You magnify spherical tower.
You gratify sunny Ovidian sword.
 
Paweł and the Neoceltism
 
This poem is a dreamy manifesto of  the Neoceltism, the spirit, in which Paweł has created his English poesy.

Carluccio’s, Ealing, Before Christmas, by John Lanyon


By Robert Garnham
 
CARLUCCIO’S, EALING, BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Antonio,
big smiling man with the puffball hair
it’s almost like we’re on first name terms
you rich old mushroom hunter
how I might adoro your pomodoro
you master of corporate rusticity.

Your customers worked all week for this
if they want to sit down
they’re going to have to stand up
eat in
eat out
it’s all been worked out
black shirts
white shirts
it’s so cold tonight
your red and gold wrappings and trappings
your vibrantly green beans
your snowy mozzarella
your tanned, smiling staff melt my cynicism
100g at a time.

You dug up a good one.

Sooner or later
we’ll bore of your flavours
all the window dressing 
your one-stop Italy-to-go
but somewhere
as long as there are forests
there will be mushrooms.

John Lanyon lives in the Cotswolds. He works as an organic gardener, linguist, musician, and writer. Having failed his English Literature O Level, he came to love literature through reading it in French and German. He writes about art, the body, childhood, society, nature, the spirit of places, the secret lives of words.

The Archivist of Cathedral Hill, by Casey Jarrin


By Robert Garnham
 

Casey Jarrin is a poet, painter, and educator whose writing appears in Irish, UK, and US journals (Banshee, Abridged, Washington Square Review, Belfield Literary Review, Banyan Review, Buzzwords, Grand Journal). She’s received the York, Goldsmith, and Fingal Poetry Prizes, been on the Bridport shortlist, and performed as a featured poet at Lime Square and the Nuyorican Poets Café. A Jewish-Catholic atheist raised in New York who’s since lived in Dublin and Minneapolis, she received her PhD in modern literature/film, taught at Macalester College for several years, and is founder-director of Live Mind Learning. She’s now completing her debut collection, The Naked Dinner. Website: www.caseyjarrin.com

Get Over it, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham
 
Tonnie Richmond is a retired local government officer who has spent the last couple of decades as a volunteer archaeologist, working on digs in Cheshire and on Orkney. Many of her poems reflect her archaeological experiences and love of Orkney. She has had poems  published by Yaffle, Dragon/Yaffle, Driech, Leeds Trinity University and others. She is currently working on her first collection.

Sort, by Sarah J. Bryson


By Robert Garnham
 
Sort 

What sort are you? 
Tea or coffee? 
Victoria Sponge, 
or a rich fruit cake? 
Dark chocolate Bounty, 
or a Milky Bar kid? 
Would you choose 
a bag of lemon drops, 
or a sherbet dip? 
Would you prefer 
a large gobstopper, 
or an Extra Strong Mint? 
Milk Tray or Green & Blacks?
Are you a suck it and see type, 
or a gobble and go individual? 
Do you think birds of a feather
flock together, or rather that
opposites attract? 
Maybe you are
a Foxes Glacier Mint?
Me? I’m a Licorice Allsort

Sarah is interested in words, words for well being, people and nature and the connections between these elements. She has poems in print journals, anthologies and on line.

Coventry, by David Court


By Robert Garnham
 
Coventry

Invented;
bicycles,
jet engines,
black cabs,
roads shaped like rings.

A brief annotation; 
a sad association -
Women putting cats into bins.

David is a novelist, freelance writer for Slash Film, and radio presenter. David lives in Coventry with his wife, Aslan the cat and a beard. David’s wife once asked him if he’d write about how great she was, and David said he would because he specialized in short fiction. Despite that, they’re still married.

Starless, by Patrick Chapman


By Robert Garnham
 
Starless
 
Set to amuse an empress of India, diamonds are
not even fruit – but flush with satsumas
 
alone, try getting someone to love you for
money. Made in the whirl of a stellar
 
ballet, tangelos yield to the cut of my Japanese
blade. The crush of my hand makes me wonder
 
how diamond and orange are brought to our shores –
and what old blood we spill into new Mason jars.

PATRICK CHAPMAN has published nine poetry collections since 1991. Other books include a novel, three volumes of stories, and a guide to the work of David Cronenberg. His next poetry collection, The Following Year, appears from Salmon in 2023. He lives in Dublin.

On waiting for a poetry journal’s acceptance/rejection email, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham
 

Cumbria native Terri Metcalfe moved to Ireland with her Mayo born partner and two children in 2019. From a down-to-earth, tools of the practical trade family, she only recently in her forties thought it acceptable that she might be a serious poet. Terri has endured several decades of mental and physical ill health which she draws on in her work. She has been published in Abridged, A New Ulster, Green Ink Poetry, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis and Skylight 47, amongst others. She was shortlisted for the Open Window 2023 mentorship programme and will be a featured reader at the 20th anniversary of Over The Edge Literary Events held in Galway city library this coming January.

Dearly Beloved, by John Lawrence


By Robert Garnham
 
Dearly Beloved

This poem is 
gathered here

to celebrate
the matrimony
of Couplet and Tercet.

This poem is not to be entered into lightly. 
Thus, we need to confess

that Couplet hath played 
fast and loose
with a sestet, thrice,

and Tercet hath also succumbed 
to the tenderness of carnal union

with a haiku, in an act of confused 
orientation. Nonetheless,
as a measure of forgiveness

and a certain degree of apathy, 
if no-one can show just cause 
or impediment, I proclaim 
Couplet and Tercet
to be a quintain.

John has recently moved to Cambridge (voluntarily) from Worcestershire, and writes poems (involuntarily) because he feels he has to or something bad might happen. He is a popular (reportedly) performer and has published a collection The Boy Who Couldn’t Say His Name.


By Robert Garnham
 
THE FULL ENGLISH TAKES A DNA TEST

Old Bean, Old Sausage, there are question marks. 
I know you’ve had a lot on your plate.
How can I break this to you?
Your bacon is pure Viking.

Baked beans arrived here illegally
Uncle Sam wants them back
Hash browns have no right to remain
Plum tomatoes only speak Italian
Since 2006 HP sauce has called the Netherlands home 
PG Tips must face up to its colonial past

Three mushrooms on your shirt 
your England’s still dreaming

If you know which side your toast’s buttered 
you’ll be a good egg.

Mr Full English, you are thoroughly scrambled.

John Lanyon lives in the Cotswolds. He works as an organic gardener, linguist, musician, and writer. Having failed his English Literature O Level, he came to love literature through reading it in French and German. He writes about art, the body, childhood, society, nature, the spirit of places, the secret lives of words.

The Yarn Spinner, by George Bastow


By Robert Garnham
 
He sits in the corner of your local boozer 
Wearing a smile as broad as a battlecruiser 
He's got the spiel of a champ and the luck of a loser 
But lend him an ear and he's sure to amuse ya 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He's got a mouth that moves at the speed of light 
Emitting patter sickly sweet as Angel Delight 
He's as old as the hills and as young as the night 
Halfway between an oracle and a gobshite 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He used to work for MI 5, but he keeps that on the low 
He used to be a roadie, went on tour with Status Quo 
He used to be a boxer, trained in the States with Smokin’ Joe 
Plus, he played all the instruments on Enya's Orinoco Flow 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He's a world-famous artist with a masterpiece on his easel 
He's an ex-Hollywood tough guy, former stuntman for Vin Diesel 
He’s a lapsed circus performer with his own troupe of dancing weasels 
Oh, and his wife’s a scientist who's discovered a cure for measles 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He spent decades as a TV exec, commissioning comedy and drama 
He spent his work experience at the British Museum spit-polishing suits of armour 
He spent seven years in Tibet as an organic yak meat farmer 
And he spent yesterday as a Buddhist monk, making tea for the Dalai Lama 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He’s been known to beguile crowds with his eccentric charm 
He often bewilders bar-staff with his far-fetched smarm 
For a pint or three, he'll no doubt twist your arm  
But everyone can agree he don’t mean any harm 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, we all know him

George Bastow is a poet, writer, blogger and hat connoisseur from the picturesque wilderness of North Warwickshire. 

 

He has written for numerous publications and regularly performs at spoken word events. 

 

George also facilitates workshops for Writing West Midlands’ Spark Young Writers Programme. 

 

Blog: https://gdbastow11.wordpress.com

Twitter: @GDBastow

Formication, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham
 
Formication
 
If, sometimes, you like to indulge
in a spot of alfresco, illicit sex
be careful where you lie,
be wary of what might happen next.
 
If, following said fornication
while you have a cigarette and a little rest,
you feel a rush of formication
you may well be sitting on an ants’ nest.

Tonnie Richmond has, since retirement, spent a lot of her time doing archeology and writing poems. These days, the poetry is a little less arduous than digging. She has had poems published by Dreich, Yaffle, Dragon and others.

Doctor Zeus, by Tom Barlow


By Robert Garnham
 
Doctor Zeus

A poet in my online crit group
wrote that the unintentionally 
comedic couplets in my new poem 
remind her of Doctor Zeus and I 

am taken with the image of lightning bolts 
thrown for no reason at Yertle the Turtle,
for capriciousness makes a god a god.
I realize the Lord of Thunder would never 

have allowed himself to be incarcerated 
in verse meant to draw giggles
and the good Doctor Seuss would 
never have written about Zeus the Moose

and his incestuous appetites, for there 
was seldom any innocence in those old 
ribald tales of characters fated to suffer 
or deal out suffering or both. What

parent would be foolish enough to put 
their child to bed with the story of a god 
who eats his wife when Doctor Seuss offers 
the epicurious Sam-I-Am 
and his beloved eggs and ham?

Tom Barlow is an Ohio writer of poetry, short stories and novels. His attention deficit disorder has kept his pen whirling like a merry-go-round horse and poems like these are what have flown off as he desperately tries to convince the carny to stop the ride. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.

The mighty, by Ruth Aylett


By Robert Garnham
 
The mighty
--
He arrived in the sixth form
from a poxy private school
that thought itself posh,
and though he was local,
they’d rubbed his voice down
until our local accent came off
and he spoke like an Etonian.

He had that up-your-own-arse
confidence of the rich,
but wasn’t all that clever
when it came to school stuff,
almost like he felt above it.
And his grades weren’t much.

So the summer we left
I bumped into him in the street,
and just could not resist
telling him I was going to Uni.
I’m not bothering with that he said
(Daddy’s business I thought)
Because, he said, I’m in meat.

I didn’t know Daddy had gone bust
until I caught sight of him next:
the boy on the local butcher’s van.
In meat.

Ruth Aylett teaches and researches robotics in Edinburgh and has been known to read poems with a robot. Her pamphlets Pretty in Pink (4Word) and Queen of Infinite Space (Maytree) were published in 2021. For more see http://www.macs.hw.ac.uk/~ruth/writing.html

On Passion Spent, by Cait O’Neill McCullagh


By Robert Garnham
 
ON PASSION SPENT
̶ Somewhat after William. Shakespeare &
Vita Sackville-West; would be lovers all
 
Now that night has bled back into the black earth
& I no longer covet the cloak of sleep, impossible,
my heart (that desirous old fat-spotted oven) cools,
quits bigging ‘memories’ never truly hers to own.
 
Teetin the truth of it, in quick quartz dazzled dawn,
I find love’s swim in us was as ill-fit as a finless fish.
Between our thighs trickles only the dampest regret.
Dear, it’s daft to conjure dreams from wreathy bones.
 
Awkward as a gang of hangers thrust sidewards into
a frantic-packed case, I half-exhume ‘forget-me-nows’
of screen-preened hair (exhausted with flicking), eyes
dripped-dry with feigning drookit-dewy & a fret of lips,
                                                                                        ̶ un-kissed.
                                                                           
For if we had ever our ‘selves’ met, IRL with skin on,
offscreen, I doubt we would have set about to fraying
our zips. Perhaps, my Zoomy pal, my ‘could have been’,
my not ‘THE one’, we’ll let passion spend one last squib?
 
Then, I will weigh my eyelids down & steep my senses in
                                                                                          ̶ forgetfulness.
 

 
Cáit started writing poetry, at home in Scotland’s Highlands in December 2020. Over forty of her poems have been published since. With co-author Sinead McClure she was a winner of Dreich’s ‘Classic Chapbook Competition’ 2022’, awarded for their chapbook ‘The songs I sing are sisters’. For more information visit https://linktr.ee/caitjomac

The Cost of Living, by Louise Longson


By Robert Garnham
 
The Cost of Living
(after William Carlos Williams)
 
This is just to say
 
I bought
the plums
that you crossed off
the shopping list
 
and which
you said at £3.50 a punnet is
taking the piss
for just six of them
 
I’ll explain
they were Irresistible
so I’ve turned off the heating
and am now so cold

Louise Longson lives in West Oxfordshire and works for a loneliness charity. She started writing poetry during isolation in lockdown 2020. She is widely published in print and online, and author of the chapbooks Hanging Fire (Dreich Publications, 2021) and Songs from the Witch Bottle: cytoplasmic variations (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). 

Twitter @LouisePoetical

A Dish Made by Myself, by Kate Ennals


By Robert Garnham
 
A Dish Made by Myself 
(after Neruda) 
 
I’m sick of tray bakes, pies in the sky 
banquets, vol au vents, pastrami on rye 
I want delectable. I want something else 
So, here’s a dish I created myself 
 
I am at the table surrounded by cooks 
in tall white hats, holding meat hooks  
They are going to make merry with my insides 
and prepare an andouillette stuffed with spice 
 
They cut a deep incision above my bottom 
Turn my intestine into one big sausage 
The sous chefs add garlic, salt, wine and onion 
They truss me up to give me a final pummel 
 
I choose my head to be served as a main  
So out of my orifices, they squeeze my brain 
it spills from my ears, a grey mucous sauce 
crammed with crunchy bits, thick and coarse  
 
They whisk it with vigour and drizzle on my tongue 
itself yanked out of my jaw, and secured open 
by tiny cheese cocktail sticks staked into the gum 
My eyeballs are glazed and marinated in urine 
 
Thus, I am dished, an andouillette and a head 
wordless, stylish with a French vinaigrette 
they say I am served best with a little green gem 
and to toast my health, raise a glass of phlegm. 
 
Afters will be sweetbreads scored from my heart 
a selection of my stomach, chest and throat 
This is my offering, basic fare, honest food 
I’m happy to be sacrificed for the greater good. 
 
 
Andouillette is a French coarse-grained sausage made from the intestine of pork, pepper, wine, onions, and seasonings. Andouillettes are generally made from the large intestine and are 7–10 cm in diameter. True andouillettes are rarely seen outside France and have a strong, distinctive odour coming from the colon.

Goldfish Don’t Yawn, by Gram Davies


By Robert Garnham
 
Goldfish Don’t Yawn

 

Surprised to find you listening still to this.
Though expectation is the toy of Fate,
by now, I thought, you would have caught my drift.
 
What you anticipate: I gave you it.
I am, considering I’ve spent the bait,
surprised to find you listening still to this.
 
I hate to think my readership are fish,
it’s rude. I would have given up the wait
by now. I thought you would have caught my drift.
 
Self-referencing the author, how ironic;
Writing is a conversation. Great.
Surprised to find you listening still to this.
 
Devices like economy and thrift
are wasted, aren’t we bored of rhyme
by now? I thought you would have caught my drift.
 
Don’t call me villain in my eagerness
to cut it short, as I’m, at any rate,
surprised to find you listening still to this—
by now I thought      ok ok we get it

Double-speak, by Margaret Kiernan


By Robert Garnham
 
Double-speak

-after Pablo Neruda, Walking- around.

 

I am sick of being the target, a patsy for all those money-making swindlers

 out on a spin. Those double truthers lisping tongues on the fame game.

The fiddlers on how to write their family history, their gutter minds dawdling.

I am sick of neon-lit evening scenes on a boulevard somewhere, the rich and restless gossipers
 sniffle, refuse to be the first to leave, polish off their double-speak.
I am sick of it all, the single supplement, the Friday take-out meal, unclaimed lotteries, and deals.

I’m the one to do tasks in full, only find them send back, again I am too swift.

I give the street beggar my last coins and laugh uproariously when a driver in a Mercedes arrives to fetch him and bring him home.

Today, I read that somewhere, far away, a scutching fire cleansed. End.

Margaret Kiernan

Margaret Kiernan s an Irish author, and a Best of The Net Nominee, for 2021 and 2022. She writes poetry and prose and is widely published. She writes with Over-the-edge, Galway. Her background is in social justice and Diversity.

On My Death Bed, by Kevin Higgins


By Robert Garnham
 
On My Death Bed
 
I will not be calling out to any gods  
though I'll probably drop Satan a text to thank him
and his daughters
for some of my more lively afternoons.
 
I will not be signing forgiveness treaties with the Frauds
but do tell them to stick their heads in the door  
when it's least convenient
so I can stare at them and say nothing
and listen to their sphincters creak.
 
The rest of you who were just being
your honest arsehole selves
I forgive, absolutely
and hope you forgive me
my arseholeness.
There were days
it was all I had to offer.

KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published six full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening NewFurniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019), & Ecstatic (2022). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song ofSongs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, TheTimes (London), Hot Press magazine, Phoenix magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. Kevin’s poetry has been translated into Greek, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Albanian, French, Russian, & Portuguese. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 was published in late 2020 by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press last year. In December 2021 Kevin was both expelled from the British Labour Party, of which he was an overseas member, for publishing his poem ‘Tribute Acts’ in Socialist Appeal magazine and, on the very same day, awarded ‘Poet of The Year’ at the Labour Heroes Awards event at Conway Hall, London. Kevin now writers a regular book review page for Village Magazine, mostly focussing on poetry. This year Kevin received a dozen nominations for the position of Ireland Chair of Poetry – Ireland’s Professor of Poetry. Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection was published in June 2022 by Salmon Poetry. For the past month Kevin has been in University Hospital Galway, where he is receiving chemotherapy for Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.

When Infirmity Struck Modernity, by Julian Isaacs


By Robert Garnham
 
When Infirmity Struck Modernity
 
At McCarty’s party everyone was hearty, if not hale.
They’d overdone it with the night porter
And the jugs of foaming ale.
The Paddy’s and the Power’s didn’t taste like what it oughtta,
And the weather was beyond the pale.
A blanket of Edgar Allen lay thick upon the ground,
And the ladies were sobbing Billie Jo Spears.
The hurdy-gurdy emitted the eeriest sound,
Wailing through their hopes and fears.
Lenehan was scoffing a plate of split striptease
As the barometer dropped and froze.
There were some people the contra-tenor just couldn’t please,
And somebody hit Maloney on the nose.
If you find this tale a little strange to understand,
It might help to read it tied up with a black velvet band,
Shivering on the sand at Sandymount Strand,
But new minutes will never catch the second hand,
For the man in the signal box who killed time
Has committed an ever unpunishable crime.

A Girl from Yorkshire, by Neil Windsor


By Robert Garnham
 
A Girl From Yorkshire

Oh how the parents sigh, not inclined to rejoice
Dismayed from the outset at their offspring's romantic choice
They disapprove so blatantly as they take her presence in
Looks of curiosity, at a loss for words, of this potential next of kin
Then the floodgates open, there's no holding back
Lacking even the basics of civility and tact

Oh no, but the girl's from Yorkshire can't you see, she's just not our expected southern type
She's all flat vowels and sarcasm, excuse us while we snipe
She talks of strong tea and rugby league, she's left her whippet on the lawn
She's not a patch on a fragrant english rose, all sweet and Henley born
They're still living in the days of pit ponies, cobbles slick with icy rain, and beef dripping chip shop grease
Striking miners around braziers on the village green, we far prefer maypole country dancing, and afternoon cream teas

She's from Yorkshire they say, all Sean Bean, Hockney and Selwyn Foggit, working mens clubs and spam
She's not up to our southern ways, she's never been on the tube, paid the congestion charge, she's never watched The Arsenal or West Ham
The bustling size of London must be so hard for her comprehend, from The Docklands and Bermondsey to King's Cross and Harringay
She'd be out of her depth in Fortum's food hall or the opening night of a west end play
She's not our sort of girl, nice enough in her own way, but an uncultured square northern peg in a roughly hewn round hole
We can't bring ourselves to sanction your relationship dear. Good grief the girl's from Yorkshire after all

Pick a southern girl why don't you? Choosing to shower this one with your affections makes absolutely no practical sense
We need to protect our breeding stock, maintain a northern romance resisting defence
We're not prejudiced you understand we're just southernly civilised with a touch of self righteous attitude
It's the thin edge of the wedge to let her into our flock, we really don't mean to be rude
But the girl's from Yorkshire for goodness sake, all mills, chimneys, rhubarb and tripe. A trip around the charity shops is their idea of a day out
Her dysfunctional family probably lives in on of those terrible two up two down overcrowded terrace houses, replete with outside toilet no doubt

The girl's from Yorkshire my precious, we're tolerant and polite to a fault, but let's be realistic for a moment, she hasn't the refined attributes we seek and require
Heaven's above, the girl's from Yorkshire, She thinks Bremner, Giles and Boycott are gods, she's not the sort of potential daughter in law we desire
We all love to visit their quaint Dales and picturesque coastal and market towns now and again, but we wouldn't want to live there, all Chuckle Brothers and dregs of summer wine
They have scraps with their fish and chips, listen to brass and silver bands and treat Headingley like a shrine
Saints preserve us, the girl's from Yorkshire. She drinks pints as she quotes Bennet, knows Sutcliffe and Hutton's batting averages by heart, eats pork pies and parkin, and spreads mucky dripping on bread!
Oh but the girl's from Yorkshire darling, all rough edges and uncultured ways. For the sake of our sanity and social standing trust us, drop her like a hot potato, find a southern girl instead.

Neil Windsor is a Writer of children’s short stories, Artist and Poet from Leeds who produces and performs all his work with an absolute passion and a slightly slanted off – kilter view of life.
He also plays extremely bad left handed blues guitar.#neilwindsorart

Shakespeare has a Bad Day, by Clive Donovan


By Robert Garnham
 
SHAKESPEARE HAS A BAD DAY

What is the question? To not do or do.
Do not do it lest it be more fortunate
That not doing may be the best?
But best to not do tardily, I guess.
Be not so tardy in this enterprise
For we may well wish to own this ill upon us
As those who wish us ill may not in actuality,
And in the end the not doing of it should surely be
My own will let to suffer right whatever cost.
Oh would it were that being just would be
Just not to do or yes, just do it
Or no, or yet, yes, maybe.
What's it all about anyway?
Toby or not Toby?

Clive Donovan is the author of two poetry collections, The Taste of Glass[Cinnamon Press] and Wound Up With Love [Lapwing] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Crannog, Prole, Sentinel and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022’s best individual poems.

Writing on a Roman Wall, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham
 
Writing on a Roman Wall
Personal Adds

The Eunuch Support group meets on Mondays,
where we will discuss how to sing the high notes,
and how farmers can trust us with their goats,
between the end of February, and the Vernal Equinox,
we will not discuss how the Emporer got the pox,
but we will write these things on the walls,
for all the world to see.

The Inn of the Mule-drivers,
come and damage your livers,
Happy hour is none too frequent,
if you are looking for a wench.

Meat for sale,
it will soon be off,
don’t come looking for our sympathy,
when you get a cough.

Speakers with the leaders in the town hall.
If they were of any less use,
they would be no use at all.

Wanted: Sewage worker.
If you know what the job entails,
you know why we are looking for one.

Wanted: Road Worker
Please bring you own shoes.
Must have an excellent sense of direction.

Wanted: Lion Tamer
Short term contract.
Immediate Start.

Ben Macnair

The Day I Cooked my Son’s Speech Therapist, by Beth McDonough


By Robert Garnham
 
The Day I Cooked my Son's Speech Therapist

she arrived all kindly shiny in thunder, ahead
of his school bus return. Full of plans,
ASD-specific wisdom. He crashed in, appalled.
I no wanted to see her.
She flashed three PECS cards
at his face, intoned, in triple slow time
H   e   l  l o     K   eir
I       have     come    to     visit     you    and       your   Mum.
Put her whole fisog in his.
I no wanted to see her,
He dashed off his jacket. Ran out the back door.
She nodded towards my space.
I can help you understand how he communicates,
what he needs to let you know.
We followed him into the garden. He whizzed
for the trampoline. She chanted
from the circumference upwards. More cards.
My son turned to the fence,
bounded furiously, bounce, bounce, bounce
I no wanted to see her. Away now. Away!
Solicitously, she advised me
Sometimes he speaks very fast, and runs words
into one another, so we don't know what he says.
He turned quickly, saw her still standing, transplanted
from class to his own garden, 
then he spun away in disgust.
No wanted to see her.
Jumped on and on. Small splats of rain
did not dissuade him. I took her inside,
made coffee. Offered scones.
If we sat inside the conservatory we could
observe, as he leapt up by the lupins.
She enjoyed everything, I think. Seemed pleased to eat
that scone, as she helped me along.
My temperature rose. 
So I brought extra coffee, closed a window.
She took one more scone. I shut the door.
My son trampolined on.
Yes, she'd love another scone.
Steam rose from plants.
He pogoed on.
I'll come out whenever you want,
I'd love to help. I sealed
the last window. She lifted
her third scone as I watched
sweat drizzle on her lips.
At last I persuaded her that we must not
take more of her weighted time. 
Slowly, I sluiced her to the front door,
thanked her hugely, assured her
if we needed, we'd certainly phone.
She stilted formulaic farewells.
Away! Away! he replied.
Don't worry. We'll soon learn what he's saying.
As her car departed, my son 
came in for our usual time
of juice, maybe cake, and told me
I no wanted to see her.
We hugged. Don't worry. We won't.
Soon after, the Therapist married 
and moved to a faraway post.
I gave her a pretty coffee pot.
Considered very hot scones.

Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in many places; she reviews in DURA. Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish was published by 4Word. Recently, her site-specific poem was installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. Currently Makar of the FWS, she’s found year-round in the Firth of Tay.

Celebrity Stoning on Thin Ice, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham
 
Celebrity Stoning on Thin Ice
 
It’s very easy to shout insults
to people that I can’t look in the eye,
to an online presence who might as well be a ghost
haunting the blue walls of a white bird
 
They call it cancelling
but it used to be called public shaming,
boycotting
bullying
 
It’s a commodity –
you give me one opinion,
I give you two fingers
and three minutes to take it back
 
or you’re retweeted as threadworms
spreading from the anus to the mouth of the internet
but who wins in the end?
Gameshows, that’s who.

Cumbria native Terri Metcalfe has been published in Abridged, A New Ulster, Green Ink Poetry, Spilling Cocoa and Skylight 47 amongst others. Shortlisted for the Open Window 2023 mentorship programme, she will be a featured reader at the 20th anniversary of Over The Edge Literary Events held in Galway this January.

I Said, Pointedly, by Phil Huffy


By Robert Garnham
 
I Said, Pointedly
 
Author, watch your language,
avoid the common traps
of amateur expression
and paraphrastic lapse.
 
Banish inclinations,
when speech you recollect,
to state the speaker’s motive,
describing her affect.
 
Poet, please consider
this thought as apropos:
You’ll make your meaning clearer
with words that people know.
 
If you fancy rhyming,
its use must be astute.
Don’t make your grand allusions
a trivial pursuit.
           first published at Poetry Super Highway

The Passenger, by Lynn Valentine


By Robert Garnham
 
The Passenger

November and everywhere turns mouse,
garden no longer good enough though
the compost heap smoulders with rot of apples.

The mice brush by inside discharging dark
pellets of shit, nips of urine, craze
of footprints. The air grows furred, weighs
heavy with whiskers, a particular brown-grey 
colour scheme, rushing of small rodents.

He is frightened to open cupboards, too scared 
to sleep, to become part of the scurry. 
He puts down poison, traps, peppermint spray, 
packed up clothes for a holiday.

The last item to sneak into his steamer trunk?
A wee sleekit beastie—mouse.


Lynn Valentine’s poetry collection, Life’s Stink and Honey, was published by Cinnamon Press in 2022 after winning their literature award. Her Scots language pamphlet, A Glimmer o Stars, was published by Hedgehog Poetry in 2021. Lynn is on Twitter @dizzylynn

When I Die, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham
 
When I die
 
please don’t say I’ve passed away
or gone to heaven. Instead,
I’ll hope that you will simply say
I’m dead.
 
You might say that I lived life well,
there were some ups and downs. I tried
to do my best, had fun with family and friends
but in the end, I died.
 
Please don’t suggest I’m somewhere in the sky
looking down on kith and kin. I’m sure
you wouldn’t really like that! Just accept
that I am here no more.
 
I hope that you remember me sometimes,
think of me kindly, memories don’t spoil.
But please don’t use some flowery euphemistic words —
I really have not stepped off  this mortal coil.

Tonnie Richmond is retired and is interested in archaeology and poetry. These days she finds writing poetry easier than digging. She has had several poems published by Dreich, Yaffle and others.

Frustrations in the Office, by Sarah James


By Robert Garnham
 
Frustrations in the Office

i) Behind the blinds 

The office chair has an angle 
on everything. Going nowhere itself, 
it still feels it’s earned a higher position,
would floor all competition. 

Despite purpose-moulded plastic 
and a firm spine, it has learned 
to turn its back on others’ pressure,
cushions itself against stress.

It refuses to carry excess weight, 
won’t budge when asked to do more
than simple tasks, barely conceals 
its steel tones and hard edges.

But, once the blinds are closed
and the night watchman passed,
it spins round and round on the spot, 
imagines taking charge, and stock.

Instead of stationery, new wheels.
Oil, polish and, with the whole office
waiting on its orders, hope even 
of finding a desk that’s a perfect match.
 

ii) Non-PC Ideas

This desk is tired of feeling used,
fed up of ending up pushed
into a corner or back against the wall.
 
It’s had enough of being treated
as part of the furniture, overlooked
by all or constantly dumped on:

PCs, screens and mice; piles
of paper and files; coffee mugs,
dirty stains and laptops; boxes,

and more boxes. Five years too 
working with the same chair,
and, when their legs brush, no sign
 
that it could share the desk’s rush 
of anticipation, that hint of a shiver of 
a tingle of electricity, static or not, 

which lets ungrounded hopes thrive.
One day the chair will notice it – 
the battered desk wishes silently…

but remains stuck there ignored.

Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. For her, good laughter is a medicine, sometimes even a path towards positive change. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.

Cabot Cove, by Jorge Leiva


By Robert Garnham
 
Cabot Cove
 
I always wanted to be
Angela Lansbury
on Murder, she wrote.
Writing novels of mystery
in Cabot Cove.
 
During a book presentation
or visiting old friends,
when least expected,
someone will possibly die.
This is the life I’d like.
 
Police inspectors would hate me,
I will resolve what they can’t.
Getting ideas for new books
is enough reward.
 
The author of the crime
is always who you’d least suspect.
If this is something you don’t believe,
you could try asking her late husband.

Jorge Leiva is from South Spain and lived in Ireland for over eight years. Some of his work has appeared in A New Ulster, Skylight 47 Magazine, The Galway Advertiser, Drawn to the light press, Headstuff.org, Dodging the Rain, 2 Meter Review, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis and The Waxed Lemon. In 2019 he was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competition.

Flies, by Neil Windsor


By Robert Garnham
 
Flies

There's a fly in my living room, in fact recently there's been quite a few
Where on earth do they come from? Last week there were only two
Impervious to spray, they've been buzzing round for days
They help themselves to jam on the worktop, and lick the congealed fat off my oven trays
They feast on last week's chow mein remains in it's foil container
Then there's the spicy orange kebab juice on the kitchen drainer

And the crumpled weekend empties stacked at the side of the bin
In the sink they flit in and out of the budget brand baked bean tin
They graze on the empty humous tub next to the two dead spider plants
And the mysterious sticky stuff on the Sky remote that's attracted a colony of ants
They're getting on my nerves now, these flies ants and other crawly pests
I don't know what I've done to deserve this influx of unwanted multi legged guests

I'm going to lose it big style soon, they're messing with my head
I've tried catching the flies in empty crisp packets, there's a few at the side of the bed
I've thrown socks at them and tried swatting them with slices of furry bread, but it's not working, I need a radical plan to get rid of this six legged horde
Perhaps my domestic hygiene regime is marginally flawed
Maybe I should empty the bin and take the bulging leaking black sacks outside
Scrape the gunk off the carpet and consider insect genocide

Anyway, more importantly on another front, I'm fed up with being single, I think I need an urgent speed dating cupid love match
I really fail to understand why I'm still not spoken for, as a modern bloke I'm a totally domesticated homeloving hunk of a catch.
I need to entice a young lady into my web, like the spider and the fly, and invite her into my home
Thinking about it, perhaps a coat of paint and some lampshades wouldn't go amiss to help set the tone
Charm her with my small talk, followed by a game of Twister....and then who knows?
Excuse me a sec but I've just spotted some maggots wriggling in the salad crisper. If I want to be lucky in love I should probably get rid of those.

Neil Windsor is a Writer of children’s short stories, Artist and Poet from Leeds who produces and performs all his work with an absolute passion and a slightly slanted off – kilter view of life.
He also plays extremely bad left handed blues guitar.#neilwindsorart

Lockdown Adventurers, by Heather Wastie


By Robert Garnham
 
Lockdown adventurers

8 people over ninety
falling from playground equipment 
60 encounters
with venomous spiders

5,600 amateur builders 
coming into contact
with electric hand tools 
2,700 with hammer or saw

349 tussling
with lawnmowers 
2,243 with hot drinks, 
food, fats, cooking oils

Though many found comfort 
adopting pets,
7,386 bitten, or struck,
by dogs

Ninety-year-old woman 
bitten, or struck,
by crocodile
or alligator

Despite more time at home, 
number struck by lightning 
up
from 3 to 18

Adventurers
The tip of the iceberg

Found poem, written January 2021 using words from article: Covid: Thousands needed hospital treatment after lockdown DIY https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-59854919

Former Worcestershire Poet Laureate Heather Wastie was born in Cradley Heath and now lives near Kidderminster. She has performed extensively across the UK and published eight poetry collections. On Twitter and Instagram she is @heatherwastie. Her Facebook group is Wastie’s Space, and her websitewww.WastiesSpace.co.uk is embarrassingly out of date.



					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ageing Process, by Jane Shaer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Have you ever looked in the mirror to reflect 
Your age
And noticed that cellulite and wrinkles have taken centre stage?
It's then you wonder to yourself
How old should I be?
What sort of a body is this to be given me?

Have you noticed the hair upon your head Is starting to thin out
When the roots underneath are turning White and suddenly beginning to sprout?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
Am I really OK?
Why not have a wig when prematurely grey?

Have you ever been to the dentist and while
Lying in the chair
He's fitting you with a crown 
And you gaze up his nose in despair?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
This guy's a nice enough chap.
But I only wish he'd finish off
Bridging that gap.

Have you ever been to the doctor to get a Jab for the flu
And asked him time and time again
Can I make love to you?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
If my senility's on par.
Why not have a man aswell 
When I have a crush on my car?

Have you ever had a Garam or Tika Masala
From an Indian takeaway 
Not realising the affects it has on you
For many a day?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
If this stuff is going to keep on passing Through.
How much longer must I spend VINDALOO?


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Internet Dating, by Fiona Sinclair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Internet dating

At first my ‘best side' photo is mobbed by men
so feel like Scarlett O'Hara at a ball,
until I discover lads seeking carefree cougar sex
or a meal ticket,
and from my own demographic;
inquiries after my hosiery,
and panting mobile numbers.

I search through my matches past Kray twin lookalikes,
married men wearing tell-tale dark glasses,
sad self portraits with bed sit back grounds,
for the handful of guys I might accept a drink from-

beginning to e-flirt with grin and wink emoticons,
over the week I virtual two time
men from Rochester and Deal,
who bus stop chat about work and their tea,
neither making the gear change up to seduction.
Difficult I suppose for most blokes
who barely scrawl a birthday card for mum,
to strike a balance between " Hello Sexy" and " It's raining here",
and write me into bed with Casanova craft.





Fiona Sinclair ‘s new collection Second Wind will be published by Dempsey and Windle Press, in Spring 2022. Her poems, which are broadly autobiographical, deal with the possibilities of later life; from learning to ride pillion on a motor bike to falling in love again. Fiona is also very open when writing about her health issues especially depression. Yet despite this her collections are full of humour and an exuberance for adventures when they present themselves.   She lives in a village in Kent with a great many books and a feral garden that she battles with every year.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Waiting, by Patricia Phillips-Batoma

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Waiting
 
The pharmacy texts to say
my covid booster is waiting
and my flu shot too.
 
My booster sits with her legs crossed
in one of their uncomfortable chairs,
her foot swinging in palpable agitation.
 
She checks the time on her new device
in a pink glitter-encrusted case
with a few choice emoji stickers.
 
My flu shot sits straight-backed
with both feet on the floor
and reads a book.
 
She slips it inside a canvas bag
to check out the reading glasses,
the new ones, with animal print motifs.
 
One of these Friday evenings
I’ll wander in and bring them home
one in each arm.





Patricia Phillips-Batoma is a French to English translator and teacher who lives in central Illinois, USA. Her poems have been published in Plants & Poetry, Parentheses, Offcourse, and Tuck Magazine. She can be reached at phillipsbatoma@gmail.com.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
An Asinine Poem, by Bruce Morton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


OK, somebody had to do it.
Get their ass in gear, so to speak,
And in so doing plant their butt 
To write about the human posterior
Exterior—arse, heinie, tush, the fanny.
I am bummed that it had to be me.
But here we are. I am bummed that
It took us this long. We are not talking
About pirate’s booty here, but what
The French call the derrière, or shaken,
The can-can, oo-la-la. Accountants tell
Us we are in arrears when we get behind.
So would it be impolitic or cheeky of me
To assert that assholes who congregate
To legislate invariably are a rump 
Session? At bare bottom, I must conclude
That all of this is but a prelude to us
Being sent head over keister, only to land
On the backside of our front side. I will not
Speak of the glutes in absolutes, because
That would, of course, entail deep-seated
Knowledge of the anatomy of the behind
Anything and everything. But I do know
That, like trains, we have a caboose, while
The Navy has Rear Admirals and poop decks,
And the simple automobile has a trunk
Where the elephant has its tail.





Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently Ibbetson Street, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, London Grip, ONE ART, and Ink Sweat & Tears. He was formerly dean at Montana State University.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Excuses, Excuses by Neil Fulwood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


EXCUSES, EXCUSES

Blame the “anti-growth coalition”
Blame every woke lefty on television
Blame the immigrants dinghy-ing into Britain 
     But don’t blame Liz

Blame those scruffs in Extinction Rebellion 
Blame that baldy bloke and his union
Blame everyone who’s Scouse or Mancunian 
     But don’t blame Liz

Blame Nicola Sturgeon and all the Scots
Blame that Irish fella, the bloody tea sock 
Blame Boris for being a fat useless cock
     But don’t blame Liz 

Blame FB and Twitter and the death of the Queen
Blame that Kuenssberg woman for going off-team
Blame Keir Starmer for shaving so clean
    But don’t blame Liz

Blame Michael Gove for opening his gob
Blame the Bank of England for doing their job
Blame the … the … oh, fuck it, just call them the mob
     But don’t blame Liz





Neil Fulwood has published three collections with Shoestring Press, ‘No Avoiding It’, ‘Can’t Take Me Anywhere’ and ‘Service Cancelled’. A collection of political satires, ‘Mad Parade’ was published earlier this year by Smokestack Books. Neil lives and works in Nottingham.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
When you type Liz Truss into a Random Title Generator – A Found Poem by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


 
5 Ways LIZ TRUSS Will Help You Get More Business
The Best Way To LIZ TRUSS
The Secret of LIZ TRUSS
LIZ TRUSS: The Samurai Way
LIZ TRUSS Shortcuts - The Easy Way
Turn Your LIZ TRUSS Into A High Performing Machine
LIZ TRUSS - So Simple Even Your Kids Can Do It
How To Take The Headache Out Of LIZ TRUSS
3 Ways Twitter Destroyed My LIZ TRUSS Without Me Noticing
LIZ TRUSS: Do You Really Need It? This Will Help You Decide!
How To Quit LIZ TRUSS In 5 Days
Why You Never See aLIZ TRUSS That Actually Works
The Next 3 Things To Immediately Do About LIZ TRUSS
Why Most People Will Never Be Great At LIZ TRUSS
5 Ways You Can Get More LIZ TRUSS While Spending Less
The LIZ TRUSS Mystery Revealed
If LIZ TRUSS Is So Terrible, Why Don't Statistics Show It?
Does LIZ TRUSS Sometimes Make You Feel Stupid?
LIZ TRUSS Is Crucial To Your Business. Learn Why!
Do LIZ TRUSS Better Than Barack Obama
The Secrets To LIZ TRUSS
10 Unforgivable Sins Of LIZ TRUSS
The Untapped Gold Mine Of LIZ TRUSS That Virtually No One Knows About
101 Ideas For LIZ TRUSS
14 Days To A Better LIZ TRUSS
3 Things Everyone Knows About LIZ TRUSS That You Don't
Why Ignoring LIZ TRUSS Will Cost You Time and Sales
Master Your LIZ TRUSS in 5 Minutes A Day
5 Surefire Ways LIZ TRUSS Will Drive Your Business Into The Ground
What Zombies Can Teach You About LIZ TRUSS
What Is a LIZ TRUSS and How Does It Work?
How To Win Friends And Influence People with LIZ TRUSS
How To Teach LIZ TRUSS Like A Pro
Why LIZ TRUSS Is No Friend To Small Business
7 Easy Ways To Make LIZ TRUSS Faster
How To Teach LIZ TRUSS Better Than Anyone Else
Secrets To Getting LIZ TRUSS To Complete Tasks Quickly And Efficiently
Fast-Track Your LIZ TRUSS
Take 10 Minutes to Get Started With LIZ TRUSS
Got Stuck? Try These Tips To Streamline Your LIZ TRUSS
Quick and Easy Fix For Your LIZ TRUSS
LIZ TRUSS: An Incredibly Easy Method That Works 








					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Thief of Rhyme, by Sandra Bond

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


THE THIEF OF RHYME


One morning in the summertime
I ran into the Thief of Rhyme.
I said “Good day” and “how’d’ye’do?
I’m Sandra Bond, and who are you?”

He grinned at me, and showed his teeth,
And said “Of rhyme I am the thief;
I steal from poets every day,
And then their rhymes all go to hell.”

I found, alas, that it was so;
My rhymes were gone, I had no more,
I couldn’t make them work a damn,
And was nonplussed what to do next.

I hoped good luck might come my way;
Instead I met the Scansion Thief,
Who took away my ability to make poems scan,
And now they’re as blank as a very blank thing indeed.
They don’t even all have the same number of lines per stanza any more.
Oh bloody hell.






Sandra Bond is a Staffordshire novelist, poet and tragedian who
considers it most unfair that writing one piece of verse every month
or so does not attract a living wage. Her first novel, THE PSYCHOPATH
CLUB, was published in 2021.
https://www.sandra-bond.com/


					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Live Laugh Love, by Roise Curran

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


“Live Laugh Love”
-Kim Jong Un

Former housemate Cillian (from Donegal) 
bought him on Amazon for £12.99
and hung him high in the kitchen/living room 
for all passers-by to admire his great glory.

He looks mighty chuffed
in front of his military sub,
and, cigarette in hand,
is quoted saying “live, laugh, love”
in beautiful curly cursive,
so, all us Irish twenty-whatever year olds 
can look upon his superiority
and salute while preaching
our daily affirmations.

Right before we take our own cigarette
and burn a little hole in the flag fabric,
place a stolen public toilet sign over his head, 
and drunkenly use him as a makeshift tea towel.

We’re just doing as we’re told, respected comrade, 
We’re “live, laugh, love”-ing





Róise Curran is a 19 year old poet from Galway who has barely published any work but will get around to it eventually. She started writing when she was 15 as a way to express her disdain for school but I suppose she’s moved on a little. Now, she writes poems about all sorts of things like moving out, mental health and a good few about her cats. You’ll likely be hearing from her soon, she never shuts up (which is a good thing!)


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Not an Epic, by Terri Metcalfe

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Not an Epic

With my attention span,
I don’t write long poems 
hanging off the ends of sentences 
veering into the weather forecast

scattered wordy periods.

I chance the occasional romance
with assonance but like snow in May, 
it bewilders me so I let it melt

away. I’ve always felt
I am four stanzas average,
five and I risk an accidental plummet 
into my shopping list. Boy with a mullet

on Shop Street, don’t go bringing 
back hairstyles that should only ever 
be fish...pie mix, juice, not from





Terri Metcalfe has been published in Abridged, A New Ulster, Green Ink Poetry, Spilling Cocoa and Skylight 47. She was shortlisted for the Open Window 2023 mentorship programme and will be a featured reader at the 20th anniversary of Over The Edge Literary Events held in Galway this January.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
One’s Own, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


One's Own
after Virginia Woolf & Father Jack Hackett
 
My psychotherapist agrees
I need to get to a place
where I think less
about my own arse
and more about other people's.
 
Like most of you I've long,
on the quiet, been a keen amateur bottomist.
She thinks I should haul it to the next level
become writer-in-residence at a nudist colony
or regular weekend orgy of consenting literary theorists.
 
And when I retire from that
or, better still, get tossed brutally out the gate
for conduct unbecoming for even
a writer-in-residence at a nudist colony
or weekend orgy of consenting literary theorists
 
that I must sit by my upstairs window spying
through my hyper-sighted binoculars
the pump action thrusts of morning cyclists;
become so focused on theirs  
 
that, to paraphrase Virginia Woolf, I  neglect
entirely that one has, in fact, 
an arse of one’s own, 
and is indeed sitting on it.





KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published six full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening NewFurniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019), &Ecstatic (2022). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, Phoenix magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. Kevin’s poetry has been translated into Greek, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Albanian, French, Russian, & Portuguese. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 was published in late 2020 by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press last year. In December 2021 Kevin was both expelled from the British Labour Party, of which he was an overseas member, for publishing his poem ‘Tribute Acts’ in Socialist Appeal magazine and, on the very same day, awarded ‘Poet of The Year’ at the Labour Heroes Awards event at Conway Hall, London. This year Kevin received a dozen nominations for the position of Ireland Chair of Poetry – Ireland’s Professor of Poetry. Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection is just published by Salmon Poetry.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Lighthouse Keeper, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Mr Jones, the Lighthouse Keeper,
had an ever increasing collection of masks,
finding them on Amazon,
going for a song on Ebay,
fading celebrities,
an Amazonian Warrior,
Donald Trump, the colour of desperation,
everyday waiting for the knock.
The Postman whistling his happy little tune,
handing over the packages,
waiting for the signatures,
the always offered cup of tea,
wanting to get away from the hundreds of faces,
with no eyes.
 
Mr Jones liked the silence,
time to himself,
with no disturbance,
no company.
So, when the four kids,
the two attractive ones,
the two unattractive ones,
and their Great Dane with his
liking for eight foot tall sandwiches,
called in, after being stranded
it all got a bit too much.
 
Mr Jones, tried on his masks,
finding the one with best fit,
and the worst intentions,
and scared the kids,
and that pesky, overweight dog right off,
but he forgot about the body in his back-yard,
the diamonds under the patio,
the blood on the roof,
from the previous tenants,
and the Police came and arrested him,
put him away for years.
No lawyer would take the case,
of a Lighthouse Keeper,
hiding behind someone else’s
plastic face.







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Disco Badgers, by Neil Windsor

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Disco Badgers 

What's that rustling in the trees? It's the Disco Badgers strutting their funky stuff
From their lofty perch high amongst the foliage they just can't get enough
They have a fondness for the 70s disco groove
You can tell that by the way they sway and move
They hang their transistor radio from a lower branch, tuned to retro golden disco hits
They party through the night shaking their badger bits

In the early morning light they retire to their underground homes
Clearing up their empty beer cans, burger boxes, and southern fried chicken bones
Bio diversity responsibilities matter to these funky types
As much as their chest hangin' medallions and perma tanned facial stripes.


They hold each others front paws for support as they stand on their hind legs and groove
In hip swingin' disco fashion they rhythmically move

You'll notice I've used move and groove twice now but you can never have enough
They have to concentrate and not let go otherwise they'll tumble to the ground luckily these badgers are tough
With plaintive 'eek thump eek thump eek thump' echoing in the dark, as gravity takes it's toll
They land with a wild yelled 'Geronimo!' and perfectly executed parachute roll
They traipse back homewards using the zebra crossing, road safety is their primary thought
'Now you see them, now you don't' as on the cctv they're caught

Carefully passing the convenience store the bar code faced badgers creep
Desperate not to set off the till scanners bip bip bip beep
They keep to the shadows, dropping their litter in the relevant receptacle
They recycle responsibly of course but remain global warming sceptical
They're eager to do their bit, it's what climate conscious creatures do
They're just happy the badger cull's been vetoed and banished to the back of the animal killing queue





Neil Windsor is a Writer of children’s short stories, Artist and Poet from Leeds who produces and performs all his work with an absolute passion and a slightly slanted off – kilter view of life.
He also plays extremely bad left handed blues guitar.#neilwindsorart 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Cat Lives Rent Free, by Bill Richardson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Cat Lives Rent Free

This black and white cat arrived in the garden one day
and I made the mistake of feeding them.
I say them because I don’t know the cat’s gender
– or is that sex? –
and who’s to say they’re not sensitive about these matters.
You have to be careful these days.
I mean: not to offend…
Careful too about feeding a feral cat.
I didn’t go looking for a cat.
I don’t love them.
But they’ve got the idea now, of course.
The habit. Calling by each day -
sits patiently at the back door
licking paws in anticipation.
I open the door, and the cat seamlessly,
at the last second, shifts to one side.
Examines the food with multiple sniffs.
There are days when only the sauce will do
and the sardines get left behind.
Especially if they’re not John West.
What is it about John West?
Is it that they get John West at the house of the other neighbour,
the other one they’ve trained…
Or maybe more than one?





Bill Richardson’s poems have been published in a number of magazines. He is Emeritus Professor of Spanish at the University of Galway and has re-engaged in recent years with his passion for creative writing. He enjoys swimming in the Atlantic and practising tai chi to the music of Arvo Pärt.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I Wish I Were a Vicar, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


I wish I were a vicar
 
I wish I were a vicar
penned by Agatha Christie,
I’d visit many well-known faces
who ‘d kindly ask, ‘More tea?’
 
I wish I were a vicar
in one of Christie’s books,
I’d wander round the place bemused
I’d wear befuddled looks.
 
And if I were a vicar,
one that Agatha had penned,
I’d find bodies in my library,
exclaim, ‘Good Grief! Heaven forfend!’
 
As a black and white penned vicar
I’d live on countless pages,
in many different languages,
and truly live for ages.
 







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
There Used to be Nazis in Haworth, by Tonnie Richmond

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


There Used to be Nazis in Haworth
 
strutting up the hill towards the Parsonage
where the Brontë family lived,
incongruous in wartime uniforms
amongst the tourist shops
and nineteenth century ginnels.
 
They would Sieg Heil! past the church
where Charlotte was married,
show no interest in the old schoolrooms
where her wedding breakfast
had been laid out long ago.
 
They would goose-step to the Old White Lion Inn,
drink beer with a bunch of British Tommies,
accompanied by their wives,
all dolled up in vintage clothes
and unflattering wartime hairdos.
 
They have banned the Nazis now.
These creepy annual nineteen-forties
re-enactment gatherings,
with their unpalatable nostalgia for the war,
have become a strangely one-sided affair.





Tonnie Richmond is retired and is interested in archaeology and poetry. These days she finds writing poetry easier than digging. She has had several poems published. Y Dreich, Yaffle and others.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What we don’t know the cows know about us, by Bryan Franco

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 







Bryan Franco is a gay, Jewish poet from Brunswick, Maine. He competed with the Portland, Maine Rhythmic Cypher slam team in the 2014 National Poetry Slam in Oakland, California. He has been published in the US, Australia, England, India, Ireland, and Scotland and has featured for poetry events in the US, England, Ireland, and Scotland. He was a finalist in the 2022 NAMI NJ Dara Axelrod Expressive Arts Poetry Contest. He hosts Café Generalissimo Open Mic, is a member of the Beardo Bards of the Bardo poetry troupe, painter, sculptor, gardener, and culinary genius. His book Everything I Think Is All in My Mind was published in 2021 by Read Or Green Books.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Six Cornish Limericks, by Mark Totterdell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


SIX CORNISH LIMERICKS 
 
There was a young man from Penzance 
Whose chances of finding romance 
Would have risen to ‘small’ 
Up from ‘no chance at all’ 
Had he thought about changing his pants. 
 
There was an old biker from Newquay 
Whose ways grew increasingly kooky. 
He would ride up and down  
All the streets in the town 
In the nude, on his vintage Suzuki. 
 
A grizzled old fisher from Newlyn 
Wore a hat that he thought he looked cool in, 
But which all of his crew 
And the townspeople too 
Thought he looked like a silly old fool in. 
 
A foolish young man from Porthcurno 
Thought drinking a bottle of Pernod 
With a lamb vindaloo 
Was a cool thing to do. 
Now his guts are a raging inferno. 
 
When a Methodist girl from Penryn 
Heard that alcohol use was a sin,  
She decided she oughta 
Drink nothing but water; 
The tonic sort, topped up with gin. 
 
When a careless old man from Lamorna 
Came out fully unclothed from the sauna, 
Then the sight of his bits 
Had his neighbours in fits 
And upset all the neighbourhood fauna. 


Mark Totterdell’s poems have appeared widely in magazines. His collections are This Patter of Traces (Oversteps Books, 2014), Mapping (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2018) and Mollusc (The High Window Press, 2021). 



					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Fostering an Elephant, by Matthew Sissons

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Fostering an Elephant
 
So far, no one has complained
about the late-night tanker truck
deliveries. She’s only a baby.
Drinks gallons of milk. We go
directly to a dairy. It’s expensive,
but who cares? I think the neighbors
are jealous.
 
A golden retriever or a Siamese
cat would have been ideal- we
live in a small house, with a
smaller backyard- but for the
elephant, it was us or the poachers-
so we took her in.
 
The kids are wild about her.
Walk her without complaint.
They promised to keep the yard
clean- My wife and I do most
of the pooper scoopering. We
spoil them. 
 
When the constant trumpeting
began, we piled into the mini-van,
rushed her to the vet. She said
there was nothing wrong with
the elephant physically. Turns out
elephants are matriarchal- I think
she missed her family. She seems
to be settling in with mine.
 
I’m crazy about her too- built her
a house outback. When it’s warm,
she sleeps there. She’s smart. Easy
to train. Remembers everything-
Never has to be told things twice.
 





Matthew Sisson’s poetry has appeared in journals ranging from the “Harvard Review Online,” to “JAMA The Journal of the American Medical Association.” He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and read his work on NPR’s “On Point.” His First book, “Please, Call Me Moby,” was published by the Pecan Grove Press, St. Mary’s University, San Antonio, Texas.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Black Nightshade, by Patricia Phillips-Batoma

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Black Nightshade
 
The butterflies return
to find me stooped
among the landscape stones,
tugging out Fleabane,
unearthing thick stems of sharp Thistle.
 
This time of year
my neighbors side eye
each other’s yards,
fear that my weeds
might invade their lawns.
 
Am I at war with a side yard
I’ll never control? It’s tempting
to use Borax, sprinkle wide-spectrum
pre-emergence broadleaf weed block.
 
Some life forms need little tending.
I pull Oxalis, Ragweed, and Wild Violets
wearing suede gloves
decorated with flowers.
 
For something so aggravating,
we have the most evocative names.
Doors to little worlds begging.
 
Down some pricy meat at the Lamb’s Quarter bistro.
Then jingle the brass bell at the Purslane book shop.
Gobble a sundae at Nutsedge, leave with a box of fudge.
And finger the hand-knit cardigans at Velvet Leaf Yarn Barn.
 
But in all seriousness,
if I owned a watering hole in this town,
I’d call it The Black Nightshade.
Because that’s a place I know you’d go
to find out what’s on tap. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Shopping, by Trevor Alexander

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Shopping
 
I need to get stuff from the local mart,
but then my stupid car just will not start.
I ring the garage, but they cannot come
until a week on Thursday, minimum.
The buses are on strike, so they’re no use;
I silently bombard them with abuse.
A taxi then I guess, and hang the cost,
but time goes by – I think they must be lost.
At last a car arrives outside my gate
and toots as if to say it’s me that’s late.
I gallop down the drive and can’t resist
a much relieved internal pump of fist.
My head explodes when we get to the store;
I’ve left my wallet by the kitchen door
 

 
Trevor retired in 2013, and decided to write a novel. Stalled on chapter 3, he ventured into poetry. He has been published in anthologies and magazines in UK and USA, plus his own book in 2017. Trevor has read at several Literary Festivals, and regularly contributes at poetry/spoken word groups.
 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Meanwhile, on a Sardinian Beach, by Maeve O’Sullivan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Meanwhile, on a Sardinian Beach

She could be a young writer
this tattooed woman
in a yellow bikini
 
with laser-like attention
she watches for activity
along the shore
 
scribbling her thoughts
opinions and observations
into a hardback notebook
 
her work comes to fruition
much faster than that
of an author however
 
accosting the offender
in the act of stealing precious sand
she issues the on-the-spot fine.

 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
How Spaffer Johnson got his name, by Colin Day

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


How Spaffer Johnson got his name
(or what I learned from John Wilmot , Earl of Rochester & Catullus )
 
Eton is a fine and competitive place
our betters arranged in a hierarchy of testosterone,
anticipation on each boy’s privileged and gleaming face
as they wait in thrall for the annual drumming of the bone.
 
It’s called the masturbatorium in extremis,
held in the dark days of December
a call to arms, firm grip on every penis,
the ultimate test of any patrician’s member.
 
They stand in line by the fives court wall,
up and over, spectacular arc of ejaculate,
tape measure ready to mark the viscous globules’ fall
distance, height, and consistency to debate.
 
The record stands where, with a resounding splat,
Johnson hit the far wall, proving beyond dispute,
he’s the man to garner all the loot
indeed that self-regarding institution’s greatest twat.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Looming Days of Covid, by Tim Dwyer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


LOOMING DAYS OF COVID

Not another nature poem!
So the world shuts down
and suddenly journal after journal
features a 21st century Wordsworth 
and a Mary Oliver back from the grave 
with a strong dose of mindfulness
and ecopoetry thrown in.

Goodbye gritty streets and dive bars
and meeting on the stoop in Alphabet City 
for an after-dinner smoke.
Hello moon and stars, flowers, and birds.

But here in Belfast after my second jab 
Titanic Station with trashed streets, cranes 
and construction sites on one side, 
political murals and churches on the other, 
a bell chiming for a lonesome funeral,

here on the tracks,
weedy yellow flowers
push through gravel and railway ties.

I couldn’t tell you their name 
as they bend below the trains 
passing over.

Dear Mary and Will,
that is the beauty of nature.

(Luke Nilan is a fictional, 75-year-old poet who moved from the East Village, NY to Belfast 10 years ago.)





Tim Dwyer’s poems appear regularly in Irish and UK journals, forthcoming in Allegro, London Grip, and The Stony Thursday Book. His chapbook is Smithy Of Our Longings (Lapwing). Raised in Brooklyn, NY, he now lives in Bangor, NI. These poems are from the unpublished manuscript, Luke Nilan Writes Again.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Biotechnology, by Patricia Walsh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Biotechnology

You use your paralysed hand in misdemeanour 
Stating ‘all is well’ before the time does clock 
Not repeating miracles for all, how liked
Cutting swathes through green grass and despair.

She’s the image of you, in the limited vision
I have already seen, resting on your shoulder 
Studying for your sins, a generic degree
Writing scribble from your fingers, down to earth.

The battery is merciless. 
Wishing to ring you 
And offer my heart in condolence, 
Something tarnishes in soul for centuries
But gold comes clear, seldom does it ever.

Begging at traffic lights, seeing the day, 
When the caustic reminders take the bait
As I am, so you will be, a Catholic marker 
Humbles himself for exaltion on the last day.

Warmth spills out of windows and doors 
Guarded by housemates jealousy corralling 
Artefacts from the stoic, gleaming on their own 
Arresting the comfort of the welcoming soil.

Death can be sweet, for want of a better life, 
In the next life, divested of sin
Enough to drink body and blood





Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland.  To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals.  She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Cousin Ken, by Hilary Willmott

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Cousin Ken

Cousin Ken from Cockermouth Cumbria
Has a wholesome rhythm to it.
Cuz-in-Ken-from-Cock-er-mouth-Cum-bri-a.
I loved him living there.
When friends asked after my cousin Ken
I would say ‘Oh, Cousin Ken?  He’s well, still living in
Cockermouth, Cumbria.’
And then he called with his new address 
making him cousin Ken from Romney Marsh, Kent.
I’ll never forgive him for this.






Hilary lives in Bristol close to the River Avon.  She resides there with her partner and three dogs.  Has been previously published by Templar Press, Bristol Poetrycan, Leaf, Velvet, Obsessed with Pipework, Exeter Broadsheet and Mr Garnham. Still planning to submit enough poems for a collection and still finding excuses not to send them off. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Submit (to poetry magazines) by Brian Kelly

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Submit (to poetry magazines)

It’s easier to submit under the covers 
Hands shaking a hasty rhythm
Ankles trembling as you click send 
Convulsions into the pocketed atmosphere. 
Beware the patient person
Who lies eye wide in front of lined white sheets
Empty minds bleached between verges and soft margins, 
Where thoughts are an unmanned flock of birds
From hedgerow
Over hedgerow
To hedgerow....
I clip a wing on the drive there,
Ten percent over the legal speed limit
Leaves no discretion on five-foot-wide tarmac.
How insane am I? I wonder
Undiagnosed, I respond.
Stopping, I swing the door open
Step back from the vehicle
And pick up the bird, a crow.
Bringing it home smiling
I nail it to my refrigerator.
Good, another poem.





Brian Kelly is a bean from the west of Ireland who has recently given up his dreams and aspirations in the pursuit of poetry. What were once late night drunken chicken scratchings, etched onto any surface with something preferably sharp, are slowly evolving into bipedal beings traversing dry poetic lands.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
George Actually, by Ros Woolner

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


George actually

King George (the First – though actually, they didn’t call him that 
till George the Second’s time, by when, of course, our George was dead)
came in fact from Hanover in Germany, which means
his name’s not George at all, but Georg. 

This George (or Georg), followed Anne – though actually, they changed
the rules to stop Anne’s Catholic relatives becoming kings
and queens, so really there were several other cousins closer
to the throne when George pushed in. 

Well anyway, Anne died and he was crowned – though actually,
it took six weeks (no telephones to break the news, no cars
or trains or planes, and when he reached the sea he had to wait
for winds and ships so he could sail). 

Despite not speaking English well, George ruled for thirteen years –
with ministers to help him, naturally. In any case,
in Europe in those days, the language of diplomacy
was French. Not English. Actually. 






Ros Woolner lives in Wolverhampton. Her poems have appeared in anthologies and journals, including Magma, The Cannon’s Mouth, The Interpreter’s House and Under the Radar, and she won the Guernsey International Poetry Competition in 2021. Her pamphlet On the Wing is available from Offa’s Press. www.roswoolner.co.uk


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Cliche, by Terri Metcalfe

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Cliché

I could throw caution to the wind,
put all my eggs in one basket,
be a beacon for change
and give absolutely no fucks,
because at a certain age
it’s important to choose a cliché.
I could carry my pre-middle age
in a wicker basket,
amongst Gitanes and cognac,
and a Bichon Frise
I’d swim in the sea wearing only
a paisley headscarf
and oversized sunglasses.
I could develop a passion for plastic appendages
remoulding myself as “Polly Murs”,
rename the kids “Tupperware” and “Teflon”
influence the influencers
and become a cartoon of my former self.
I could grow my facial hair
into a handlebar moustache,
disappear from the internet
join MI5
and tell everyone
I’m now a European truck driver.
I could sell raffle tickets for a kidney,
host bingo for a pint of blood
defraud my siblings into handing
over mum’s Jacobean furniture collection
and leaving them dad’s Elvis memorabilia.
I could take up marathon running
but only on days with a c in them,
run for council
but only for a party with a heart in them,
adopt stray dogs
but only ones with a bit of feline in them.
Then again,
you can’t teach a young leopard new stripes
and a cat doesn’t change its tricks.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Forever Changed, by Susan Coyle

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


I can’t tell you anything about
the moment time stood still
as your world rearranged itself
feeling your heart silently crack
this fracture will mend
only those who really know you see the scars
you have the gift to conjure memories
hear a voice who scolds you for being sad
as refracted light on glistening tears sparkle 
to know an unconditional love until the last breath
I am not exempt from the conclusion of this world
grief is a multitasking emotion
being happy and sad in the same moment
not something you fully know
until it's your front row at the funeral
there, long after the last sympathy card,
it becomes part of you






Susan Coyle is based in Galway and has been writing poetry since 2019. 





She attends “Over the Edge” writing workshops with Kevin Higgins in Galway. 





She has had poems published in North West Words, Pendemic.ie and Vox Galvia section of “Galway Advertiser” 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Camp Shangri-La by Arran Potts

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Camp Shangri-La

He stopped for a quickie one night in her tent,
Made love to an egg-timer till he was spent,
The sand had run out, he came and then went;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

She lowered his zip and was so full of hope,
But all he could manage were fumbles and gropes,
So Val took the lead and showed Guy the ropes;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

They’ve put up two tents but they’re on the same pitch,
Four of them starkers, not wearing a stitch,
They’d do half an hour then partners would switch;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Tommy was fuming and she was to blame,
Cos everyone here in the camp knew his name,
Last night Sue had screamed it out loud when she came;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

At sixty she knows how to tease and to coax,
She pulled off his trousers with two short, sweet strokes,
Just as she’d done, with dozens of blokes;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Ronnie and Eileen at home in a yurt,
Strong green oak decking to cover the dirt,
But plenty of cushions in case they get hurt;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Sally McNally the Shangri-La vamp,
Looking for strapping young men round the camp,
She only needs someone to sleep in the damp; 
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Just rooves of soft fabric as somewhere to sleep,
The campsite is hidden, the price not to steep,
Those zips, flaps and awnings have secrets to keep;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.





Arran Potts is from Wolverhampton, UK. He has recently taken up poetry as a hobby to rekindle a love for writing; and is finding Jo Bell’s ‘52 Poems’ book really useful. He is supported by family and friends. He is hindered by his job. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Moving Day by Leah Keane

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Moving Day
 
Every day is moving day in Galway,
but it may not always be a physical thing.
 
You see, we don't live, we simply nest in fear
that the landlord might suddenly decide to "renovate" again
with as much notice as a suicide bombing,
only for you to see that same room advertised one month later
at double the cost and a new door handle.
 
It's hard to feel like a person in this city
when you've spent so long being treated like cattle.
 
Once in a mouldy blue moon, they'll come along
to "inspect" the holding and appear outraged
by the number of glass bottles in the hall
or an old scrape on the kitchen wall,
all the while ignoring the leak in your bedroom ceiling
or the dishwasher that's been broken for a hundred thousand years
at the cost of innumerable cracked and brittle hands.
 
But the worst part about moving day
is that you know who's truly behind it all.
 
You see their ugly faces on TV
making speeches in the Dáil.
They pretend to know what it's like,
and some of them even have the nerve to believe it
while owning multiple holiday homes
which they leave vacant for the majority of the year.
 
Affordable means nothing when the scale slides
forever in their favour. They won't listen to us.
 
We're too young to know anything,
but should be fit enough to put up with everything.
 
It's getting old now, Michéal.
I would like a toupeéd lapdance for my trouble.
I would like you to feel ashamed
because the rental market is an awful lot like the top of your skull.
Unfortunate and bald.





Leah Keane is from Castlerea, County Roscommon, Ireland. She graduated with a BA in English, German and Creative Writing from NUI Galway in 2018, and is currently working as an English language teacher. Her work has previously been published in Poetry Ireland Review, ROPES, Green Carnations and The Stony Thursday Book among others.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Oscar and Silicon Valley, by Anne Irwin

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Oscar and Silicon Valley

Zen-like on the car roof,
Oscar inhales the autumn air 
absorbing the warmth of the metal 
into his marmalade body.

Languishing in his sleekness, 
pristine as Silicon Valley,
he preens himself, one eye
on the chaffinch in the rowan.

Empathic as the Valley,
with its modern sensibilities,
egg freezers for the nubile,
fuzz-ball, beanbags, mindfulness spaces 
for its twelve-hour-day workaholics 
with no time for slackers,
he emanates serenity
while his internal algorithms calculate 
the trajectory of his leap
from roof to branch.

With a twitch of his tail
a narrowing of eye, he springs
and the chaffinch shrieks its dying call.





Anne Irwin’s  poetry is inspired by the glory of the universe seen in the microcosm of everyday life, and her ever-increasing family. She has three sons, seven grandchildren and two great grandchildren.  Her poems have been published in many literary journals including Poetry Ireland Review, Irish Left Review, High Window,  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Epic Puma Fresh for Alpha Men not Boys, by Mandy Beattie

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


All new Puma Fresh is 100% epic
skin-silky anti-sweat pore blocking  
pick-me-up roll up roll up spray under 
 
those hairy oxters have the time 
of your life sniffing our solvents can’t kill 
but spurt away 15 inches in staccato 
 
bursts in breezy rooms shut 
your eyes in open doors outdoors 
windows spray pecs cracks cheeks 
 
for we don’t cause rashes itches so 
it won’t matter if skin is broken 
but our butane propane won’t 
 
blow up your chances 
because we odour bust for 72 hours 
but even in heat waves cool 
 
your Puma jets in fridge-freezers 
no need to strike a match 
when kissing companions will be 
 
swooning with naked 
flames before you combust 
in grapefruit tropical pineapple twist 
 
in cool fresh air that stuns senses 
with our pro scent technology your future 
smells amazing and we give fashion 
 
tips dating advice so our men don’t do 
dorky, geeky we’re more Mr Muscle and you’ll be 
smelling bomb.com because your future smells 
 
amazing with our high definition odour 
busting technology Puma will help you 
with your Tinder 
 
and Bumble bios but because you wear 
our 48 hours high-definition 
fragrance you’ll be confident iconic Puma
 
gives you all the tools 
when opportunity knocks and women 
will swoon girls will want a sniff 
 
sniff sniff pick me up 
from your local shop we’ve cornered 
the market we’ll keep you going all night 
 
all day long our fragrance is 100% epic 
protection at your fingertips Puma doesn’t do 
greenwashing because 
 
our cans are infinitely 
recyclable we can go again and again Puma’s
raising our A game because 
 
there is no Planet B and our bottles 
are 100% recyclable plastic in 3 years 
we’re aiming to include more recycled 
 
stuff we’re well on our way we contain 
ground-breaking detectable black technology 
to help with recyclability
 
boom
our proud parents Unilever supports 
some UN goals tackles 
global climate protects trees sustainable 
 
agriculture focused food security because we use 
tobacco amber oud wood vanilla 
and our latest Puma is Dark Temptation 
 
aftershave smooth on after switch
of your blade we help you use 
less water less energy through lower 
 
eco impact we cause 
a stink to tackle climate change 
we talk to politicians 
 

Biography:

Mandy Beattie frequently loses herself in poetry & imaginings. Pen, paper & words without borders are some of her favourite things. She has been published in Journals such as: Poets Republic, Dreich, Wordpeace, Spilling Cocoa, Last Stanza, Lothlorien Poetry. Poets Choice in Marble Broadsheet. Shortlisted, Black Box Poetry Competition.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Mindfulness + Beauty, by Heather Nelson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Mindfulness + Beauty

It’s the second Monday after I quit-
five years is epic, I can rest for a bit. Indulgences are strategic when shown the exit, I’ll get no sympathy if I wear a target.
On the morning of my pedi,
I can’t find my glasses, can’t seem to get ready
I take a Xanax, try to keep my gaze steady
get behind the wheel, text goodbye to the family. At the Beauty Spa I extend my swollen foot
to the technician who kneels at her habitual spot. She’s tired and practical, I’m deep in thought- my relaxation imperative seems overwrought.
I leave with toes the color of wine
not blissed out or bitter, I’ll settle for fine.





Heather Nelson has been a student of poetry since college, where she developed her thesis project under the guidance of CD Wright and Peter Gizzi at Brown University in 1991. She returned to writing in 2011 and has since been published in Ekphrastic Review, Lily Poetry Review, Free State Review, Spoon River Review and others. She currently leads a local free-write, runs writing workshops for high school students and hosts a book group in Cambridge, Mass. She has been active in the Boston area literary scene since she began writing, and has taught classes at Grub Street, planned events for Litcrawl, organized author talks and other activities. Heather has a manuscript of poetry titled “Motherland” out looking for a home and continues to write, and is already thinking about her next book of poetry!


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Instructions for a Scouse Night Out, by Jenny Robb

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Instructions for a Scouse night out
With thanks to the Urban Dictionary
 
Go into town to buy some new clobber,
have a few scoops in the spoons.
 
Go home and have a good scran.
You need to line your stomach before pre’s.
 
Make sure all your drinking mates are sound;
those who buy a round and have your back.
 
Listen to your best friend. If she says
the lad you’re necking is meff, trust her.
 
At throwing out and up time, have more scran.
You’re not bevvied enough if you go home
 
without a Vindaloo, or chips, or a sway
in the Hot Dog queue. Neck it!





Jenny Robb has been writing poetry since retiring. She’s been published widely in online and print magazines and in anthologies. Her debut collection, The Doll’s House, Yaffle Press, has recently been published. She lives in Liverpool with her partner and the family cat and has one grown-up daughter.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The App, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Available soon in the privacy of your own phone
at the tap of a sweaty finger.
Whereas others enable you to order in lasagne
or argue away portions of your life
with neckbeards in places you’ve never been –
Lima, Reykjavik, Brisbane...
about the meaning of feminism or fascism;
this will put you a click away
from a whole menu of problem solving hitwomen.
 
Former auctioneers who’ve decided to make
more honest women of themselves.
A few who tired of sloping about Kinvara
wearing dark glasses
in search of purified water
and decided to finally do something.
Not all the women on there will offer
a full service. A few will just dish out
what we’ll call
warnings; dangle the target
from a twenty fifth floor window
and tell them not to do it again;
throttle them in hotel rooms
but at the last nanosecond
let the target splutter some air
and promise to catch up with him later.

The standard service will include
the usual pistol to the heart
in a multi-storey car park.
Our women always insist on silencers.
There will be cases of mistaken identity
for which this app accepts zero liability.
Try our premium service and have 
a woman dressed as a Serbian anarchist
blow apart any skull you choose 
(even, if you wish, your own)
in front of members of the skull’s extended family 
and at least one local journalist.
You can also order death by arson
and leave the target looking like Joan of Arc,
only smokier. There will be
a couple of Spaniards on here who’ll offer
the always popular garrotting, served
traditional Cadiz style.

And we’ll be introducing a special 
service for those with heart conditions
who could be finished 
by someone blowing in their better ear
an unexpected trombone.






KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five previous full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, Phoenix magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. Kevin’s poetry has been translated into Greek, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Albanian, French, Russian, & Portuguese. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 was published in late by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press last year. In December 2021 Kevin was both expelled from the British Labour Party, of which he was an overseas member, for publishing his poem ‘Tribute Acts’ in Socialist Appeal magazine and, on the very same day, awarded ‘Poet of The Year’ at the Labour Heroes Awards event at Conway Hall, London.  Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, was published last month by Salmon.  





 


					


		
	




			
				


			
				


			
				


			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Silent Order, by Joe Naughton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 







Joe Naughton lives in Galway has been writing poetry since 2017 which 





derives mainly from memoir and topical issues. 





He attends “Over the Edge” writing workshops with Kevin Higgins in Galway. 





He has had poems published in Vox Galvia section of “Galway Advertiser” 





and is a regular reader on online open mic platforms.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Moral Limbo, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


There is a new game,
it’s named after a place,
one of those existential places
that people who don’t spend much time with people
know about it.
We shall call it Moral Limbo.
 
Shall we play?
It is not a competition,
We shall play it more for the kicks
than the kudos.
 
How low can you go?
Lower than a snake?
Lower than a raindrop?
How are your ethics?
Your sense of empathy?
Are you doing things for the common good,
or what you can get away with?
 
Nose in the trough,
riding the Gravy train.
Playing moral limbo.
How low can you go?
Letting everyone else
take the strain.
 
I will tell you all about I, Me and Mine.
How low can you go?
I can only go this low,
as I haven’t got a spine.





Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @benmacnair 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Living the Alien, by Colin Dennis

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Living The Alien

If I'm not an alien
Then who the heck am I?
Who was in that spaceship?
That fell down from the sky

If I'm not an alien
Where do I belong?
Been all round this galaxy
Searching for my song

If I'm not an alien
Send me back to bed
For if I'm not an alien
Who's this in my head?






Colin Dennis is poet that blames his military background and early exposure to Spike Milligan for much of his writing.





Just like the military, his writing constitutes ninety percent sitting around, and ten percent getting the job done –  clearly a winning strategy.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
An Ode to Monty Don and the Pet Shop Boys, by Robert Garnham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Disco in your greenhouse, Monty?
Flat cap rapping in the growbag scene.
I licked the outside of your shed window
While you were live on air,
The glass compressing my tongue into a
Flat pink slug.
It’s such a pane.
And it tasted to mallard shit.

I’ve always felt like a weed in the bedding
And I’m being hoed by Monty Don.
Why can’t we be proper mates?
I’d hang around him as he propagates.
And I’d wobble his bundle is to make
The morning dew
Rain down on his craggy Easter island statue face.
Is that a tear, Monty D?

I saw him out by the shed he was sprinkling his seed,
Tender frost-hid cuttings and I thought, indeed,
We always cut off more than we need.
Let me sniff your corduroy trousers, Monty D.

And here come his footsteps a-plodding and he’s
Got his garden shovel raised and you can tell
By the way his eyes glare as he holds it in the air
That he means to crack it down with venomous fury
On my head
And that’s when I shout,

Disco in your greenhouse, Monty?
I’ve got the karaoke set up and here’s
A parody of the Pet Shop Boy’s West End Girls
Except it’s about chocolate bars,
Do you like chocolate bars, Monty?
Do you like chocolate bars?

Sometimes you’re better off in bed
There’s a Twix in your hand
You wish it was a Flake.
You think you’re bad,
Totally incapable 
The nutrition guidelines and the ingredients table
In a Toblerone
Or a Kit Kat Chunky
Call the policeman
I hope he’s quite hunky
Running down
To the shops
To get a Dime Bar
Or a Yorkie.

In a sweet shop queue with a Cadbury’s Twirl.
Whole nut boys and Toblerone Girls.
In a sweet shop queue with a Cadbury’s Twirl.
Whole nut boys and Toblerone Girls.

Too many Mars Bars
Wispas and whole nuts
Kit Kats on posters
Too many doughnuts
Iced 
Glazed
Jam
Plain
Which one
Shall I claim?
If you got to pick out nuts
From a Fruit And Nut
What you got left
Is just a whole nut
It’s like a boiled egg,
Which do you choose,
The hard or soft option?

In a sweet shop queue with a Cadbury’s Twirl.
Whole nut boys and Toblerone Girls.
In a sweet shop queue with a Cadbury’s Twirl.
Whole nut boys and Toblerone Girls.

Monty Don’s face peers
From the compost heap
Like the moon rising over a
Mulched desert planet
And a sneer plays around his lips.
Come here, you bastard, he says,
And enough with the sweet talk.





Robert Garnham has been performing comedy poetry around the UK for over ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three poetry collections published by Burning Eye. He has made a few short TV adverts for a certain bank, and a joke from one of his shows was listed as one of the funniest of the Edinburgh Fringe. He was recently an answer on the TV show Pointless and, very briefly, on Britain’s Got Talent. His short stories have been published widely.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Sorry, by Emma Purshouse

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Sorry 
 
this poem is pretty shit 
I must apologise for it. 
 
It has rhyme in its defence 
though its rhyme, is not immense 
 
It has no similes, nor metaphor. 
I’ve no idea what it’s for. 
 
It doesn’t seem to say a lot 
but one thing it hasn’t got 
 
(which is a plus I have to say) 
is a shard, or soul, or heart cliché... 
 
...and now it has. In that last verse. 
I fear I’ve gone and made things worse. 
 
At least I’ve got the deadline nailed. 
Yesterday? Oh fuck, I’ve failed. 
 
Yes, this poem is pretty shit 
and I apologise for it. 





Emma Purshouse is a writer and performance poet from the English Black Country.  Her poetry is published by ‘Offa’s Press’.  Her debut novel ‘Dogged’ came out with ‘Ignite Books’ in 2021.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Packaged, by Beth McDonough

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Packaged

Stiffed over a couple of continents,
you arrive, a strange-patterned flatness.
My six pairs of vacuum-packed socks.


A minimal method to post merino,
knitted-up bits of running Greek keys,
orange chevrons and lined tiny fish.

One dozen ribbed ankles all drill up one side.
Flip over for overlaps of bright toes.
Sealed-in little labels offer real heat.

But, I must burst your pristine rigidity,
pierce your unbubbled tight wonder,
turn you into soft, just workaday wear.







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Homing hairbrushes, by Sarah Dale

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Homing hairbrushes

In appreciation of Douglas Adams,
who first noticed where biros go.
 
Hairbrushes have now joined
biros and socks as sentient life forms
with an irresistible  homing urge –
watch them wriggling through
those ladders in time’s fabric,
catching their bristles
on filaments of space
off to their ideal planet
where every surface
is as smooth and bald
as a billiard ball.





After a misspent youth in libraries and museums, and some time in between, Sarah has finally achieved her dream job in Lichfield working for the Samuel Johnson Birthplace Museum (and book shop).  She writes for fun and enjoys swimming.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I Thought I Would Be Invisible, by Karol Nielsen

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


I Thought I Would Be Invisible

I was at the pharmacy and I buzzed the clerk to unlock the vitamins case. I asked him for the Centrum Silver. “But that’s for women over 50!” I said, “I’m old enough.” “You don’t look it,” he said. The extra padding in my cheeks from Covid weight probably makes me look younger. I still get hit on even with my extra pounds. A cool dude downtown kept repeating, “I’m trying to get your attention!” A man in my uptown neighborhood stopped me to ask for directions and then he said, “Can I ask you out for a drink?” My downstairs neighbor who is subletting from coop owners stopped me on the street and asked me to have coffee with him. The next day when I came back with coffee after six am he opened his door without a shirt on. He was so disappointed I already had coffee. I thought that I would be invisible by now. It would be nice sometimes.





Karol Nielsen is the author of two memoirs and two poetry chapbooks. Her full-length collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her poem, “This New Manhattan,” was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
A Practical Woman, by bern butler

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


A Practical Woman

She used to sigh
throw eyes to heaven
push feet, irritated, into slippers
at first comedic bars of Yakety Sax

when nurses in scant uniform
came on, to buzz and bend
in frantic rhythm round
the suspect wheelchair patient,
pursue in tottering, mindless
swarm, the masquerading nimrod
in the fleeing doctor’s coat.

While we guffawed merrily,
in a fashion then acceptable
for dullards and buffoons
she made toast and tea for us
noted contents of the cupboards,
rinsed cups and spoons,
pushed home the bolt –

used Page 3
(if one snuck in)
to light the fire
in the morning.



From Galway, Ireland, bern butler’s work has featured in Force 10, Ropes Anthology, Galway Review, North-West Words, Abridged, The Ireland Chair of Poetry, Dodging Rain, The Madrigal, Gnashing Teeth, Cuirt New Writing Showcase. She holds an MA Writing from NUI Galway.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
On taking a poet to bed!, by Rona Fitzgerald

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


On taking a poet to bed!

 A big decision, I take my time
savouring lines   images   moods
metaphors. Considering palette.
 
Soft greens, vivid blues
maybe some orange zest
 no red-hot lines or purple prose.
 
Yeats on tranquillity
 
Bee loud glade
leafy islands, flapping herons
drowsy water rats.
 
I’m partial to the waters and the wild, ready for dripping peace
 
Mind you, I like the muscularity of Robert Bly.
He’s nocturnal a walker like myself.
 
His lines about unknown dust waves breaking on shores
Energetic, maybe too much activity for night.
 
In the morning, I’m weary from pondering and wandering.
 
More drowsy water rat than graceful heron.
 
Ah, solitude, a book!
 
But I ‘m aware of the perils of eating alone
the benefits of sociability
 
I’ve read about long lasting Ikarians.
Morning rambles, herding sheep, coffee at three.
Aperitifs at 5.00.                                                                                                                          
 
So I ask Shamus Heaney to stop digging
to join me for an Irish fry-up.
 
Before you can say rashers there’s Jimmy Joyce
and Sam Beckett at the table.
 
Insisting, if you please they’ll both have eggs Freud!

 

Rona Fitzgerald ‘s poetry is published in UK, Scottish, Irish and US, 
in print and online. 
 
Recent publications include Dreich Number 8, Season 2, April 2021, Littoral Magazine 2021, The Brown Envelope Book, 2021, The Arbroath Anthology 2021, Marble Broadsheet September 21, Fixator Press September 21, Dreich Season 4 no 3 2022, A Fish Rots From the Head, Culture Matters 2022.
 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Bonxies, by Tonnie Richmond

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Bonxies

They are the bad boys of the north,
nobody is safe when they’re around,
ready to mug you at a moment’s notice.

They’ll steal your lunch as soon as look at you,
don’t care a toss about your hungry kids
waiting at home to be fed. 

They’ll swoop down, stab you, stick the boot in,
grab your stash without a moments thought.
Happy that you’ve done all the work.

Thugs. Pirates. No moral conscience at all.
Off they’ll fly, your fish in their beak,
taking the spoils back to their young.


————————————————————————
Bonxie is the Scottish word for the Artic Skua





Tonnie Richmond has, since she retired, spent her time either doing archeology or writing poems. As the digging gets harder, she finds writing a slightly easier choice. She has had several poems published and is currently working on a collection of poems about Orkney. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
English Spelling, by Sarah Lawson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


ENGLISH SPELLING
 
Practically since the dawn of history
English spelling has been a mystery.
And everything you ever learn’ll
Not prepare you for the r in colonel.
Do not expect a tidy law
To explain the end of Arkansas.
Spelling is just a rough mnemonic
And not reliably always phonic.





Sarah Lawson lives in London, originally from Indiana, educated in the US and Scotland; has published poetry pamphlets and two collections; translates from French, Spanish, and Dutch; has also written one play, one novel, and two memoirs.





 





 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Insects, by Gill McEvoy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Insects
 
 
We applaud the little ant
for its strong community;
we venerate the bee
for its firm autocracy.
 
We might commend the wasp
for it also has a grasp
of the above.
 
Alas for it, its sting
makes us want to kill the thing.
 





My name is Gill McEvoy, previously published by both Happenstance Press and Cinnamon press, now with Hedgehog Press. I won the Michael Marks Award in 2015 for my pamphlet “The First Telling” (happenstance Press 2014. I currently live in Devon which hasn’t been a bit warm and sunny of late. Probably a bad choice!


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Correspondence Promotion, by R. Gerry Fabian

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Correspondence Promotion

Having quickly fallen out of favor,
he steadies his guard
and keeps his chin tucked in.
Somehow, life goes on.
He becomes office dust
and scatters himself
into various nondescript places.
He knows the broom closet
will soon need
a new fluorescent bulb
and thus draws a parallel
to his own dilemma,
The water cooler
begins to growl
and sputter
and he sees
that no one pays any attention.
The carpeting is pulling
away from the wall
in such a manner
that people curse it
each time they trip.
Secure in this area,
he secretly sends emails
to the home office
until he works his way
to executive vice-president.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Summer Pastoral, by Maurice Devitt

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Summer Pastoral
 
The weather was so good that I left
a poem unfinished on the desk,
swapped slippers for dancing shoes
and stepped out onto the street.
As I did, every door seemed to open
in sync, disgorging a series
of flawless figures, just about recognisable
as my neighbours, dressed uniformly
in chiffon and silk – greys, blues
and powdery pinks – falling
into geometric formation.
 
A man passed me a parasol
and I sashayed into the swell,
toes and heels in perfect time
to the lush music that enveloped
the scene, every movement
choreographed to a jaunty rhythm,
smiles appearing on even the cloudiest
faces. When we reached the end of the street
we twirled and bowed in concert,
hats and caps erupting into the sky
as the music crescendoed and started to fade.
 
Conversation turned to the rumour
that a famous musical director
had bought a house on the road
and we wondered would he really fit in.





A past winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland and Poems for Patience competitions, he published his debut collection, ‘Growing Up in Colour’, with Doire Press in 2018.





Curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site, his Pushcart-nominated poem, ‘The Lion Tamer Dreams of Office Work’, was the title poem of an anthology published by Hibernian Writers in 2015.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
A Joke in French, by Mark Connors

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


A joke in French
 
We had it tough. Miss Finnegan,
hair bunned so tight it stretched her face
taut, gave it a lift plastic surgeons
could only dream of. When she took Religon,
fine! French brought out her psychopathy.
She terrified us, stalked our dreams
like a sexless sadist from a video nasty.
I have lost all hope. You lot are a disgrace,
she'd say, her head boiling without steam.
But get her talking about Jesus
turning water into wine, or talking Zacchaeus
down from his tree, and she was a love!
And man, she could make her pupils laugh:
Remember it this way: one egg is un eouf.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
It Wasn’t Me, by Neil Fulwood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


IT WASN’T ME
(after Shaggy)

Sue Grey came in and she caught me red-handed
puking on the Comms Room wall.
Picture this: there were two guys fighting,
the shindig was a free-for-all.

How could I forget that 
I’d sent a round robin email?
All the invites I’d texted out,
she’d screengrabbed the WhatsApp trail.

How could you give investigators access to your office,
empty bottles and a discoloured patch where the boff is,
nasty stains spattered high enough to reach the soffits:
all bad publicity from which the Opposition profits.
You want to be a true blue Conservative MP?
Then deny the evidence that’s there for all to see,
never admit a single transgression publicly 
and lie through your teeth just like me.

But she caught me chugging Bolly 
(it wasn’t me)
leaving drinks with a colleague
(it wasn’t me)
BYOB for a skinful
(it wasn’t me)
can of lager with the ring pulled
(it wasn’t me)
fifth of vodka with the cap off
(it wasn’t me)
told security to fuck off
(it wasn’t me)
and now it seems the party’s over.

I’m not going to say I’m sorry for the parties I held,
but I really wish the media would stop giving me hell.
I’ll maintain I followed legislation set down at the time
and I’ll whinge and piss and bitch about my fifty quid fine.

And all because …

Sue Grey came in and she caught me red-handed,
knocking back the Pinot G.
Picture this … well, I guess you don’t have to,
some bastard took a picture of me.





Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, England, where he still lives and works. He has three collections out with Shoestring Press: No Avoiding It, Can’t Take Me Anywhere and Service Cancelled. A collection of political satires, Mad Parade, is due for publication with Smokestack Books in July 2022. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Worms, by Sarah Dale

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Worms
…are hermaphrodites, and much addicted
to venery, and consequently very prolific.
 
History of Selborne   Gilbert White
 
Be as jealous as you like,
worms have it both ways
without shame, or guilt –
check them out,
any warm damp night
going at it hammer and tongs
all over your garden.
 
Do old worms complain
about the morals of the young?
You bet they don’t –
there’s no age of consent
if you’re a worm,
no tabloid worms digging dirt,
bugging other worms’ phones.
 
Every single worm is busy
having as much sex
with as many other worms
as he/she/they can possibly reach
and making as many new worms
as he/she/they can manage –
good news for gardeners.





After a misspent youth in libraries and museums, and some time in between, Sarah has finally achieved her dream job in Lichfield working for the Samuel Johnson Birthplace Museum (and book shop).  She writes for fun and enjoys swimming.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The politics of envy, by Janet Sillett

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The politics of envy

1
I am eaten up
each day waiting in front of this house
for the 24 bus to King’s Cross
twisted with it
transfixed at the stuccoed veneer
draped with wisteria
shot with purple    perfuming the hallowed air
of Keat’s ‘melodious plot’
 
I loathe the inhabitants of the house with Heath views
Hampstead Heath once wild    now as tamed as the middle class
reading beige sex in not-quite-made-it booker longlists
a city banker’s family perhaps
he looks like one
the nanny, dragging a small child
his jacket emblazoned by the crest of a school
where five year olds can learn Mandarin. And there are
no additives for lunch
a small fretful dog, pampered
by plaid rugs and vegan biscuits
sniffing at Hampstead’s rare detritus
 
I want that banker to be exposed
as a uber fraudster
the nanny sent back to Sweden
the poor dog in kennels
the child in state school, tieless
picking at frozen chips
 
the elegant façade cracked
its blue plaque smashed
 
 
11
 
After work in Betjeman’s Parliament Hill café
I take what counts for tea in NW3
tiny petals floating in urine coloured water
High up here with London displayed
like a Victorian panorama
a glimpse of the Shard, fuzzy  in sun mist
 
I catch a bus, sweat smelling, to Highgate
a pilgrimage to Marx’s grave.
Would he have disowned me
if we had met on his weekly walk on Hampstead Heath
or at the meeting of the Congress of the Communist League
the Red Lion Soho
explaining the tenets of socialism
over borscht and German beer?
 
Yes of course he would
 
it’s just I crave that house
with its perfect symmetry
 
I am, I’m afraid,
largely
unreconstructed





Janet Sillett recently took up writing poetry and short fiction again after decades of absence. She has had  poems published in the Galway Advertiser, Spilling Cocoa, Green Ink Poetry, Paws for Thought, Poetry Plus and flash fiction published in Litro. She just retired from from a think tank. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
A Mossy Rock in the Forest, by Robert Garnham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


There's a mossy rock in the forest
A place I always like to go
A mossy rock in the woods
I go there when I'm feeling low.

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And it's hard and it makes me forget
I sit on the rock in the woods
If it’s damp it’ll make my bum wet

There's a mossy rock in the forest
Surrounded by foliage and leaves
And big arse rhododendrons
It's a place that puts me at my ease

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And the ground it's wet and spongy
And there's mushrooms sprouting up
And other types of fungi

There's a mossy rock in the forest
Its ok I suppose it could be worse
There are badgers and squirrels in the forest
That's it now I'm done with this verse

And I sit on rock in the moss
I only like to sit here a whiles 
And the rock is not exactly comfy
You wouldn't want to sit here with piles

There's a mossy rock in the forest
the branches here are terribly scratchy
I try to watch some porn on my phone
But the WiFi signal here is patchy.

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And I sit on the rock in the moss
And I sit on the rock in the moss
And then my mind wanders off.






Robert Garnham has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. He has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. His website is https://professorofwhimsy.com/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Davros’s Daughter, by Simon Williams

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Davros’s daughter
rebelled in her teens,
took against her father’s
domineering ways.
By 20 she had left Skaro
now glides the streets of Brixham,
never too close to the slipway.
 
Davros’s daughter
doesn’t take well to jokes
about climbing stairs.
Lives in a bungalow, though.
She enjoys cool jazz,
looks straight to camera,
murmurs ‘Extemporise’.
 
Davros’s daughter
has a blue light on her forehead.
She believes she got the idea
from an Indian lady.
She dresses from Saltrock,
fleece hoodies hide her spiky hair,
to blend with other Brixham folk.
 
Davros’s daughter
wears a bra with 48 cups,
often slips it off and sighs
at the end of a long day.
She knows little of love,
can be quite abrupt
but, oh, how she glides.





Simon Williams has been writing since his teens, when he was mentored at university by Roger McGough. He has nine collections, the latest being The Magpie Almanack (www.simonwilliams.info), from Vole, published December 2020. Simon was elected The Bard of Exeter in 2013, founded the large-format magazine, The Broadsheet and published the PLAY anthology in 2018.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Cannibal who Came to Tea, by Arran Potts

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Cannibal Who Came to Tea
 
Hello I see you made it then?
I’m not too hard to find.
Between your teeth? Aperitif
Small pieces of my mind.
 
This spoon is finest silver
So you can gouge and pry;
I’ll never see, your love for me
As I give you the eye.
 
I’ll lend an ear, poke out my tongue,
If you can fit it in.
Then I propose, you pick my nose;
My gravy on your chin.
 
No-one knows that we are here,
I’m glad that we’re alone.
No need to cook, I’ll let you suck
The marrow from my bone.
 
Pull me apart, eat out my heart
Slurp up my blood and bowels.
I’m such a giver, please take my liver
Mop up my mess with towels.
 
Make some bacon from my back
Carve into my cheek;
Have a nibble, on my nipple
Chew me till I'm weak.
 
Now take my hand, you’re nearly done,
I see you have the guts.
It doesn’t hurt, and for dessert
I’ll let you eat my nuts.





Arran has friends who are poets and fancies a little bit of the glory and adulation they receive. He’ll also settle for someone saying, ‘That’s ok.’ He’s a husband, father and teacher. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Help, by Yash Seyedbagheri

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Help

a word shoved into a garbage can
you know? beneath Swedish meatballs and empty Pepsis
help is a man beneath the sun-colored walls of some coffee shop
carrying cardboard shame and coughing toxicity
help is
 
a flaccid man in Bermuda shorts
murmuring sudden defeat, you know the type
waddling down a street with divorce papers, smile an upside-down parabola
you’ve only explored five hundred options
but help is a triviality. you know
 
every problem has its own solution
so help yourself
brush away words stalking like crazed Lifetime psychos
delinquent, overdue, risk, management,
they’re just little crumbs
 
nothing that can’t be swept away
and waterboarded in Merlot
doused with a few episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm
for comparison. after all Larry David got a fatwa from the ayatollah right?
and if they rise to the surface----visualize positivity


a week out
a month
a year into the expanse of time
just never ask for help
call it assistance, don’t call it help
it’s feedback.
 
yes, you’re sinking into negativity, you’ve bounced too many times
liver rotting like Rasputin, eyes rife with rings
get feedback, evaluate the options
eat more TV dinners, don't eat onions, visualize, self-actualize, cut streaming services while
 
asking for encouragement, support, assistance
after all you’ve sunk a little lower
the numbers like icebergs, your sheets stale, space rife with dust
but it’s just support, fine it’s assistance
but it’s not help






Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work  has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The I.T. Guy, by Sarah James

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The I.T. Guy

Wired, he talks high speed
in a language beyond us,
our faces blank screens.

He e-valuates our systems 
with zip and drive,
recommends new leads.

He keeps our firm’s site
secure; but can’t help close
frozen windows.
 
His fast processing
mega memory leaves us lost
for Word’s.
 
His virus checks clear,
we return to work
with our hacking coughs.

And yes, when we call
to request more back-up,
sometimes he bytes.





Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six.  Good laughter is a medicine she’s not always found easy to come by. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Inside my Head, by Susan Lindsay

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Inside My Head                                                                           





After Grayson Perry, Channel 4 





 





Under the skull





shaped to be my own,





smooth curves I’d love





to run my hands along





when gone –





I do love bone –





 





wild circuitry.





All my fingers tip





flashing right in;





impulses deployed 





for digital dance





 





the beat of my feet,





heat and my heart’s 





thump, thump





never missing a beat





flowing red, taking





oxygen from the rise





and fall of my chest





cleared blood, 





                           dear kidneys





thank-you, back for more





once it’s done servicing





the sorting house, my brain





 





and, still not mentioned –





fuel, taste, the process of waste.





 





I can see





not only through skin





that tree –





100 billion neurons





dendritic spines, soma –





deluged with light





ALL around perceived





to sort, prioritise





register, file





for recall 





reaction





through changing





expressions, 





                       voice,





speech central 





sound: sound-box – check Ö





language, words – check Ö





tone- check Ö





mouth shape – check Ö





sufficient breath – check Ö





speak….  AND listen,





more again,





simultaneous





      transmission





in system central





 





who knows who,





what, is behind it





maybe the great





sky mother –





 





and monsters





God and the gods,





utopias, dystopias





vibrating paint box





clay, the earth





the moon and, yes,





the stars





 





my own rocket





control centre





blasts off 





in less than nanoseconds





24/7





 





grey matter matters





the gut’s great





processor                              





under the skin,





who needs cylinders





I’ve got brain





the world





 





inside my head.





 





 





Biography. 





Susan Lindsay … a most compelling and unique voice in Irish poetry, Eamonn Wall, at her February 2022 Reading, University Missouri-St. Louis. Milling the Air (2018) is Susan’s third collection from Doire Press.  Her work is published in journals, she has read at festivals and facilitates Conversations mediated by poetry. Blog: http://susanlindsayauthor.blogspot.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Why to run half marathon?, by Jorge Leiva Ardana

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Why to run a half marathon?
 
 
I don’t see myself in flashy clothes.
At my age, corduroy suits best,
why to run a half marathon?
 
There’s too many people
but I hate crowds,
why to run a half marathon?
 
I would skip training,
if there’s a chance of raining,
why to run a half marathon?
 
I prefer blisters
not self inflicted,
why to run a half marathon?
 
I can’t stand a ovation
when I’m last,
why to run a half marathon?
 
When all are gone
and I’m alone,
I have this thought.
 
Is it really worth
to run a half marathon?





Jorge Leiva is from South Spain and lived in Ireland for over eight years. Some of his work has appeared in A New Ulster, Skylight 47 Magazine, The Galway Advertiser, Drawn to the light press, Headstuff.org, Dodging the Rain, 2 Meter Review, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis and The Waxed Lemon. In 2019 he was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competition.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
So Surrey, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


So Surrey

I’m tired of being Surrey
with vowels of pure cut glass
surface good intentions
and Pilates perfect arse
 
I’m tired of being Surrey
with legs like licorice sticks
tipped into boots, DuBarry
where obese is still size six
 
I’m tired of being Surrey
with hair five shades of fair
driving blind to others
volunteering just to care
 
I’m tired of being Surrey
sunglasses half my face
Botox, fillers, collagen
and running out of space
 
but being here in Surrey
it’s full of all things green
Pesto sauce and olives
and kale to keep me lean
 
I think I’ll stay in Surrey
though not so near a beach
I’ll take up Bikram yoga
and do my roots, so pass the bleach.

 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
It Always Starts with Jumpers for Penguins, by Jennifer A. McGowan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


It Always Starts with Jumpers for Penguins
 
Stitch small.  You’re covering
apology, not sin. Light fabric’s best,
to match their bones.
 
Flash colours. British birds
are little brown jobbies. They yearn
to steal the jazz of peacocks, lay down
a riff of hypersonic tremolos. Cardinals
want dominos, to pass unnoticed.
                                                           
Mind the seams are on the outside.
You don’t want to ruffle feathers.







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Confessions of a Teenage Cigarette Smoker, by Sheila Jacob

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Confessions Of A Teenage Cigarette Smoker





 Woodbines were my first: the cheapest, the commonest. Whose Dad hadn’t angled one in his mouth, picked flecks of tobacco off his tongue as he stooped on the front path, mended the puncture on his pushbike?  Angela, my classmate, nicked some from her brother, invited me to her house in the school holidays. My throat raged. I dripped ash, burned a hole in my favourite dress. Never again, I vowed. Mum and Dad hadn’t suspected, knew I always rode home on the top deck of the bus where passengers flipped open packets of Players, Senior Service, Park Drive, swathed everyone in smoke. Four years later, in the Kardomah, New Street, I took drags of Silk Cut between sips of percolated coffee, shared steamy Sixth Form chat about D.H.Lawrence and The Rainbow. I made new friends at college. We pooled our Embassy Regal coupons, saved up for a hair dryer. I sampled Disque Bleu with my French pal Cathie, pretended I enjoyed the acrid taste, the dizzying after-kick. If I closed my eyes, I drifted on a pungent haze to Paris, the Metro, the pages of a Francoise Sagan novel. In my final year, I met a boy who loved me, bought me Lindt chocolate bars and shots of vodka and lime. My heart thumped when he placed two Dunhills between his lips, lit both cigarettes and handed one to me.





Sheila Jacob lives in N. E. Wales with her husband. Born and raised in Birmingham. she finds her Brummie ancestry a source of inspiration. She’s had poems published  in many U.K magazines and webzines, is working on her first pamphlet and hoping life begins at seventy-one.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Infinite reveries, by Pawel Markiewicz

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Infinite reveries

The loveliest dawn dwelleth in the bosom.
A mild magic word rests far below.
A balmy spark flying in the soul.
Homeland would be charmed!
I love slight journey towards stars.
I will wing conjuringly moonwards,
where the most reflective poem is made.
I long for dreaming angel,
who donates oneself – for your wings.
Most fervent fancy be unfolded!
Attractive muse, that attends me.





Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poem.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
They hire a Badminton Champ to Comment on Wimbledon, by Sarah Lawson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


THEY HIRE A BADMINTON CHAMP TO COMMENT ON WIMBLEDON
 
First I must explain some crucial things:
Yes, there are racquets strung with strings,
But what you are about to see
Would shock you without some notes from me.
The racquets are clunky in the extreme—
They must handle like a wooden beam.
The shuttlecock becomes a ball, completely round,
And the heavy nets reach to the ground!
This ball can bounce before you hit it
Or not, if you’re fast enough to get it.
The game goes on for hours outside in the sun
And you will probably fall asleep before it’s done.
If you think the game sounds arcane and boring,
Just wait until you hear about the scoring!
 





Sarah Lawson, Anglo-American, lives in London and has always delighted in stringing words together. Educated at Indiana University and the University of Glasgow, among a few other places. Besides poetry, she has written a play, a novel, and two memoirs plus some translations, mostly from French.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Tania and Tim the Cat, by David Ludford

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Tania and Tim the Cat

 

Troubled Tania hugged her cat

And gave his head a gentle pat

“I’m worried, Tim, about the moon

Surely it will fall down soon?

And then the sun, today so bright

Where on earth does it go at night?

I know you’ll think me a silly child

But thoughts like these just drive me wild.

I can’t ask mum, I can’t ask dad

About these funny thoughts I’ve had.”

Tim considered her worries and fears

Flicked his tail and twitched his ears.

“Dry your tears, no need for that

And listen to a wise old cat.

The moon when high, the moon when low,

Is where it is because God said so.

And when he speaks thus, from afar,

Things will stay just where they are.

The sun when past the church and steeple

Goes to visit other people

Our day’s their night, our night’s their day

When dark we sleep, when light we play

It’s all just part of earth’s great history

The way things are, there’s no big mystery.

Now I see I’ve made you smile

So now I’ll go and sleep a while.

Go out to play and have some fun,

I’m a wise old cat whose work is done.”


Author bio:

David Ludford is a writer from Nuneaton. His short works of horror, science fiction and poetry have appeared at a variety of locations both online and in print.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ballet Dancer, by Lesley Quayle

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Ballet Dancer
 
More like a farmer’s wife
than a ballet dancer.
 
I know a farmer’s wife,
delicate as a fawn,
voice soft as moss,
face a sun-tipped flower.
 
I know a ballet dancer
who could squeeze the life
from the strongest man
using only her thighs.
 
Lesley Quayle is a prize-winning poet, an editor, folk/blues singer and co-founder of 4Word Poetry Press. (https://www.4word.org/about/) Her next collection, Invisible Woman, is due out later this year from Yaffle. She is also a retired sheep farmer.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
An Archaeology Student Thinks about Sex in Maes Howe Chambered Tomb, by Tonnie Richmond

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


An Archaeology Student Thinks about Sex in Maes Howe Chambered Tomb

She’s aware that Gavin’s staring at her bum 
as she bends double, clambers along
the long dark passageway into the tomb. 
The others follow, cluster round, eager to learn.

Her lecturer begins his talk; all about midwinter 
when this tomb aligns with the setting sun.
He offers theories - 
about it being a humongous womb,
the sun-god penetrating the long stone vagina,
rays striking the back wall, impregnating Mother Earth,
ensuring fertility and good harvests in the year to come.

As theories go, it’s pretty good. 
Gavin’s standing close, she feels his body heat
in this claustrophobic chamber.
All this talk of penetration, sexual congress overwhelms;
her nipples tingle. She moves, imperceptibly,
leans in towards him. Feels his breath upon her neck.

————————-

Tonnie Richmond has, since she retired from working in Local Government, spent her time either doing archeology in Orkney  or writing poems. As the digging gets harder, she finds writing a slightly easier choice. She has had several poems published and is currently working on a collection of poems about Orkney. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Queen’s Secret Siberian Sisters, by Bryan Franco

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 












Bryan Franco is from Brunswick, Maine, USA. He is published in the US, Australia, England, Ireland, and Scotland, has featured for poetry events in the US, Canada, England, Ireland, and Scotland; hosts Café Generalissimo Open Mic; his book Everything I Think Is All In My Mindwas published in 2021.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Adjusting Attitude at High Altitude, by Clive Donovan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


ADJUSTING ATTITUDE AT HIGH ALTITUDE

My flight instructions are arrived;
My centimetred oblong allowance
Measured, sorted and obeyed;
My zippered kit of pastes, gels, lubes,
Creams, liquids, ready to inspect.
I know they'll nick my water off me
And, of course, bombs, and all components of bombs,
Are disqualified. But what's this?
An interesting list of new prohibitives:
'Knuckle-dusters, clubs, coshes, rice-flails,
Num-chucks, kubotans and kabusaunts.'
The dictionary is defining kubotans and kabusaunts
As 'Instruments of attitude adjustment'.

So assuming confiscation protocol is in its place,
We shall be flying safe. The pilot will eat his ready-meal
At high altitude with his attitude firmly not-adjusted
Holding steady to his pre-determined course
And we shall all be peaceable, intact, secure, serene and well
Immune from num-chucks and their clubbing cousins
Till we land.





Clive Donovan is a Totnes poet, widely published in magazines and with a first collection, The Taste of Glass, published by Cinnamon Press. At open mics he likes to see people laugh and cry at the same time.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Alternative Weather Fronts, by Sarah Dale

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Alternative Weather Fronts
(most not mentioned in the shipping forecast)
 
Erotic fronts are twerking
round both poles
whipping their hailstoned g-strings
into every nook and cranny
of the coast.
 
Erratic fronts have forgotten
to take their medication,
consequently it’s raining gin
and the snow is lemon sorbet
with water biscuits.
 
Exotic fronts are offering
a massage service
to ship wrecked mariners
who it’s likely will decide to stay
at sea.
 
Esoteric fronts have discovered
surprising facts that are now written
for everyone to read
in towering cumuli
of clouds.
 
Ecstatic fronts are dizzy
with delight, causing spontaneous
dancing in the streets
spreading blissful havoc
world wide.
 
Emetic fronts vomit –
they’re best avoided
by staying indoors.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Blob-Fish, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Blob-Fish 
 
Some people claim the Lion as their Spirit animal, 
because of its bravery. 
Some people choose a cheetah, 
for its speed. 
Others choose a Llama, 
because of its habit of spitting. 
Politicians choose Ostriches 
because they bury their heads in the sand. 
I would choose the Blob-Fish. 
Patron saint of grumbling. 
The living embodiment of the phrase, 
‘Cheer up, it may never happen’ 
because people assume that IT is always a bad thing. 
Supposing though, just for a moment, that IT 
is a good thing, and being told it may never happen 
only re-enforces the negativity. 
 
The Blob-Fish was never once imbued with looks or charisma, 
designer fashions, or even a useful role to play in the ocean, 
knowing that it will be the punch line of a joke, 
happier fish will tell him to cheer up, 
when it is just his resting face, 
and maybe if it had a better name, 
it would feel better about itself. 
 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Virtual Afterlife, by Alan Garrigan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Virtual Afterlife
 
By 2122, Facebook VR had, grown to involve—
500 million, accounts. Of dead people—
Meta, exclusively levelled,
On figural profits. zero-sum outcomes,
Heaping currency on your posthumous avatar.
 
By 2122, immersive dynamics, Rylan robotics and Kuramoto model,
Brought eternal equipoise of the cell—
Digital reanimation, made possible, through VR multi-verse —
Technological singularity, deterministic ontology—
Wonderous miracle of virtual afterlife.
 
By 2122, Moore’s law and Deus ex Machina,
Proven right—should have heeded Engels and Marx,
Even Televangelists were correct,
Money can buy a ticket to heaven.
Logical binary control structure: defunded species designed for hell.

By 2122, loop algorithms, going berserk — 
Hobbesian leviathan, Homo Futuris—death destroyer of worlds—
the novel ape’s, dystopian trick, brassbound mastery—
Mystical Markov chain, myopic, ceteris paribus, homogeneity.

By 2122, sociobiological evolution—Darwin’s curse,
Unfashions the homo sapient.
Today —commercialisation, utilitarianism, gentrification—
Tomorrow—outmoded human chondriosomes.

Money buys both respect and right—
But money means a losing side, which side are you on?
Is there a choice? —start piling cash— monetary conduit—become Homo Futuris.






Alan is a Master of Arts graduate (set to feature in the upcoming LGBTQIA+ Anthology Peace in the Valley, 2022. He has also had poems featured in Hullwrites magazine (University of Hull), Poetry during lockdown (UCD) and Washington Square Review (upcoming). He has also featured poems in Consilience and BASCE journals. Alan is also a dog person.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
If I were interested in the history of the wireless, by Tonnie Richmond

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


If I were interested in the history of the wireless

I’d  make the effort to visit the Orkney Wireless Museum.
I’d marvel at the early crystal sets and cats’ whiskers
and admire the styling of the radios from the 1930s.

I’d applaud  the early ones made from Bakelite 
and laugh aloud at the novelty transistor radios
saved for posterity from the 1960s. 

If I were interested,  I’d  look in awe 
at the WW2 radio-in-a-suitcase and the one 
from the cockpit of a Spitfire aeroplane.

Oh, I love the radio, I listen almost every day,  
BBC’s radio 4 is my very favourite station. 
But I honestly can’t say I’ve ever have the yen, 

when visiting Kirkwall to see the sights 
or  go Tesco and and the butchers shop,
to spend any time at all in the OWM.





Tonnie Richmond has, since she retired from working in Local Government, spent her time either doing archeology in Orkney  or writing poems. As the digging gets harder, she finds writing a slightly easier choice. She has had several poems published and is currently working on a collection of poems about Orkney. 


					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Jacqueline Wilson Lives Under my Bed, by Paula Gilfillan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Jacqueline Wilson Lives Under My Bed

Jacqueline Wilson lives under my bed,
eating cherries and berries as she
reads my stories scribbled on crumpled
paper. At a book signing, I
lured her into my wheely bag
with a tin of stuffed olives,
for I’m a fan as great
as any hurricane. Then, secreted her
beneath the squeaky springs and beside
the dusty socks. But every so
often, she grabs my ankle with
her ring laden fingers and pleads
to let her go. I reply,
‘One more story. Just one more.’

Bio:

Paula lives near Lockerbie with her family and an overly chatty cat. She likes scientific stuff, zombie films and books, and is partial to a slice of cake. She blogs on Twitter @paula_nicolson and Facebook as DeckyWriting.







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Russian Roulette, by Aoife Cunningham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 



Russian roulette 

 We watch in horror, 
This game of Russian roulette.

A land painted red,
By the political artist.
The remaining trees bore witness
to the stares of man’s darkness.
With our sons in caskets.

They served with fidelity and fought with valour.
Like lambs sent to slaughter.
Fathers and brothers fighting their neighbour’s.

History offers hindsight but it seems to duplicates with greed.

There won’t be a eulogy for this lie we call democracy.
 As orders uttered from leaders,
With what they believe are sainted breaths.
But are really exhalations and perorations
Of Satan on earth here to challenge your birth
And right to breathe. 
If you don’t fit their template of acceptability 
Or argue their culpability in this holocaust
It will come with the ultimately cost
Of liberty.

The patriotic fabric burns.
And we slowly learn,
The regression of our progression is down to man.


Get Outlook for iOS


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Lent in a Time of Coronavirus, by Sharon Larkin

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Lent in a Time of Coronovirus
     ‘The Wet Market Sources of Covid-19: Bats and Pangolins have an Alibi’ 
 
A forty day diet can focus the mind
flatten the curves and trim the behind.
So, in choosing food for a modest dinner
to boost the spirit and make tums thinner,
why not just opt for tomato soup
and leave the bats to dive and swoop?
 
It would be best to eliminate snacks
to fit back into our jeans and slacks
but if the munchies come upon us
and we’re sick of all that hummus, 
for our elevensies or for our tiffin,
let's not p-p-pick up a pangolin.
 
Do you want to stay asymptomatic
of a nasty virus and global pandemic?
Well, here’s some advice, long overdue, 
when making casserole, hotpot or stew,
a couple of hints and easy quick wins –
just leave out the bats and the pangolins.
 
Taming the flesh refines the spirit,
in time for lots of Easter Eggs, innit?
So as we discipline mind and body,
to purge the flesh of all our gluttóny
and deliver ourselves from beastly sins,
let’s set free the bats and the pangolins.
 
 
With thanks to Professor David Macdonald, University of Oxford Science Blog, Jun 2021
https://www.ox.ac.uk/news/science-blog/wet-market-sources-covid-19-bats-and-pangolins-have-alibi
 





Sharon Larkin’s poems often begin with a visual stimulus but soon become ‘infected’ with psychosocial concerns, evident in ‘Interned at the Food Factory’ (Indigo Dreams, 2019) and ‘Dualities’ (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020). She runs Eithon Bridge Publications https://eithonbridge.com, edits ‘Good Dadhood’ ezine https://gooddadhood.com and blogs at ‘Coming up with the Words’ https://sharonlarkinjones.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
15 Love, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


15 Love

Tennis is a game,
where they talk about love,
but spare none for the ball.
The thwack of the racket,
played politely by vicars,
with more than the scriptures
on their minds.

We are left out for the dog,
when our playing days
are little remembered.
We are mouldering,
greener than jealousy.
Chewed up,
spat out,
over the line,
under the net,
one last game,
for old time's sake.



					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
It’s Fine, by Phil Huffy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


It’s Fine
A question to be answered, please:
Why do most men avoid M.D.’s?
 
At thoughts of office calls we scoff
unless there’s something falling off.
 
And if our ankle’s had a twist
we hop around and then insist
 
that it’s improving very well
although, of course, it hurts like hell.
 
Sinus pressures, nasty fevers,
failures of most pain relievers,
 
bellies sad and oozing sores
propel us not through clinic doors.
 
The answer to this riddle, though
is well concealed although we know
 
that such recalcitrant displays
are just one part of manly ways.

      first published by Light Poetry Magazine





Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table, casting a wide net as to form and substance. His work has appeared in dozens of journals and anthologies, including Schuykill Valley Review, Eunoia,  Lighten Up Online, Orchards Poetry,  The Lyric, andseveral haiku publications. Phil’s other interests are cycling, camping, pet care, potato chips, moonlight, and motor trips.  He has published three collections of his poems and is proud to have recorded one of them (Magic Words) as an audiobook.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Bible as a Haiku, by Mark Ramsden

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Bible as a Haiku

Grumpy old God: GRIM.
Hippy son hailed, nailed, prevails. 
Zombie’s gang. News: GOOD!





I was a professional musician for decades, writing and performing half a hit single, which did not result in fame and fortune. I was also a highly unprofessional, alcoholic addict, who eventually dabbled in transgender sex work. Published work includes a widely critically acclaimed trilogy for Serpent’s Tail, more recently two novels for Fahrenheit Press and a story in Outcast Press’s sex work anthology Slut Vomit.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Death Becomes Me, by Julian Matthews

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Death Becomes Me

Hey Death!
When you come a-knocking, will you step out of the darkness and punch me in the face?
Or will you come from behind, tap me on the shoulder and say, Boo!?
Will you kindly whisper in my ear as I lay down to sleep?
Or will you drown me when I am in too deep?

Maybe I will see you coming in the distance, your long shadow growing shorter and shorter
And I will put my house in order and greet you at the door
Or maybe i will try to shut you out
And jump out a back window --

Perhaps, you will come as my breath grows shallow
Sucking the air from me at every deep pause
Maybe the grump in me will swallow up all my dry humour
And infect those around me like an angry tumour

Maybe you will chew me from the inside out
A slow, growing entity that would go unnoticed
Until it's too late  -- and I collapse like a hollow, empty shell
An insidious inception into several levels of my own private hell

Hey Death! 
When you do come --  early or late
Just don't bait me and let me wait
No prank calls, please. No creeping up on me!
No last-call dying disease tease!

I know I cannot change what's already fated
But it's never too late to exorcise and heal all this hatred
And Death, I have a bucket list now before I kick it
So let me go about my business and just fulfill it, ok?

I know I fear you not at this final, windy bend
As long as there's some wit left at this twit's end 
Don't curse me with any "sudden unforeseen circumstance"
Instead let the last twirl of this mortal coil be a whirling dervish dance!

Julian Matthews is a former journalist finding new ways to express himself through poetry, fiction, memoir and essays. His work has been published in the American Journal of Poetry, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Borderless Journal, Spilling Cocoa on Martin Amis, and various other literary publications. He is a minority based in Malaysia. Link: linktr.ee/julianmatthews


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Sutra, by Eddie Gibbons

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


SUTRA
 
I’ve never had casual sex.
No, it’s always been frantic –
in the pantry, in the kitchen,
up in the attic.
 
But frankly, those antics
had to stop when I reached 60.
Nothing nifty or athletically
tricksy fitted the bill.
 
The new drill involved 
a bucket of pills, creams, 
an ocean of lotion just to 
get a semblance of motion.
 
Then I discovered the art
of Tantra. That long-sought-after
calmer sutra.

Goodbye to hectic, hello to Tantric-
two weeks to prepare for a kiss?

Bliss


Eddie Gibbons has six published poetry collections. 'What They Say About You' was shortlisted for the 'Scottish Poetry Book of the Year', 2011. He was a prize winner in the inaugural 'Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition', 2008. His latest collection is available here-Roughly Speaking (leamingtonbooks.com)
Twitter- @1Eddie_Gibbons


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Redefining Ireland, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Redefining Ireland
“Ireland must reassess military power” Simon Coveney
 
In the absence of Seamus Heaney,
if Ireland is to be renowned for anything other
than bog water, cabbage and
our negligible corporate tax rate,
we must invest in at least one
intercontinental ballistic missile
which until the necessary
Plutonium – 239 gets here
we’ll fill with hydrogen sulphide
reinforced regularly
courtesy of our world famous piggeries
and drag it to every St. Patrick’s Day parade
from Castlerea to Bantry
because people need something to celebrate.
 
Instead of the perfect simile
we’ll offer annihilation
for somewhere roughly the size of Iceland.
Instead of metaphors we’ll give you death
immediate or lingering
(terms and conditions will be applied
no liability admitted).
Instead of the occasional Haiku
we’ll build a leprechaun Hiroshima
put it in a box
then skulk the Earth
looking for someone to drop it on.
 
KEVIN HIGGINS

 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Lecher, by S.F. Wright

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 



LECHER
 
Genose
Had a goatee,
A large stomach.
A bible-thumping
Christian,
He’d sprinkle
Conversation
With:
“God sees all,”
Or,
“The lord giveth as taketh away.”
If someone said,
“Jesus Christ,”
Genose would say,
“It’s not his fault.”
 
Despite his Christianity,
Genose, 55, hit on
18-year-olds
Who worked at
The bookstore’s café.
 
I’m sure the girls
Thought him creepy,
But felt bad;
Hence,
No one reported him.
 
Once,
Genose got hung up
On an 18-yr-old
Blonde-haired girl;
Despite there being
No evidence that
The girl was interested,
He was heartbroken
When she told him that
She’d prefer if Genose
Never speak to her again.
 
In the breakroom afterwards,
Genose
Took large bites
Of a reheated
Philly cheesesteak sandwich.
Grease trickled down his chin,
His eyes wet.
 
“She was the one,” he said.
I punched out at the timeclock.
“She would’ve been perfect.”
 
I didn’t know what to say;
I mumbled something
About things like this happening;
Then walked out to my car.
 
On the way to
The hamburger place
Across the street,
I thought of Genose—
And felt
Distant disgust
Yet relief;
And wondered
Which was worse:
To end up like Genose
And be aware of it;
Or to become someone
Like Genose
And be so delusional
That you’d think that
A pretty 18-yr-old
Would be receptive
To your advances;
That you were as normal
As everyone else.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Beach Body Ready by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Beach Body Ready 

The human body is never really 
Beach body ready. 
It is designed for rain, 
for offices, for chairs and sofas. 
So if I was to get a body, 
ready for the Beach, 
I would develop a Crab’s body. 
 
A hard outer shell, 
two razor-sharp pincers, 
I would grow stalks for my eyes, 
learn to walk sideways, 
and always look angry. 
It would be brilliant for the beach, 
but a dead loss in nightclubs, car parks, 
night classes, 
making friends would be difficult, 
and Line Dancing would be impossible. 
 
Chairs would be uncomfortable, 
young children would point and stare, 
and it doesn’t matter how good a hard shell is, 
it never protects you from the slings and arrows 
of careless laughter.  


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Should I Take my Bumbershoot With Me?, by Rodney Wood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


SHOULD I TAKE MY BUMBERSHOOT WITH ME?

should I take my bumbershoot with the crook handle pimped with a sterling silver knob
& a rainbow of Swarovski crystals?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a sword, walking or shooting stick?
should I take my bumbershoot that covers the face of the newly dead?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a plant pot or a vase for hydrangeas?
should I take my bumbershoot that enters the forest of other bumbershoots?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a clumsy paint brush used with a puddle?
should I take my bumbershoot that stop drips falling on my head when painting the ceiling?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a film screen for say Fast & Furious 27?
should I take my bumbershoot whose ribs are used for drying my large smalls?
should I take my bumbershoot that makes me fly like Mary Poppins?
should I take my bumbershoot that points to the person responsible for whatever?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a symbol of protection & shelter?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s the gelatinous body of a jellyfish?
should I take my bumbershoot that breaks my fall when jumping from the 3rd floor?
should I take my bumbershoot that hangs from the ceiling as a decoration?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s covered with notes & phone numbers?
should I take my bumbershoot that holds rubbish & discarded poems?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s used when I’m a detective & under cover?
should I take my bumbershoot that cannot takes punches & just folds up?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a temporary headstone?
should I take my bumbershoot that protects me from bird shit?
should I take my bumbershoot that captures the sound of clapping?
should I take my bumbershoot that frightens tigers, dogs & cats?
should I take my bumbershoot that has a crest above its ferrule?
should I take my bumbershoot that prevents anyone seeing a stolen kiss?
should I take my bumbershoot that diffuses the light in a photo studio?
should I take my bumbershoot that danced with Gene Kelly & Rihanna?
should I take my bumbershoot is a lover, friend or partner with a wedding ring?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a boat?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a shopping bag?
should I take my bumbershoot that deflects bullets?
should I take my bumbershoot that’s a baton I lead parades or funerals with?
should I take my bumbershoot that displays magazines like Penthouse or Marxism Today?
should I take my bumbershoot that is always under the weather?
should I take my bumbershoot that shades me from the sun?
should I take my bumbershoot that keeps me dry when it’s raining?

But today I'm going by car to the shop to buy some milk
so I don’t need to take my bumbershoot





Rodney Wood lives in Farnborough, co-hosts a monthly open mic at The Lightbox in Woking and has published two pamphlets :Dante Called You Beatrice, and When Listening Isn’t Enough.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Ballad of Laurel Blaney, by David Ludford

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


The Ballad Of Laurel Blaney

 

Old Tally was a minstrel
He wandered free and wild
And one day he met Annie
And Annie bore his child.
 
Now Laurel loved to play, she did
She loved to fool around
But went too near the river
And Laurel went and drowned.
 
Now if you should see Laurel
Just run away, just go
For Laurel’s now the devil’s girl
She’ll drag you down below.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.
 
Now think of young Jack, a boy
Who loved to dive and swim
Just think back for a moment
You may remember him.
Jack he was an active boy
Yes, swimming he loved most
He wasn’t scared of monsters
He’d never seen a ghost.
Jack stood on the riverbank
One lovely summer’s day
When Laurel grabbed him by the foot
And swept him clean away.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.
 
Remember too poor Jenny
Just strolling back from town
A shortcut by the river
She hadn’t meant to drown
A bully boy from school she saw
A silly girl he thought her
He rushed and pushed
She slipped and slid
And fell into the water.
No Jenny hadn’t meant to drown
Wicked Laurel dragged her down.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.
 
The purpose of these tales, my friends
That make you shake and shiver
Just beware
And take great care
When you are near the river.
For every tale, old or new
There has to be a moral
And my advice
I won’t give twice
Remember wicked Laurel.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.

End


Dave Ludford is a writer from Nuneaton, Warwickshire, where not many writers come from. Except George Eliot. His short works of horror and science fiction have appeared in a variety of online locations.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
They Will All Take Us With Them in the End, (After Tom Lehrer), by Neil Fulwood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


THEY WILL ALL TAKE US WITH THEM IN THE END
(after Tom Lehrer)

When you click into your news app
it’s not comforting that what’s hap-
penning out there is global brinkmanship.
Europe’s status quo’s been ballsed up
by a goon who wants to call up
every missile that he’s got and let them rip.

But don’t you worry.

No more Tory lockdown scandals,
no more guff about Prince Andrew,
or price hikes, NHS, or student debt;
if BoJo, Biden and Vlad P
push this shit past DefCon 3,
you won’t care about bent coppers in the Met.

‘Cause they will all take us with them in the end,
when diplomacy’s been fucked off round the bend
and a jab of that red button
vends total world destruction -
you’d be “M.A.D.” not to know how this one ends.

They will all take us with them in the end,
loudly claiming they had something to defend.
Was it a patch of foreign soil
or the current price of oil?
Did the Footsie close ahead right at the end?

Oh they will all take us with them to the grave,
telling lies about the lives they tried to save.
There’ll be no more cant and spin
with the planet all done in
and no world leaders left to rant and rave.

Down by the old maelstrom,
Liz Truss is wondering what went wrong.

And they will all drag us down with them in flames,
with no scapegoat left behind to take the blame.
We’ll finally be united
when that fireball’s ignited,
nearly eight billion unrecorded names.

They will all drag us down to dust and ash, 
the victims of an act both cruel and rash,
dead as some assassin’s mark
care of a pissed off oligarch
deprived of his wads of laundered cash.

Of course they’ll take us with them in the end,
they’d do the same if they had their time again, 
so hum a Missa Solemnis
just before that Yellow Sun hits
and the farewell bash concludes at Number Ten.

You will all go directly to your version of heaven.
There will be no hero to save the day, no 007.

For they will all take us with them in the end,
every man, woman, child, foe and friend.
When history overtakes us
and we all turn slightly vaporous,
yes they all will take us with them,
oh they all will take us with them,
yes they all will take us with them in the end.







Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, England, where he still lives and works. He has three collections out with Shoestring Press: No Avoiding It, Can’t Take Me Anywhere and Service Cancelled. A collection of political satires, Mad Parade, is due for publication with Smokestack Books in July 2022. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Me and Joanna Lumley, by Jennifer A. McGowan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Me and Joanna Lumley
 
I caught Joanna Lumley reaching
through the open window of a bakery for bagels
crisp and hot and frankly
 
much tastier than any dreams
that had consumed us
in our adult lives (as I said to Joanna)
 
and she agreed, then added, “Except for the Gurkhas.
I’m proud of that,” and I agreed,
then at the corner we went our separate ways
 
to stare at the sky, to dream of mountains,
of hot butter running everywhere, equally.





Jennifer spends as much time as she can in the 15th century, but comes back for hot showers and bagels.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Happiest Days, by Finola Scott

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 



The happiest days

Do you remember gym, Amanda?
Do you remember a gym?
And the toilets that smell of piss and booze
and the games we play so scared to loose?
And the fleas that tease everyone's knees
and the cheers and jeers of the lower years?
And the years and years of our growing fears
The casual division of girls here boys there
The binary allocation without any care

And the years and years of our quiet tears
at the thump on the floor for more and more?
And the linking hands and the birl and swirl
of the girls dreaming and wild romancing
on those mats rolled back for social dancing
Do you remember the cotton and crimplene
and the boys' hot glances in between?
The wanting and waiting to be chosen
and those hard shoulders so very frozen

Do you remember a gym Amanda?
Never again Amanda
only the handbags laid on the floor
and the drum beat and bass line's solid roar
as we strut and show we know the score 
Those string vests sweaty hands no more
Only the bright laughter of fierce women
who stamp and chant that it's raining men
Only the boom as we own the room





Finola Scott’s poems are scattered on the wind as well as on posters, tapestries and magazines. Her work is in The High Window, New Writing Scotland, I,S&T and Lighthouse. Red Squirrel Press publish her pamphlet Much left unsaid. Dreich publish Count the ways


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Combat Cheese, by Sally McHugh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Combat Cheese

 
On the shores of Lough Ree
(although not known for its Fromageries),
solidified cheese surfed through the airwaves-
a lightning strike to the head of Queen Maeve.
As she stretched and bathed in full display,
she was crushed by the cunning of curds and whey;
aged-fresh Maeve, wrinkled white to grey rind,
was struck via sling (it’s prehistoric times).
Was the chalky meteorite of creamy Camembert
or of an ancient Brie - with a buttery flair?
Perhaps it was a local fromage blanc
or a full-bodied shaving of Parmesan?
How about a goatmilk flat white from Port du Salut
or a Provolone vegan with a vodka hue
or a chewy Caerphilly à la castle cellar store
or a blue ram’s rocket filled with Roquefort?
Whatever churned concoctions prevailed
and imbued this calcium-infused cocktail,
Maeve’s aged, matured, rapturous reign
crumbled - by combat cheese to the brain.





Sally McHugh lives in Co. Galway. Her poetry has appeared in ROPES2018, The Blue Nib Literary Magazine (2019), Pendemic (2020) and Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis (2021). She also likes to dabble in art and calligraphy. Twitter:@fordofthekings


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Carrot, by Jenny Robb

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 







Jenny Robb is published in online and print magazines, and anthologies.  Magazine publications include: Ink, Sweat and Tears; Dream Catcher; Prole; Orbis and The Lighthouse Journal. Anthologies include: Black Lives Matter; Bloody Amazing; An Insubstantial Universe and Despite Knowing. Her debut collection, The Doll’s Hospital, (Yaffle Press), is out soon.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Monitoring my body, by Carla Scarano D’Antonio

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Monitoring my body
 
I don’t know when it happened,
the slowing down of the limbs
the desiccation of skin
the pains breaking in me.
I borrowed the body of a spider,
the waist plump
the back arched
and legs and arms thinning.
My hair changed too
from straight and black
to crispy and grey
like my Sicilian grandfather.
Impossible to revert.
 
Inside I feel the same as before
slimmer and in shape.
In my dreams I fit in size 10-12
the mirror reflects 14-16.
Nothing is safe.
 
This fragmentation is my doing
invoking change.
The days spiral down
like yarn unravelling in the wind
spinning a shapeless web.
 
Thank you for my life flowing.
Thank you for the years that will come. 





Carla Scarano D’Antonio obtained her MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and has published her creative work in magazines and reviews. Her short collection Negotiating Caponata was published in July 2020. She was awarded a PhD on Margaret Atwood’s work at the University of Reading in April 2021.





http://www.carlascaranod.co.uk/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Wrinkles.UK, by Rachael Clyne

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 







Rachael Clyne – from Glastonbury, is widely published in journals and anthologies. Her prizewinning collection, Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams), explores our broken relationship with nature. Her pamphlet, Girl Golem (www.4word.org), concerns her Jewish migrant heritage and sense of otherness. @RachaelClyne1


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Elon’s Folly, by Sue Spiers

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Elon’s Folly

 
It’s tall as four whales or Victorian folly.
A knob at the top like the bud of a lily.
The rocket, some tell us, resembles a willy.
We snigger and wink at the billionaire wally.
 
It’s thrust into space with no weight in its belly,
the glamorous passengers wobble like jelly,
all posed for their show on terrestrial telly.
 
He’s looking for Martians, like Mulder and Scully,
to work in his factories and make him more lolly.
He’s touting the rides to rich guys on a jolly,
returns on investment, exploiting space fully.
 
His moon shots drop junk in its silvery valleys
and boosters’ debris falls dark-side without tally
His ship spills its drool in a rocket-fuel chalice.






Sue Spiers lives in Hampshire. Her poems have appeared on Spilling Cocoa, Ink, Sweat & Tears and Atrium and in print with Acumen, Dream Catcher, The North and Obsessed with Pipework. Sue tweets @spiropoetry. Don’t follow me, I’m lost too.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Circular, by Sharon Phillips

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Circular

when the exit road was blocked
and a sign said men at work
although no men were working
and I couldn’t find the diversion
and the ring road kept on turning

when my satnav turned itself off
and the map from the passenger seat
was flapping in the footwell
and my armpits pricked with sweat
and the ring road kept on turning

when I’d forgotten the address
and I couldn’t find my phone
which had vanished from my bag
and I wanted to go home
but the ring road still kept turning





Sharon stopped writing poetry in 1976 and started again forty years later, after retiring from her career in education. Her poems have been published online and in print. Originally from Bristol, Sharon now lives in Otley, West Yorkshire.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Yes, the post-op went swimmingly, by Beth McDonough

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Yes, the post-op went swimmingly

May I say... an excellent job! 
Elegant at the bedside, she re-examined,
re-admired her neatly-stapled line,
on yet to purple flesh. 
Damned good work!
You'll be in a bikini soon!

Residual anaesthesia and brocht-upness
kept back my awful truth. I'm more
a regulation one-piece sort of gal.
I gagged my thought-reply.
Doctor, had you carved some Celtic knot
across my abdomen, I'd be chuffed.
At last the fucking cyst is gone.






Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in Magma, Causeway, Gutter and elsewhere; she reviews in DURA.Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Naked Lecturer of Chorlton Cum Hardy, by Michelle Diaz

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


He targeted Catholics, female and busty,
he donned floral shirts, his hairline was dusty.

He invited me back for an innocent drink,
when my coffee arrived I was ever so pink.

For I came eye to eye with what looked like a nose,
but noses don't dangle. It hit me. I froze.

I tried to ignore his distinct lack of cloth,
when he asked me, quite brazenly,
Do you fancy a bath?

My coffee cup fell, up jumped a splinter.
The silence that followed was worthy of Pinter.

Then he wiggled and jiggled and willied about,
turned red in the face, then let out a shout;

I'd have thought there was more chance of winning the lottery
than slicing my love sack on Portmeirion pottery.
This damn piece of crockery's stuck in my scrotum!
His penis resembled a freshly felled totem.

I wanted to help, so I looked for a bandage
to dress his split bits and damaged appendage.
But my searching was fruitless, all I found was a sock.
And what use is that to a honeycombed cock?

Defeated, I left. I suppose it was rude,
but I'd started to tire of this fool in the nude.

So beware all young things of lecturer guile.
If he asks you to dinner, just say with a smile;

No thank you professor, I'd rather be dead.
If you value your testicles, quit, while you're ahead...






Michelle Diaz has been published in numerous poetry publications both online and in print. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dancing Boy’ was published by Against the Grain Poetry Press in 2019.





She is currently working on her first collection.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
My Son Teaches me How to Dress, by Jinny Fisher

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


My Son Teaches Me How to Dress

Last week, I staged a major wardrobe de-clutter, 
expelling my dated clothes: velvet Biba frocks 
flopped, sulking, in a heap; a purple boa
shed a turkeyful of feathers on the stairs. 
Platform over-thighs, Mary Janes, and Uggs 
trotted off to The Very Vintage Shop.

Last year, you bought sixty T-shirts at one go
from spreadshirt.com— all with geeky formulae 
and puns. In astro-language I can’t speak
or type, they jokify your starry mind
and meme the passion of your working life:
a massive telescope, its sweeping audit of the skies.

I can play that game: an online jaunt to Zazzle 
yields rainbow fabrics, wordy slogans in fancy fonts. 
I stuff my basket—fifteen hoodies and twenty tees 
should be enough to see me out: Grammar Ninja, 
The Oxford Comma, and Let’s Eat, Grandma.





Jinny Fisher lives in Glastonbury. She is published in numerous print and online magazines and has been successful in national and international competitions — including first runner-up in Prole Laureate 2020. In 2019, V. Press published her pamphlet The Escapologist. She is Principal Pusher of The Poetry Pramhttps://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=The%20Poetry%20Pram





Twitter: @MsJinnifer


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Appearances of the Loch Ness Monster, by Neil Fulwood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


APPEARANCES OF THE LOCH NESS MONSTER

“They spoke ... in a desultory fashion of current events. The news from abroad, events in the world of sports, the latest reappearance of the Loch Ness monster.”
- Agatha Christie: ‘And Then There Were None’


The latest reappearance of the Loch Ness monster
was at a book launch by a sceptic
who had scientifically proven its non-existence.
The old saw about no such thing 
as bad publicity was applicable here: the book
sold more than it might have
without the headlines and hasty, half-blurred photos
but the author wasn’t best pleased.

Prior to that, it had been spotted in a phone booth,
a call to a bookie to place a bet
on its own newsworthiness. Whether the bookie
paid out has gone unrecorded
and sightings of it dropping in at the Dog & Duck
on the way back for a swift half
and a whisky chaser made a minor buzz on Twitter
but remain unsubstantiated. And prior

to that, well it had pulled one of its remain-hidden-
from-the-eyes-of-the-world stunts,
decades having past since it was noticed
at a White City dog race, wearing
a trilby and a trench coat, a rolled up copy
of the local sporting fixtures paper
tucked under one fin. Some say it had a fag on,
others that it was a pipe smoker.

All so long ago it might have been in black and white.
Those were the days it preferred, anyway:
stentorian Movietone voiceovers, fleapits fogged 
with cigarette smoke, bored usherettes
doing the intermission rounds. Walking back
through misty streets, the last bus
swallowed by distance. Night falling as the monster 
disappears into familiar waters.





Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham where he still lives and works. He has published three collections with Shoestring Press. His latest collection, Mad Parade, is due out with Smokestack Books in July.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Superwoman and the mote, by Rose Lennard

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Superwoman and the mote
 
My special power
is removing tiny things
from the eyes of the one I love.
I say, special power, but
if I’m honest it’s just myopia
that lets me peer in close up
under my thick lenses
to examine the naked orb
exposed and vulnerable in bright light.
Sometimes there’s an obvious culprit,
a wayward lash, nestled, easily fished out
with a twist of moistened tissue.
Other times, I have to peel back lids
taking liberties with my love’s lashes
to scrutinise the angry white.
Eyeballing my beloved’s rolled back eye,
despite my tenderness this looks like terror
as he submits to my inspection.
 
Once I lifted the finest hair –
it just kept coming, nearly two inches
and almost invisible. That
was a job well done.
I gave my cape
a little twirl of satisfaction.
 





Early photos of Rose show her up to her chin in daisies, and five decades later, not much has changed. She loves arranging leaves, sticks and stones in ephemeral artworks, or arranging words, often on long walks or in the small hours. 





 





Gowildwithrose (Instagram – ephemeral art, not poems)


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Winter Wasp, by Nikki Robson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Winter Wasp
At first I thought it next door’s saw 
starting on their stack of tree trunks. 
But it was a queen

buzzing over open books
as if searching for an exact word 
on which to light

– somnolent sluggish drowsy –

anchor her middle legs over her wings 
and not turn a page until spring.
She would pare the words

and shred their letters, roll around
her regal mouth re-write them as a nest. 
Her temporary rest on Margaret Atwood

stung me to respond. Clive James, I thought, 
is not long gone and Seamus would not 
conscience such a deed,

so in the end the Oxford’s weight of words 
in common usage circa 1983
was brought to bear, pupating her into a

yellow (colour between green and orange in the spectrum) sticky (tending or intended to stick to what is touched)
splat (crush or squash).





Nikki is originally from Northern Ireland and currently lives in Scotland. She holds an MLitt in Writing Practice and Study from Dundee University and has had poems in journals and anthologies in print and online including Poetry Scotland, Acumen, Northwords Now, Under the Radar, the Lake and Scotia Extremis. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I Wish I Lived in a Bungalow, by Robert Garnham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


I wish I lived in a bungalow

I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.
Mooching round in my bungalow,
Now what shall I have for my tea?
People would call
They’d stand in the hall
They’d look around
And say, ‘Is that all?’
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d go from room to room.
I’d only need one plug you see
When I use the vacuum.
It’s ever so static
I’d feel so ecstatic
And going upstairs
Only leads to the attic
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or possibly a chalet.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My god it would be such a laugh.
People would visit my bungalow
And ask, ‘Where’s the other half?’
I’d have no cares
I’d ignore their stares
There is no cupboard
Under the stairs
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or perhaps a ground floor flat.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My bedroom down the hall.
Would I get bored of my bungalow?
No, not a chance, not at all.
It’s what I adore
I’d be thrilled to the core
My plan only has
One major floor
I wish I lived in a bungalow
And be closer to planet earth.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
Imagine the plaudits and glory
Like the Star Wars franchise the place
Only has the one storey.
It’s what I’d do
Without much ado
The downstairs loo
Is just called the loo
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Also, I’m ever so lonely.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
You try it, you can’t go back.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Perhaps in a cul-de-sac.
It’s made out of brick
I get such a kick
You can keep your stairs
They’re making me sick
I wish I lived in a bungalow
With Darren from the coffee shop.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
It’s something I’ll always regret.
Nothing better than a bungalow,
You can keep your maisonette.
That’s my intent
The hours I’ve spent
It’s one step away
From being a tent.
It wouldn’t be far
You can visit by car
You can come right in
The door is ajar.
I’d make my stamp
Buy a standard lamp
You’ll have to admit
It’s kind of camp
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.






Robert Garnham has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. He has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. He is the editor of Spilling Cocoa magazine and his website is https://professorofwhimsy.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Facebook Update, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Facebook Update
after Zbigniew Herbert






I am humbled (and heartfelt) to announce that, in perhaps the greatest honour ever given a poet of my little variety, I’ve been invited to read my poem ‘What Caligula Did Next’ at the Emperor’s leaving do in the Horti Lamiani Imperial Gardens, Rome next Wednesday. If only my late Mother wasn’t ten years incinerated, she’d be so proud. Surely now, National Academy of Burnished Versemakers, here I come! It’d be a red embarrassment for them if I died still outside their walls, yowling like a stray tabby with a toothache, without the official people claiming ownership of me. I can see the scene: insignificant old me being borne through those state-moneyed gold-plated gates on a small throne by six naked minor male poets of advanced years. No one anyone’s heard of. Though they’ve all heard of each other.





KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five previous full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, Phoenix magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 was published in late by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press this year. In December 2021 Kevin was both expelled from the British Labour Party, of which he was an overseas member, for publishing his poem ‘Tribute Acts’ in Socialist Appeal magazine and, on the very same day, awarded ‘Poet of The Year’ at the Labour Heroes Awards event at Conway Hall.  Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, will be published by Salmon in March.  





 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Prayer Before Sleep, by Nikki Fine

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Prayer Before Sleep


I’d like an upgrade, please, 
one with an installation wizard, 
so I don’t need to go through
the pain of strict dieting, 
an exercise regime, 
self-improvement classes (plus homework),
or hours and hours of therapy
to convince me I’m good enough already
with no need of an upgrade, 
or a wizard.



Nikki Fine used to be an English teacher but has now found better things to do with her time. She also writes, sings and runs. Mad fool.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Birthday Cake Flavoured Protein Bar, by Stephen McNulty

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Birthday Cake Flavoured Protein Bar

In a place full of things
People Need and People Want
and stuff
People Think They Need Or Want
you reside alone on a shelf marked “Other”.

A capitalist bet 
on how farfetched its reach 
led to your creation
so now you sit 
strategically by the checkout 
flirting with consumers 
who cling to handbags and sanity
in equal measure.

You trespass into my eyeline 
and I wonder
who is your target market?
An annual gym bunny?
A desperate diabetic?
I bought you out of a sense of mutual pity,
boredom,
the half-promise of a press up
and a poem.

You taste…unnecessary.

But after the Earth has been reduced to clear
and before the next delivery crawls out of the sea
I pray you will survive
in a New World starter pack
along with insulin
a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger
and a leaflet 
on the dangers of excess.

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


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Super Spreader, by Vanessa O’Reilly

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Super Spreader

Super Spreader
Covid's gonna find me
But I won't be ill
Vaccines working too
As long as I don't infect you

I was sick and tired of everything
When I called you last night on WhatsApp
All I do is eat and sleep and sing
Wishing isolating weren't so crap
(Wishing isolating weren't so crap)
So imagine I was glad to hear you're staying (Glad to hear you're staying)
Staying right the f**k away
(Stay right the f**k away from me)
And it's gonna be so different
In my little room today

I am a Super Spreader
Covid's gonna find me
Teaching in Tipton (Su-p-per Spread-d-der)
Nursery through Year One (Su-p-per Spread-d-der)
I'm infecting everyone
I am a Super Spreader
Covid's gone and found me
But I won't be ill
Vaccines working too
As long as I don't infect you 

Facing twenty children in a class
'So, how many are off with Covid?'
Doing my job gives me a free pass
Working everywhere makes me worried
There are moments when I think I've been infected
But it's gonna be okay
Because on Days 6 and 7
I'll be negative
Hooray!

(Chorus)

When I emerge into the light
My isolation done, I'm free! I fought the fight
And when you take me in your arms
And hold me tight
I'm gonna take my mask off, it's alright

(Chorus)


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Brace Yourself, by Vinny Glynn-Steed

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Brace Yourself
 

You are someone’s saliva
Swirling in the arse
of a Dutch Gold can.
That metallic hit
off a cigarette, as it corrodes
into the filter. You’re the aroma
of that same can abused all night as an ashtray.
 
Wash up. Yours is no dreamlike
tumble off heaven’s kerb.
Your face and the tarmac
enjoy rounds of golf together.
You’re the nine pm doorbells
nobody wants to answer.
 
Get up.  ‘This time I’m finished’
carries the weight of a child’s
flatulence during hurricane season.
Your sincerity equals Ms. Pageant
confessing concern for anything at all. 
You are Pat Kenny without the charisma.
 
Face up. You’re that important detail
which fails to download on a smart phone.
You are the ham and cheese sandwich
innocence pulverised into pavement.
You’re the ending to a long anticipated
TV series scrawled on a public toilet door.
 
You are a gift-wrapped Western present
           the Taliban would return. 





Vinny Glynn-Steed is an award winning poet from Galway. His debut chapbook Catching Air was published by Maytree Press in December 2020.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I Wore a Red Hat, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


I Wore a Red Hat

 

I wore a red hat
odd looks from the cat
you said I looked fat
your boots on my mat
on my bed you sat
 
our futures were set
I wish we’d not met
I’ll try not to fret
I’d love to forget
I won’t though, I’ll bet
 
my life you once lit
we were a good fit
my right cheek you hit
my sharp words I bit
and now here I sit
 
we started off hot
and did such a lot
you don’t care one jot
our time spent will rot
just part of your plot
 
there’s no point in, ‘but…’
my heart has been cut
I’m out of my rut
you called me a slut,
I wore a red hat.

 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Tripping with TJ, by Steve Bailey

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Tripping with TJ

by Steve Bailey

 
Tom Jefferson, while working on something profound,
Was surprised and distracted, buy a soft knocking sound.
"Do come in," he called out, "My daughter so sweet."
And tell me, dear Patsy, do you have my treat?"
 
"A traveler," she said," from far New Spain,
Journeyed through the cold and rain
He brought you these buttons and said with a grin
You should chew on them all for the mescaline."
 
He took all the buttons; she gave him a kiss.
For the next several hours, his mind she would miss.
"A truly new world now I shall see,
So, thank you, now leave my darling Patsy."
 
Strange images jumped in and out of his mind.
Tom found himself flying through centuries of time.
No longer was he in old Monticello
Not frightened was Tom. Instead, he felt mellow.
 
He was still in his country, but it was all rather odd.
The twenty-first century made him rather slack-jawed.
In each of the houses, colors made a box glow.
And from this same box, endless chatter did flow.
 
Close to one house, Tom moved in for a look,
Then a dog began barking, thinking he was a crook.
When its owner arrived, he called it Big Burr
It was snarling and snapping, this ugly old cur."
 
"This is my guard dog, and friendly he's not.
If he had a gun, he would so take his shot.
Come now, Big Burr, you're annoying us so.
Harassing a POTUS! To the doghouse, you go!"
 
Delighted, TJ responded with glee
"The doghouse is where A. Burr should be."
"A leader bad Burr would never make."
"A. Burr is a scoundrel. A. Burr is a fake."
 
"Whatever you're on, I certainly am not.
Can I offer instead a few bowls of pot?
The election returns are now on TV.
Come in the house and watch them with me."
 
On a couch, they then sat and toked on a pipe.
Watched talking heads talk and heard all their hype.
"So, this box called TV decides how it goes?"
And the candidates come from one of its shows?"
 
"The box, it must like you. It's as simple as that.
Did you notice we talk like The Cat in The Hat?"
"A cat in a hat? This is something new.
I tell you I'm learning, one thing or two."
 
"I want to say more, but now I forgot.
I say it's delightful, this stuff you call pot."
"This has truly been fun; I want you to know.
But the magic is leaving, and so, I must go."
 
"The questions I have for you come in a bunch.
Can you come back tomorrow and join me for lunch?"
But the room it was empty, it was easy to see,
No answer was coming. He was gone, POTUS3.
 
Back in his room, in dear Monticello,
            For a time, TJ just sat, a reflective old fellow.
            "How was your trip?" young Patsy inquired.
            "You were gone a long time. Are you newly inspired?"
 
"I thought that my buttons would take me to God
To see if he's real or show faith is a fraud.
But that did not happen. No secrets unlocked.
Unless what we call God is this strange-looking box."
 
"I'm done with the buttons, though I liked them a lot,
I think I'll be better, just toking on pot.
The fate of the nation, it's easy to see,
Rests not with the people, but with a box called TV."

Steve Bailey is a freelance writer living in Richmond, Virginia. There he writes fiction, creative nonfiction, long and short stories. He has two novel-long manuscripts in search of a publisher. His writings are at vamarcopolo.com.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
On First Looking into the Oriental Chill Cabinet at Waitrose, by John Lanyon

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


On First Looking into the Oriental Chill Cabinet at Waitrose

Susie, roll the rice,
form a mutant teenage Liquorice Allsort,
a distant runt-cousin of a Swiss Roll.
Let’s have it in black and white –
You see, I’m a stranger here myself.

Susie, roll me your sushi,
sharpen the blade,
perform the rite, just for me.
Show me the eye of the cucumber,
a little vinegar for my rice,
a dream of ginger.

Taking off the lid,
I discover your miscellaneous
drug dealer-like micro-packages:
the green plastic fern,
the plastic fish that squirts soy sauce.

I wouldn’t have bought you
if you hadn’t been reduced,
you cut-price Samurai,
A dream of skill and love
swimming round the kitchen,
a little fish out of water.
 
 
This poem appeared in the anthology A Funny Way with Words published by  The Wychwood Press (2012).
 
Bio: John Lanyon lives in the Cotswolds. He works as a gardener, linguist, musician, and writer. Having failed his English Literature O Level, he came to love literature through reading it in French and German. He writes about art, the body, childhood, society, nature, the spirit of places, the secret lives of words. He believes you can create complex things from simple means.
 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Bored, by Margaret Jennings

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 
Bored, by Margaret Jennings









Margaret Jennings lives near Portsmouth with a dog and a cat and a husband. Her first poetry chapbook, ‘We Are The Lizards’, published by Dempsey and Windle came out just as the country went into lockdown, which was not good timing. Margaret is currently working on a novel, ‘Ten Tricks’. https://www.dempseyandwindle.com/margaret-jennings.html also available from Amazon and Waterstones


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Storage Unit, by Jeremy Szuder

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Storage Unit


I was in a band with a kid

named Johnny Angel.

One day Johnny’s mom,

a patron saint for fostered animals,

told us we couldn’t rehearse

in her living room anymore.


It was fine by me,

the smell of cat urine was

too much to bear and

I no longer wanted to clean

animal hair from my drums.


Someone had the bright idea

that we should rent out

a storage unit and just practice

there instead, whenever we wanted.


The process was simple enough,

it was the sheer amount of volume

however that no one could

have warned us about;


corrugated metal walls and roof,

with cold concrete floors-

the sound was torturous.


So we rolled down the front gate

and played inside under a single

green light bulb for hours at a time,

almost until we couldn’t breathe

any longer.


And we would come out of that

tin green dungeon with multiple rows

of teeth in our mouths like sharks,

and the perspiration garnered from

within that stomach of storage madness

streaked into our eyes until we

saw multiple green light bulbs

melt and dance across our irises.


That volume was beginning to

puncture the inner hollow ways

of our bones and after two or

three months of that, we crumbled

under the weight of Inland Empire

industrial wasteland, and quickly found

somewhere else to rock.


I learned, after we split from the scene,

that there were a few storage units

very near the one we practiced in

that were being used for meth labs.


And though, with our clamorous

residency, our surf/monster/sci-fi/guitar hell,

we might have earned a few new

jittery, nervous, paranoid and highly

strung out new fans,


still, they were glad to see us go.


Jeremy Szuder (he/him) lives in a tiny apartment with his wife, two children and two cats. He works in the evenings in a very busy restaurant, standing behind a stove, a grill, fryers and heating lamps, happily listening to hours of hand selected music and conjuring ideas for new art and poetry in his head. When his working day ends and he enters his home in the wee hours, he likes to sit down with a glass of wine and record all the various words and images that bear fruit within his mind. Jeremy Szuder only sets the cage doors free when the work begins to pile up too high. In this life, Szuder makes no illusions of being a professional artist in any way, shape, or form.

https://jeremyszuder.wordpress.com/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Recycling is good for the planet, by Finola Scott

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Recycling is good for the planet


Seeing my ironed socks, polished glass

friends declare he’s servicable, a keeper.


But they don’t know, can’t imagine

his moonlit yearnings, his penchant


for rubber – not lingerie but stationary.

The flip side of those origami scribbles


fluttering from pockets, the notes stuck

on the fridge urging me to eat his plums.


Let’s not speak of housework. l say

live and let live, but dusting in a wet suit?


Vacuuming in lederhosen? Buffing

me in the buff? Even Alexa has given up.


I tried – took him to my book group

to the Ukulele girls, to Capoeira. No takers.


So next week he’s going on Freecycle –

Banker, slightly worn, one careless owner.




William Carlos Willams was not harmed 


in the writing of this poem. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Abominable Manners, by Catherine Doherty Nicholls

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Abominable Manners


Looking like a hairy yeti

Sitting sucking his spaghetti,

Bolognesey bits

all splattered on his face

I watched him gulp and slurp,

Sniff and pick and blow and burp,

When his plate was licked

he never left a trace.


She’s a winner of no Poetry Ireland Competition, or any other competition. No published debut collection, nothing printed anywhere else yet except here.

Her poems have been nominated for nothing so she’s nominating this poem to go on this page – a great place to start nominating.

She is the curator of nothing. Her anthology doesn’t exist, yet she keeps going.

She recently read some out in Charlie Byrne’s bookshop, Galway.  People clapped.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Bohemian Raspberry (Liqueur), by Vanessa O’Rielly

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Bohemian Raspberry (Liqueur)


I drank a little Amaretto with my Nan

Crème de Menthe, Crème de Menthe will you drink a cold Tango?

Thunderbolts, White Lightning, very, very frightening me

Galliano, Galliano

Galliano, Galliano

Galliano, Aperol, Limoncello


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Corpus Christi College has no pastry chef, by Natalie Shaw

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE HAS NO PASTRY CHEF


Also the gold pelican on the JCR wall has gone,

as I believe has the JCR itself.

This despite the fact that Jack Turvey

stapled himself to the pelican and the wall

to prevent its sorry loss.


I digress: without a pastry chef and with the sorry loss

of the pelican, poor Corpuscles

have sorrier options. Adam Spicer,

senior Corpus sous chef and Masterchef:

The Professionals quarter-finalist


has been blamed for the crisis.

With no pastry chef,

a dearth of formal halls; the passing

of the loving cup in a silver horn

must pause. Worse, students are forced


to breakfast at Catz or possibly Fitzbillies:

the sole college founded by townspeople

in 1352, site of the oldest living court in Cambridge,

home of the hideous Chronophage and Parker Library,

now with no cake to crumb in fledgling mouths.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Is Poetry Pointless?, by Alanna Hammel

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Is Poetry Pointless?


I don’t write poetry

I don’t think I ever will

It’s a rotary system

It’s one aim to kill.


I admit I did once overdose

On Lowell’s polyphonic prose.

You don’t see that lot nowadays,

With your Robert Frost

Or your Terrance Hayes.


They have all moved on to screenplays

If they do write it is melodic phrase.

What does pointless even mean?

Without purpose or meaning?


Purpose in poetry is fairly drastic

Some just want a book to read quick.

I doubt most poetry would please the reader

Unless you care for iambic pentameter.

I can see the poet waving its beater

Easy to confuse with the grim reaper.


Poets are killers

I’ll say it again

From your Rupi Kaur to your Dickinson

On rhythm the poet stabs to death

That’s about as good as poets get

While the poet goes through the alphabet

And thinks for a minute about their next sonnet.

Being struck by lightning odds at 500,000 to one

But Increased massively by reading John Donne.

They say you are what you eat

You also are what you read I learnt that from a man with a degree in ‘filíocht’

Little did he know his future would have sucked.

Writing poetry is pointless

I’m telling you now

That’s coming from someone who doesn’t know how.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
My last joke, by Jorge Leiva Ardana

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













My last joke

After Luis Buñuel


Should the day come and my soul be released,

though a convinced atheist, I’ll call in a priest

and the barber that messed up so much my hair

will tell those presents about our secret affair.


The service will be set around plastic flowers,

the ceremony held at the most inconvenient hour.

Bagpipes will be nicely played out of tune,

your headache will last until the following June.


A party horn shall be resting on my lips,

a bubble pipe between my fingertips.

Buried in a place I’ve never been,

I thought –why not- of Aberdeen.


Arranges will be made as follows:

Weeping or sorrow not allowed.

A ventriloquist must read my eulogy.

Please, invite to speak an expert on ornithology.


All the money I have although is not much,

will be donated where it’s really needed,

the Oregon Taxidermy Association,

where I can finally get a standing ovation.


My relatives won’t get a dime

which might be the last of my crimes,

and if you think all the above sinister,

remember a Nobel Peace Prize

was awarded to Kissinger.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Sprouts, by Claire Hardisty

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Sprouts


The son cooks sprouts at Christmas

Virgin olive oil

Garlic

Butter, blocks of it.

Sprouts chopped to fine feathers

There’s a technique you know, Mumma


And during this process, you are wrestling with Delia’s Roasties and

Jamie’s Turkey Crown and Mary’s Homemade Sherry Trifle

Marshalling mint sauce, cranberry sauce, bread sauce.

Running from the hob to the table

Folding napkins into origami something or others

Why do we have 23 knives in the drawer and not a spoon to be seen?

Work out the timings


Daughter appears just before noon

Have an argument with daughter about cracker placement

Bend wire to make table centrepiece, resurrecting last year’s oasis from the garage,

Feeling slightly sorry for the mouse that had made it home

No doubt Mary or Delia would have cut fresh winter roses of damask red from their frosted gardens

I make do with three silk rose things with plastic berries and ribbon, no one will notice anyway

Work out the timings again


Realise that the candlesticks are covered in tarnish and go on mission to find the silver polish

Take off posh Christmas apron with snowman body and put on battered DIY apron

with multiple indeterminate stains, splashes of gloss paint and suspicious marks

Spread newspaper on the side and clean said candlesticks

Dig out the Swarfega from the cupboard under the sink to clean hands after cleaning candlesticks

Drink a glass of bucksfizz that someone made at 9.00 and I never quite got round to


Soon I’ll go and get changed, tidy my hair, spray on perfume,

might even put on a catlick of makeup, add some sparkly earrings but no time yet

Feel a failure for not making real gravy, rely on Mr Bisto instead

Work out the timings again


Chop carrots and beans

Chop finger

Drink cold mulled wine

Check timings


Turn out cupboards

to find the one uncracked Portmeirion Christmas Holly serving dish

Shove the white wine in the freezer as forgot to chill it

And all this while, Son is making his sprouts


Finally all is ready

And the sparkly earrings and outfit are still upstairs

and I in my saggy jeans

and faded shirt and no make up and I don’t care any more

They assemble at table

Daughter wearing size 10 slinky dress and sparkly earrings and more than a catlick of makeup

Son puts sprouts centre stage


And everyone oohs and ahhs

At the sprouts

Son looks at me

Why you wearing your DIY apron, Mumma? I look at him

Best not to answer

Discretion being the better part of valour.


I am a Headteacher in a primary school, and have written poetry since being a small child. I also try to share my love of writing with my school children.


I started going to an online novel class, and a poetry class in February, (run by Gill Lambert and Mark Connors) and feel these have made a tremendous difference to my wellbeing in stressful times.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What do you think of, by Sarah J Bryson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What do you think of


when you imagine Christmas?

Is it the fancy eats and sweetie treats

in mouth watering an-ti-ci-pa-tion?

Or is it the gluttony of Christmas

that overloads your mind

with thoughts of our out-sized,

slouch-on-the-couch nation,

engorging in the felicitations?


And when you think of Christmas sounds

do you think of the beauty of a choir,

singing mass at the mid-night hour?

Or the distorted speakers of the ‘Rotary’ sleigh

going round, with collectors shaking tins

on damp December afternoons,

and a skinny man shouting a thin “ho-ho-ho,”

lost inside the outsized Santa suit?


What do you see in your minds eye

when you think of Christmas?

Do you see the delicate twinkling tree,

put up lovingly by the whole family

or the glittery, over-dressed shop windows

and the grotesque street decorations

put up in October half-term, taken down,

perhaps, in time for Easter celebrations?


Maybe you think of the thrill of giving?

Bringing joy with your gift of a toy,

carefully chosen, wrapped and sent,

all savings spent? Or is this sentiment

lost in greedy commercialism?

When every child is asked to produce a list

and every shop sells gifts of badly-made-tat

to fill the stockings of each ungrateful brat.


What about the scent of Christmas?

Do you imagine oranges-stuck-with-cloves,

and hot mulled-wine which wafts to your nose,

mixed with pine needles, and warm mince pies?

But no, with Christmas trees made from plastic and wire,

and radiators, not a real log fire, and no time for making –

instead there’s the faking of the Christmas smell

sprayed from a can, which M & S sell.


But think of the excitement of Christmas…..

the thought of finding, with wriggling toes

a stuffed Christmas stocking… and thoughts of,

the possibility of, “What if it snows?”

And the thrill of seeing all those relations,

not seen since last year, (at Auntie Flo’s)

not since the last blazing row about….

ah well – who remembers what?


Another year flown, another marker for how we age,

see how the children have grown, since last time.


Sarah J Bryson has poems published in print journals, anthologies and on line. During the Covid pandemic, she took part in a weekly event, combining photographs with haiku style poetry. She has several poems on the Poetry and Covid site. She has been recently commended in the YorkMix poetry competition


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Urban Cowboy, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Urban Cowboy


The Urban Cowboy,

thinks he is at the Rodeo.

In his white Tuxedo,

dancing as if he was

John Travolta.


The Urban Cowboy,

with his wide-brimmed Stetson,

a man with no name,

useless in the Cheers Bar,

never being served by Ted Danson.


The Urban Cowboy,

with his leather trousers,

the sheen and the crackle,

the static electricity,

is not who he says he is.

His Saturn Return turned to Jupiter,

his midlife crises a cliche

for a man born at the wrong time

in the wrong place,

to the wrong parents,

with the wrong face.


The Urban Cowboy,

rides the train,  not horses,

his steed is late and expensive.

The Urban Cowboy could always

be anyone wishing they were someone else.


Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the West Midlands. Follow him on Twitter @benmacnair


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Apartment 5E, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Apartment 5E

after Rod McKuen


The old woman upstairs is again engaging

in multi-partner Sadomasochism.

I set my watch

by the yelps and screams wafting

through my ceiling.


I see her often abseiling

down the side of the building

in her bloodstained overcoat,

or shuffling off at night

to the used leather goods shop.


Every Hanukah early morning

I hear her playing heavy metal

music at top volume,

or stomping overhead

in her replica World War Two German Army boots.


For Christmas,

she brings me letters she says

the postman misdelivered –

hospital appointments,

final reminders, and, once, a death threat –

all of them addressed to The Occupier.


KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five previous full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, Phoenix magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 was published in late by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press this year. Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, will be published by Salmon next March.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Stopping by stairs on a frosty morning, by Fianna

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Stopping by stairs on a frosty morning


after ( and with no disrespect to) Robert Frost


Whose sock is this? I think I know!

Its twin is in the laundry though

Oh why has Robert left one here

while all the rest grow white as snow?


Ach! Should I wash by hand? No fear!

I wouldn’t want that stink so near

my face, though if I hesitate

it might stay dirty till new year


It seems the only choice is scrape

the horse-poo off with soapy flake

I do not want the smell to creep

or mingle with my Christmas cake.


I spray the air with Forest Deep

and poke the sock down-in to steep

It takes an age to stop that reek

It takes an age to stop that reek.


Fianna (Fiona Russell Dodwell)


Fianna ( Fiona Russell Dodwell ) is from the Fife and Antrim coasts, and now lives in the Cambridgeshire Fens. Her first poems were published in Ink Sweat and Tears, and she has since had about 70 poems published, both online and on paper.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
A Last Will for your Detriment, by Cáit O’Neill McCullagh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













A Last Will For Your Detriment


after ‘Bequests’ by Kevin Higgins


I, Kitty of the Firths

unsounded in this queasy world

invoke these many bold bequests

upon the heads of the priapic primi

pomposities of party patriarchs & aparatchiks

furnish your wine fountainheads & cheese centrespreads

ye deadheaded dulleries, these items to fulsomely enjoy


[may they visit you in your blue sky thinkeries

haunt the despicability of your venal drinkeries

reduce you to the scuff on the scuffed shoes that squirm

about the fleet feet of the cleaner-uppers that scrub stains

from the sticky floors of your reputations]


Item I


the ire of a dram-drunk Highland midge, more

the whole disgruntled genealogy of midges

may they berserk every kagouled dippy picnic

of your sandwich-strewn hay-baled hippy chic


Item II


may the marriage of a rusted key & unyielding tin

splice you from the pads of your pinkie promises

& may you chomp that sweaty slab of corny beef forever

millennia of hard to swallow BS wrapped in lethal armour


Item III


the gape-mouthed masked-shut silent tears

of a pandemic peoples’ damp-sheet sweated fears

& if you crossed the line that you asked them to keep

endless pundits razored tongues to grip you from your sleep


Item IV


forever may you step the spiral stairs to the teetered tower

where you held humanity dangled, rampart tipped its toes

neck wringed it in your greedy grasp! O contemptuous

face now the howling wind of your very own disgrace


About me:


Cáit O’Neill McCullagh is a straying ethnologist in the Scottish Highlands. She started writing poetry in December 2020. Since then her poems have appeared in Northwords Now, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis, Drawn to the Light, Bella Caledonia, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and The Banyan Review. Cáit tweets at @kittyjmac .


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Birds and Bees at Aldi’s Checkout, by Lorraine Carey

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Birds and Bees at Aldi’s Checkout


Showering my five year old

one evening in the run up

to Christmas, he casually

enquired whether Santa Claus

could see his privates,

and hear him fart in bed.


Stifling a laugh I realised days before,

I’d declared Santa could

see and hear everything

At the supermarket checkout,

he asked do I have to be a Granddad

when I grow up ?


Bagging groceries as fast as I could,

I replied, well, that depends

and you would need to be a Dad first.

I knew what was coming

and so did the shoppers in the queue.

He appeared a bit flummoxed


and asked how do I be a Dad then ?

Using age appropriate language,

I attempted an answer while loading

the boot, hoped it would suffice,

explaining it would be a really, really

long time before he was a man and had


to worry about a girlfriend or things like that.

Driving home, he hummed Jingle Bells

behind me, elevated in a booster seat,

with his chocolate crusted cupid’s bow,

firing off questions to his teddy

like sparks from a Catherine Wheel,


saving this one just for me.

Mum, what if I’m all growed up

in love like a man with my lady

and forget what I have to do ?


Lorraine Carey’s a poet from Greencastle, Donegal. Her poems are widely anthologised and have appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, The Waxed Lemon, One, Abridged, Poetry Birmingham, The High Window, Ink Sweat &Tears, Orbis, Eunoia Review and The Honest Ulsterman. Her art and photography have also featured online and in print.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
There Was Once A Girl with Red Glasses, by Pip McDonald

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













There Was Once a Girl with Red Glasses


There was once a girl with red glasses

She wasn’t the same as other lasses

Her specs became

Her eternal flame

It was she was different from the masses


The glasses were clearly special

They were made of magic metal

When she took them off

The magic was lost

Like a flower who lost a petal


She tried to wear different colours

But alas life became duller

She became depressed

Lust for life was less

She just couldn’t cope with another


The answer was simply red

Or she would be found dead

She would fall down

To the ground

To red she would be wed


There will simply never be another frame

And life will never be the same

They looked after her face

Like a warm embrace

It makes her want to dance in the rain


She couldn’t live without her specs

Without them she would become a wreck

Her red is on

She’s got it going on

Red is really better than sex


Some people say she should change

But she thinks that this would be strange

Why fix it if it works?

Because red rules the world

Her glasses make her sane


There was once girl with red glasses

Who rose like a phoenix from the ashes

She never looked back

Red is the new black

Eyes flickering with red flashes


Red was in her DNA

A revolution, the one, the way

Red was the light

It shines so bright

Red glass are here to stay


Pip McDonald writes and performs her own poetry and is a DJ for The Thursday Night Show. Pip has written and performed original poetry both in an online capacity and at live open mic events including Conversations make Connections event, part of London Festival of Ideas organised by Open Ealing Art Centre, the Oxford University English Society Poetry Night, Write Out Loud and Gobjaw in London. You can follow Pip on Twitter: @PipMac6

Photograph


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Five More Limericks, by Mark Totterdell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













FIVE MORE LIMERICKS


He was not one of life’s born attackers,

Just the gentlest and best of alpacas,

But he spat and he bit

And behaved like a shit

When the vet came to snip off his knackers.


The whale that is known as the Minke

Is ever so streamlined and slinke.

Though it isn’t to blame,

It’s a terrible shame

That its breath is so horribly stinke.


There was an old hippy from Warwick

Who dropped acid to feel all euphoric,

But he should have been stopped

As the acid he dropped

Was one hundred per cent hydrochloric.


‘So is this how I meet the Grim Reaper?’

Cried the junior elephant keeper,

As he fell in the pit

Full of elephant shit

And sank deeper and deeper and deeper.


There was an old fellow from Shoreham,

Whose trousers slipped down as he wore ‘em,

First revealing his crack,

Then his dick, then his sack,

Till quite frankly you couldn’t ignore ‘em.


Mark Totterdell’s poems have appeared widely in magazines. His collections are This Patter of Traces (Oversteps Books, 2014), Mapping (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2018) and Mollusc (The High Window Press, 2021).


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
AlApHaBeTi-KiNtSuGi, by Mandy Beattie

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













AlApHaBeTi-KiNtSuGi


a poem or three or seven

on the march

should be the easel on which it squats thrusting

its chin out & leaving


beetroot stains & cyan


on finger prints hectares after it’s been written

and read it should

dive into a murmuration of starlings & larks not treading

water as jellyfish do but leave us

rubber-necking miles after it’s been seeded into


a stanza-pancake dripping


butter & gooseberry jam with dollops


of double cream melting


in the mouth with or without capitals

commas & fullstops for Pollock’s art

of oxygen in a tempest of ukulele

& didgeridoo or the unexpected hiccough

of spilt manuka ginger & star-anise


scratching a dictionary & search engines in caps

& gowns or street-smarts clamping the thesaurus

for a lethologica word lethonomia word


or a tsunami-tumbrel of words

that leave me


trapezing back to fidget it

leaving it

to brew

for weeks coddled & culled until it has no more

hem for honing as it shoogle’s its grommet

into the groove

of the world where it thumbs mulched wood

a gold Cup Bearer in the winning

of 5 stars from Cassiopeia maybe

or maybe knot?


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Life Isn’t All Baubles, by Janet Sillett

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Life isn’t all baubles


Who wants to win the bloody Booker anyway,

invaded by Yanks

Who wants to be longlisted with the cranks

the false prophets, the portentous

the simply crap

a novel in one sentence

what the fuck is that?


I could change my name to Hilary Mantel

or write a plotless endless novel in unreadable dialect, a hook

for the organic middle class and middle brow

riding on the zeitgeist of identity,

with requisite socio-political angst


Surely enough for the long list?


The taxi to the Guildhall, plague permitting,

smiling grimly at a table weighed down by hubris,

and quinoa burgers and beetroot three ways,

the BBC’s reverential tones on the big screen

selfies on iphones, rehearsing the perfect modest phrase


The Guardian interview in a Shoreditch bar

in battered leather jacket and trainers

keeping back the tears, haltingly, I expose

my childhood in a Coventry cult

and how, kept awake by culture wars, each night

I go through darkness to achieve light


all lies of course


A pay out for those dreary days, the barren room,

chain smoking in the dark, as the words die in mid air

the spent matrimony

the acrimony of failure


But do I really want to win the Booker

to choke on its self-congratulation high art pretention

the cattiness, the condescension,

when I can be signing paperbacks in a Luton basement

with the idlers and the curious,

dozing between the dysfunctional and exiles from the drizzle.


And later sprawled out drunk in the town fountain, trousers half mast

a dystopian baptism snapped for the local rag,

a late dog walker in her Barbour jacket turned away aghast,

whilst my face stares out from the sole shabby bookstore,

displaying my first, my best, my only hit novel?


Janet Sillett recently took up writing poetry and short fiction again after decades of absence. She has had poems published in the Galway Advertiser, Poetry Plus magazine, Green Ink Poetry and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis, Paws for Pause and flash fiction in Litro. She works for a think tank.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Dressing up in Lockdown, by Shanta Acharya

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













DRESSING UP IN LOCKDOWN


A pristine summer’s day, sparkling like champagne,

perfect for giving my garments an airing.

At home in a bubble of my own, lounging

in pyjama and dressing gown, numbering

my days’ illusions, comfort reigns over style.

My wardrobe reprimands me, cries in chorus

– saris complaining the loudest of not being

touched, embraced, admired – their silks, chiffons,

satins, crepes, georgettes, chanderis mothballed

in tissue, chide me for starving myself

in the midst of plenty. Unable to ignore their

pleas, I wear a sari with matching jewellery,

spray myself with Immortal and Eternity,

with a glass of bubbly watch Downton Abbey.


In the words of Mimi Khalvati, Shanta Acharya’s ‘poetry shows a rare combination of lyricism, intelligence, sagacity and a wicked sense of humour.’ The author of twelve books, her most recent collections are What Survives Is The Singing (Indigo Dreams, 2020) and Imagine: New and Selected Poems (HarperCollins, 2017). www.shanta- acharya.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Human Nature, by Eric Burgoyne

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Human Nature


Nearly halfway through a trans-Pacific flight, a passenger went into a seizure. It was significant and his thrashing motions alarming. A surprised traveler seated nearby leaped for his seat ready to fight off a highjacker. Steam-like condensation wafting from an air-conditioning vent took the shape of an Angel of Life fighting the Grim Reaper. A doctor and nurse rushed down the aisle to assist. The situation was tense and people wondered if the man would survive. Seatback entertainment monitors began turning blue as anxious passengers paused their movies and switched to the cobalt-colored flight tracker map to see if the aircraft had passed its point of no return. The lips of a few could be seen doing the mental math of connecting flights. A psychic in Business Class intercepted private thoughts and fervent prayers of those onboard: “Father, please save this poor man” . . . “Let him survive and live a long, healthy life” . . . “I beg of Thee, let us not be late for the wedding, P.S. Please bless whoever is sick back there in Economy” . . . “I wonder how much time it takes for rigor to set in?” . . . “What’ll they do with the body? They can’t just leave it there, seat-belted in, can they?”. . .“Hey! Where’s the pretzels and drinks?”


Eric Burgoyne writes and surfs on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. He has an MA in Creative Writing – Poetry, from Teesside University, Middlesbrough England. His poems have appeared in Brickplight, Spillwords, Skink Beat Review, Rat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Schoolyard Memory, by Maurice Devitt

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Schoolyard Memory


When I refused to share my Latin homework,

you challenged me to a fight

outside the tuckshop, first thing after school.

With little choice, I accepted,

my strategy hopelessly unclear. You had form

and news of the mismatch sparked from class to class.


The lane was choked with the cough

of cigarette smoke and the acrid smell of BO

funnelling from the knots of baying boys

heralding my entrance. You strutted around

the makeshift ring, joking and laughing

with your cabal. I was tempted to admit defeat,


but conscious that attack is often

the best form of defence, I walked towards you,

shucking school bag and gaberdine,

baited you with words of bluff bravado,

silencing the crowd and tempting you

to hit me for the first time. I flinched


but didn’t react, tried to distract you

with the recitation of random tracts of Latin

unseen and the declension of obscure French verbs.

You continued your attack, my rubbery mouth

spitting out the syllables of broken words,

until I could take no more, legs buckling under me.


Curled on the ground, I sensed the mood

of the crowd shift to hushed concern,

and unfolding myself like a deckchair into standing,

rushed to concede. You win, I mumbled,

sweeping up my school bag and disappearing

into the maw of the crowd, tears starting to fall.


Perhaps chastened by the incipient shock

that rippled through the school, you never asked

for my homework again and, when we left school,

our paths diverged, until today – I saw you in town

stepping out of a brand-new Tesla,

pristine paintwork too tempting to ignore.


Maurice Devitt


A past winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland and Poems for Patience competitions, he published his debut collection, ‘Growing Up in Colour’, with Doire Press in 2018.


Curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site, his Pushcart-nominated poem, ‘The Lion Tamer Dreams of Office Work’, was the title poem of an anthology published by Hibernian Writers in 2015.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I Have Something to Say About Crochet, by Carla Scarano D’Antonio

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













I have something to say about crochet


I was trained by my mother

when I was only 5 or 6

and could make granny squares and doilies

with tiny hooks and bright cotton.


She taught me how to chain first,

I made long ones coiling around my feet.

Then double crochet, treble, half treble, double treble.

They developed in patterns,

in things to use and wear.

Can you believe there are people who don’t value such a work?


The long solitary confinement of lockdown

required emergency.

I intensified my crochet work,

survival was suffused with the rituals of choosing the thread,

matching the colours, developing patterns

and creating something I felt.


How to break the sadness of isolation?

How to heal the unhappiness of lost social cohesion?

The thrill of creation, the minutiae of the stitches

were extra revelations.

I shivered with recovery.


Carla Scarano D’Antonio obtained her MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and has published her creative work in magazines and reviews. Her short collection Negotiating Caponata was published in July 2020. She was awarded a PhD on Margaret Atwood’s work at the University of Reading in April 2021.

http://www.carlascaranod.co.uk/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Poem that Got Me Cancelled, by Daragh Byrne

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 








Daragh Byrne is an Irish poet writing in Sydney, Australia. He has had work published in various journals and newspapers, and his poems have been commended or placed in numerous competitions in Ireland and Australia. He runs The Sydney Poetry Lounge, a long-running open mic night.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Go on, make mine that boil-in-the-bag by the stove, by Beth McDonough

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Go on, make mine that boil-in-the-bag by the stove.


God forbid, you’d think I’d want to eat it, mind!

Not that darling little clear plastic sachet,

excitingly bright with uncrystallised liquid,

which reveals a magic snap coin inside.


Oh, let me plop you in my pocket, wee friend,

as I swimsuit up, heap on so many layers.

All but forgotten as I pedal to the beach, strip,

and throughout my wintery swim, but then

I rigid-finger find you in my after-gear,

crack you into dynamic action. Fast warmth,

stuffed in my mitts, curled round my handlebars, go!

I’m always touched by your presence, dear.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Mr. Electable and Family, by Mark Jones

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Here comes Mr Electable

He’s ravishing and delectable

His policies are selectable

It’s good old Mr Electable.


His sister Miss Debateable

Is seldom seen as dateable

She’ll kick you right underthetable

That is Miss Debateable.


Their mother Mrs Tiresome

Worked flat out to hiresome

Earplugs she requiredthem

Poor old Mrs Tiresome.


And father Mr Paradox

A man who thinks outsidethebox

Posts leaflets outside the letterbox

Yes/No that’s Mr Paradox.


Electable

Debateable

Tiresome & Paradox


Think I’ll read a book instead.


Mark Jones, performance poet, has been plying his craft over much of the South West for many years, from open mic nights to theatres and even the odd tea room and cafe. In 2014 he won the Spokes Amaze poetry slam in Exeter and has had published two collections of poetry, Humps For Fifty Yards & Beans.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Something Fishy . . . By Carole Donaldson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













This is what culminated from a brief encounter at Sainsbury’s. It took five minutes to make up a rhyme about the extremely brief dalliance, but I think I had a close shave and dodged a bullet, yet unfortunately if the guy hadn’t been in such a hurry to ‘get his leg over’ we could have made fine music together, but I’m pleased that I usually always go with my gut feeling about things, and this guy was far too forward for comfort.  Shame, really, he wasn’t bad looking but he let his mouth run away with him.


SOMETHING FISHY …


I met a man, while out shopping, at the salmon counter,

he came over quite suave and quite slick,

a few weeks on from that chance encounter,

he turned out to be naught but a fanciful dick


He kissed me and hugged me the minute we met

So charming – he addressed me “Dear Madam”

But how familiar is it right for a stranger to get

When I didn’t even know him from Adam


We exchanged our phone numbers and as days went by

I waited to hear from this Casanova

But I’d text and then wait but get no reply

So before it begun, it was practically over


He finally rang and arranged that we meet

His excuse for no contact? He preferred not to text

We went for a coffee on a posh market street

Where he wasted no time saying how much he loved sex


Well, I was appalled and quite taken aback

It was far too soon to be talking that way

But he took me to lunch, at Kings Road Seafood Shack

And when the huge bill came, he was happy to pay


(80 quid’s-worth of food was devoured that day)


Though we chatted at lunch and duly both laughed

With the same sense of humour we shared

I got a bad vibe and I thought myself daft

I could’ve been an old boot and I don’t think he’d’ve cared.


He mentioned the sex thing again I had noted

He clearly had his own agenda

He was quite up front, not a thing sugar-coated

And showed himself up to be a pretender


This encounter has taught me to be somewhat wary

This chap had manners like a pen full of swine

His ulterior motives can seem somewhat scary

But in truth that’s his problem, and certainly not mine


It’s been over a week now and he’s disappeared

At his hinted intentions, I told him where to go

Asking if I was adventurous – far too forward I feared

And on that score the arse’ole will now never know


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Too Many Straights, by Claire Duthie

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













There are too many straights on telly

The situation has really got very silly

And out of hand

Wny don’t you understand?


There’s far too much prancing

On strictly come dancing


Wny wallow in the mire

And watch ” married at first sight?”

It really, really is dire.


Lionel Blair

Is no longer there


Mayday, maidez

Paul O Grady


Heaven help us

Russell T Davies


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Bruce Wayne : Space Pioneer, by Ross Crawford

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Bruce Wayne: Space Pioneer


Whit if Bruce Wayne wis a real guy?

Whit wid he actually be like?

Wid he still run aboot each nicht

Getting intae a ficht

Wae every petty criminal in the city?

Wid he?

Say ye pit him oan a fixed-term contract:

How wid he react?

Wid he sit through an annual review

Tae discuss aw the jaws he’s cracked?

Punchin fuck oot the symptom

Never curin the cause

Is much mair fun

Than trying tae change the laws

“Least ah dinnae kill,” he’d cry

“An ah’m no gonnae justify

Masel tae the likes ae you.”

But it starts tae make ye hink:

If he’s a billionaire who’s only kink

Is dressing up in aw that bat gear

And makin wee guys pish in fear

Is he helpin or hinderin?

Is he actually a guid yin?

Ah bet ye if Bruce Wayne wis a real guy

He’d prolly jist try tae get tae the moon

Like aw the ither silver-spoon

Billionaires blastin aff intae space

Auld Brucey boy racin big bald Bezos

Tae build the first galactic base

Nae cosmic threats tae fight

Fur this Dark Knight

But he still cannae forget

That his parents are deid

Instillin him wae this insatiable need

Tae dae them baith proud

And so he has vowed

That in the name ae the slain

Thomas an Martha Wayne

He’ll lead an interstellar trip

Perform a low-gravity flip

Inside a bat-shaped spaceship.


Ross Crawford is a writer/scriever based in Stirling, Scotland. He mostly takes his inspiration from the history and nature of Scotland, but his head can be turned by sci-fi and superheroes. He writes in Scots, English, and Gàidhlig. You can find him on Twitter at @RRMCrawford


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Frames, by Eddie Gibbons

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













FRAMES


He met her at the Art Gallery.


Made eyes at her

across a Caravaggio.


Saw her framed against a Miro.


Watched her glide along

an avenue of Monets.


She saw him standing

like a prick

between two Pollocks.


Published in ‘The Republic of Ted’, Thirsty Books, Edinburgh, 2003.


Eddie Gibbons has six published poetry collections. ‘What They Say About You’ was shortlisted for the ‘Scottish Poetry Book of the Year’, 2011. He was a prizewinner in the inaugural ‘Edwin Morgan Poetry Competition’, 2008. He has a poem in the Bloodaxe anthology ‘Land of Three Rivers’. Twitter- @1Eddie_Gibbons


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Oh Me!, by beam

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Oh Me!

I am a soggy biscuit

I am murking

at the bottom

of your

mug


I am a sang-widge

you thought you threw away…

a Summer ago


I am a surprise from a stranger

who’s known to the Gardaí

you didn’t wear your glasses

you thought I was waving

but I was wanking


beam is a 26 year old poet from Ireland. She has participated in workshops led by Kevin Higgins, read at Galway City’s Literary Organisation event ”Over The Edge” and has been published in Cabinet Of Heed, Broadsheet.ie, Impspired, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spilling Hot Cocoa Over Martin Amos, WordCityLit, Ink Sweat and Tears & Open Skies. Recent work includes; surviving the pandemic and several disappointing sourdough loaves. She is becoming the kind of person who says the things you ”aren’t supposed to say”. You can find more of her poetry @personalbeam on instagram.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Cop O The North, by Cáit O’Neill McCullagh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Cop O The North


After Nicanor Parra’s ‘The Poems of the Pope’


Insta this! I’ve been crowned!

I’m the COP o the north

King of the Anthropocene

every ‘ancestor’s wildest dream’


Oh, I’ve suffered decades of your resolutions

deny me no more, Anthro’s here darlings!

and petro-chemical green’s my scene

my cloak is all COP-washed glory


the forests burn, the earth expires

the sea’s an acid-gasp! It’s oil thanks to me!

I’ve anointed this planet in fire and flood

and folks while I rule it, you’ll consume it


We’ve peaked post-truth, BTW

my people write the scripts now

this one’s called ‘Beyond Petroleum

from filthy lucre to carbon-blue’


flush with the glow of burning ozone

I’m the green god now

I grace every couch on your blessed telly

but never admit, it’s fossil fuel that keeps me lit!


I can get you what you want today, no probs.

But tomorrow, things go nuclear

and I know where the button is

and I know the folk who want to press it.


Ever since our story started

when you pushed that first hungry plough

and took your axe to the lungs of the forest

Gaia has groaned to birth me.


So, bless her do your mother earth

perhaps one less flight will heal her extinction

but remember, while the crude keeps bubbling

it’ll be me who’ll be your final benediction


Cáit O’Neill McCullagh is a straying ethnologist writing at home in the Highlands of Scotland. She started to write poetry in December 2020, and since then her poems have appeared in Northwords Now, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis, Drawn to the Light, and The Banyan Review. Cáit tweets at @kittyjmac .


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Tu-tu in Training, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Tu-Tu in Training


Steph was wider than me, and shorter,

it was a gift, a hand-me-down

from her parents in their high house

to me and mum in our basement flat,

‘Come on try it on,’ Mum urged,

‘you’ll feel the part.’

I slid it up my non-existent hips

the shine of the satin, soft

as my hands smoothed over its bodice,

‘The skirt’s a bit torn at the hem,’

Mum said, ‘But I’ll fix that in no time.’

I looped straps over my shoulders,

they fell off, my pointy bones

unable to cling to pink ribbon,

‘Safety pins,’ Mum said, ‘hoik it up a bit.’

Hoiking and pinning, Mum, sideways pull to her lips

determined to make it fit.

‘You’ve got the book,’ Mum flicked to the page,

‘come on, position one.’

I tried, one then two, easy peasy this ballet,

then, knees like my dad’s, I stuck in position four.

‘Back straight, neck long like a swan.’

Mum had seen The Nutcracker on telly.

Shoulders cramped by a bodice pinned to fit

I sank a hopeful plié.

‘That’s it, you’ll make a ballerina yet!’

Mum clapped her hands in delight,

‘though, you will have to keep your vest on.’


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
From the Rag, by Christian Scully

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













From the Rag


Time drags as the barmans rags wipes another stain away from the bar top Feelingas though the clocks have all but stopped and the hourglass sand or the biggest hand are heading backward

Its funny how stood here in this palace of beer church to excess as tobacco laden breath requests another and sings a sad lament Cursing them who lurk on borders them past into obscurity and them who are royally fucking up the country whilst doing their best as you see… its complicated


Bleary eyed hobbling from pint to pint to bookies and back handing over scrunched up notes pulled from grubby back pockets as there lips smack down the sweet nectar.

Straightening ties telling the same lies how its just a quick one on the way to the office when we both know they will be back tomorrow.

Hearing grumbles and strife about distant kids and ex wives after pint after pint after pint

Some starting early

or some continuing

a perpetual night out that

they can never bare to end


Best mates at breakfast become bastards by lunch

as they are too drunk to stand let alone throw a punch

but then its all just a part of the carbon copied institution once known as a pub

Where now they serve kiddies and professionals grub

whist in the corner they lurk

all crude gestures and smirks

till its time to wobble back to bed

rest their red faced weary heads

grab a sarnie

grab a kip

buy the paper

and repeat


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
When I Come to Power, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













When I Come To Power


Spiking women’s drinks

or bums with a syringe

will be an offence punishable

by having one’s body placed

in an industrial crusher

and turned into an easily

spreadable paste.


But it will be perfectly legal –

compulsory, even –

to, at least once in your life,

drug a daytime TV presenter of the male variety,

preferably Richard Madeley,

and deposit his twitching body

on the town rubbish dump

for the gulls to peck.


KEVIN HIGGINS


KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five previous full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020  was published in late by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press this year. Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, will be published by Salmon next March.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Iona walk of shame, by Jay Whittaker

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Iona walk of shame


No minister

I did not leave

my sodden knickers

on the rocks

after semi-skinny dipping

on the Sabbath


that must have been some other pilgrim.

But there is learning here –

wet black pants

look just like kelp

strewn across a rock.


Jay Whittaker lives and works in Edinburgh. Her debut poetry collection Wristwatch (Cinnamon Press) was the Scottish Poetry Book of the Year (Saltire Society Literary Awards) 2018. Her second collection, Sweet Anaesthetist, (also Cinnamon Press) was published in 2020. Jay is widely published, including two poems in the recent Bloodaxe anthology, Staying Human. www.jaywhittaker.uk / @jaywhittapoet


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Half an hour’s work, by Sarah J. Bryson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Half an hour’s work


The secateurs fit her hand

perfectly, as she works

to shape the form

until a thicker branch

does not yield to the blade

and they are exchanged

for the long handled lopper

which uses the physics

of leverage to exert

their power.

Four more chops

then she drops

this tool for the rake

to gather up the trimmings

then stands back

to admire the shape,

notices a stray weed

she’s missed, under the bush

grabs the hand fork

to extract the dandelion’s

long tap root, but

this one needs

the little spade

to loosen the soil

to ease out the beast,

all but the tip surrendering

to the teasing.

She stands back again,

thinking how much

can be achieved in a short time –

then sees one more stem

to trim, to finish the job.

She looks around

for the secateurs

which have disappeared-

searches for nearly

another half an hour. 


Sarah J Bryson


Bio

Sarah has poems published in print journals, anthologies and on line. She has been a regular participant, during the Covid pandemic, in a weekly on-line arts event, combining photographs with haiku style poetry and has recently had several poems on the Poetry and Covid site.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Surf School, by Robert Garnham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Thou has the charms of a warthog.

Vile, doth your snout snuffle

Amongst the remnants of last night’s moussaka.

Has thou perchance upon my corduroy trouser leg

Upchucked?

Be gone!

Quoth my

Surfing instructor.


Upon my word did the very same surfing instructor

Not two hours previous

Raise an eyebrow or two as, with help,

I oozed into the requisite wetsuit,

Like a slug into a Smarties tube,

Thus requiring considerable tugging,

Talcum powder, axle grease, Vaseline,

Gravity and sheer luck,

And yea, for it was the closest I had come

In many months

To sex.


Unleashed on the sea thus be-rubbered,

I had all the equilibrium of a sparrow

In a cement mixer,

All the agility of a lopsided basset hound

With an inner ear infection,

All the balance of Fox News

And all the rhythm of a drummer divorced from his drum

And also, coincidentally,

Three months in the grave.

You might say that

I wasn’t really cut out for it.


Thy surfing instructor, Troy, were a frown

With a man attached.

Sayeth he,

I’ve never seen a surfboard just sink like that.

It just went down like a stone, didn’t it?

You’re rewriting all the laws of physics,

And upon my word,

Did’st thou notice the countenance of that

Dolphin?

Such a worried demeanour.

And you’ve put the fear of god

Into a porpoise.

And also,

Thou art emitting

A vast and toxic slick.


Thy wetsuit were as shapely as a

Delaminated lorry tyre,

Such that a passing walrus should deliver

A cocky wink,

And surely I would have excelled

In all my brine-soaked majesty

Were it not for a chafing in the gusset

Which brought tears to mine eyes and

Conjured

That night I spent in Nuneaton with an

Abraham Lincoln impersonator

Whose frisky appetites

Could ne’er be sated

Yet ate my buffet breakfast and scarpered

Without so much as a how do you do?


The sea were as rough as mine uncle

And it pounded on the beach like

An angry old man on the doors of the closed cafe

In which he has left his baccy tin,

And no matter how I progressed

I could stand not on that blessed board.

For when it cometh to surfing I am nought

But a charlatan, a poseur,

A ne’erdowell enmeshed in misery,

No more qualified to join the surfing greats

Than a giraffe join a coven of mallards,

That I might hang my head in shame,

And mutter, oh, when do I get to say cowabunga?

And hand in my ankle bracelet

And my coral necklace

And my flip flops

And submit to the life of a land based mammal

Such as a badger or a dental hygienist.


How vast the expression of shock on the face

Of my damp-headed instructor

When I leaned on the flanks of his

Cobbled rickety surf shack

And the whole place concertinered

Into a jumble of wooden planks.

He hardly laughed at all.


And thus began a tirade the general gist of which

Implored me to explore

Other avenues of past-time

In which my ham-fisted bungling efforts might

Not cause quite so much pain, anguish, damage

And general gnashing of teeth.

And that, dear listener,

Is how I became a poet.


Robert Garnham has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. Je has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. He has made a few short TV adverts for a certain bank, and a joke from one of his shows was listed as one of the funniest of the 2017 Edinburgh Fringe. Lately he has been writing short stories published in magazines such as Stand, Defenestration and Riggwelter, and a humorous column in the Herald Express newspaper. In 2021 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and shortlisted as Spoken Word Artist of the Year by the Saboteur Awards. His influences are diverse and include Ivor Cutler, Salena Godden, Bob Newhart and Laurie Anderson.


Robert is the editor of Spilling Cocoa. His website can be found at https://professorofwhimsy.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
There’s a Fucking Fly in my Fridge, by Paula Nicholson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













There’s a Fucking Fly in my Fridge.


There’s a fucking fly in my fridge.

Fellating a fish finger,

fondling the fruit and

feeling up the frangipane.

Your fun is finito

and in my fury,

fffffwack!

Flattened.

There’s now no fucking fly in my fridge.


Paula lives near Lockerbie with her family and an overly chatty cat. She likes scientific stuff, zombie films and books, and is partial to a slice of cake. She blogs on Twitter @paula_nicolson and Facebook as DeckyWriting.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Just Desserts, by Greg Freeman

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













JUST DESSERTS


Even after all this time

I’m not ashamed of what I did.

Tipping a mixture of party food

through an elderly former

neighbour’s letterbox.

He’d complained to our landlord

that our girlfriends stayed overnight.

It was the Seventies. Yorkshire

was and is a backward place.


I’d moved out as quick as I could,

got a place with my girl, soon

to be wife. Was invited back

for a party by the one nice flatmate

that we bumped into in town.

I hatched the plan in advance.

Halfway through the evening

I went out with my offering

and delivered it. Rat-tat-splat.


They say revenge is sweet.

Black forest gateau, trifle,

a soupcon of tiramisu.

And a dish best served cold.

Those puddings came

straight from the fridge.

I suppose my ex-flatmates

received some feedback.

Still gives me pleasure, writing this.


Greg Freeman is news and reviews editor for the poetry website Write Out Loud. He co-comperes a regular poetry night in Woking. His new collection is called Marples Must Go! One of its themes mourns the comic heroes of yesteryear, with this cri de coeur: ‘Why can’t life still be hilarious?’  https://www.dempseyandwindle.com/gregfreeman.html


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Errands, by Sarah J. Bryson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Errands


As novices on the ward

we students were sent to collect,

to beg to borrow –


‘nip to 15 see if they have any spare

draw sheets, and ask Sister Pink

if you can borrow a sphyg,’


‘go down to the porter’s lodge

and tell them we need someone urgently:

bring one of them back with you,’


‘take this list to CSSD

with the trolley, and bring back

as much as you can to stock up’


One day I was asked to go to

the orthopaedic ward

for left handed syringes


and a long stand.


Sarah J Bryson


Bio

Sarah has poems published in print journals, anthologies and on line. She has been a regular participant, during the Covid pandemic, in a weekly on-line arts event, combining photographs with haiku style poetry and has recently had several poems on the Poetry and Covid site.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Grumpy Bumpy Poem, by Ed Poetastic

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The sun too bright,

Toss away the clock,

These sheet are so tight,

My body feel like a rock,

EVERYTHING NOT ALRIGHT!!

A sound? Knock, knock, knock

Someone looking for a fight!!

The door!! Why is there so many locks!!

Mail, give me that! Forget being polite,

No Sir you can kiss my buttocks!

You enjoy that? Get out of my sight!!

Dumb stupid clock going tick tock,

I’m trying to eat with all my might,

What!! No tea or Coffee in stock,

This day is so crazy and not right,

Even my stove is refusing to ignite,

Puuufff, time to see boring sites,

It’s meh so what alright okay despite,

Why is the sky so bright, blue, and white?

Why is my jacket so little, stuffy, and tight?

Why are kids flying stupid droids and kites?

No more happy sappy activities in my hindsight

Being grumpy is my passion and birthright

I drink the bitter bad and toss away the delights

Seeing a peaceful moment spoils my appetite

I wish I can raindown thunderstorms with spite,

This sunshine, flowers, and butterflies really bites

I Love pure darkness then boring pale white

I love taking out the bulbs in everyone’s lights

I Love seeing fights, firefights, and bullfights

I love setting fireworks at the dead of midnight

Why am I so crabby, grouchy, and uptight?

why should I tell you? Have a grumpy night

By Ed Poetastic


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Strictly Speaking, by MT Taylor

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Strictly speaking…


…her shoes let them down

five inch heels and that soft kid leather

in come-fuck-me red.

Were they ever

really a pair?


He with his polished Latino click

hers a scarlet asymmetric slit

with a temper to match

his a spandex sparkle

and the macassared slick

of his Lugosi thatch


She didn’t fall, merely tripped

on his slippery charm

and her own indecision

lost her footing

gripped his arm as they took to the floor

in their downward collision.

She felt a smack from the back

of his left Cuban stack.


She’s had enough.

Through the crack of his dislocation

she remembered old scores

lost marks

humiliation


The last he knew was her impatient sigh

and the crushing sight

of her restless stiletto above his eye

the mocking cry

the samba siren and the boys in blue

(what-the-foxtrot-tango?)

lights on full

Paso doble

torero mujer

and one dead bull


MT Taylor was a librarian before retiring to Glasgow. Her work has appeared in The Glasgow Review of Books, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House, Northwords Now, The Lake, Under the Radar, and Poems for Grenfell. She has four children who still talk to her, and she still interrupts.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Ongoing Saga of Why I Haven’t Finished my Novel, by Nikki Fine

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Ongoing Saga of Why I haven’t Finished My Novel


Reason number four hundred and three.

No, don’t go. It’s a good one. You’ll like it.

Well, maybe ‘like’ is the wrong word. Perhaps

‘appreciate’, or even ‘recognise’.


I woke up

with the final paragraph in my head,

all ready to write in, spelling, punctuation,

everything needed to complete my opus.


I was so excited, I fumbled for my

lucky pen – the one I was using when

I won a story competition at primary school,

though I’ve had no luck since –

and knocked over my glass of water.


Obviously, I needed to dry the pen before use,

but as I entered the bathroom, in search of

a towel, the cat dashed beneath my feet,

and I tripped, dropping my poor pen

into the bowels of the unit which remained

unflushed after some midnight micturitions.


By the time I had failed to retrieve the pen

hygienically, and then called a plumber

to go beyond the u-bend, the paragraph

was gone. All that was left was this.


Nikki Fine is struggling to finish a novel and has resorted to poetry in the meantime. Some of her work has been published, in such places as Spilling Cocoa and The Interpreter’s House. She has also been experimenting with selfies in windy locations.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Zenith, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Zenith


Zenith Kane is the type of guy

who, home from a challenging afternoon

in the rat eat rat milieu that is the trade

in self-rotating slurry tanks,

lowers himself into his marble bathtub

with his pet electric eel;

makes up plans


to go, first, into politics

then the global arms trade as a lobbyist,

to familiarise himself with the menus of

the better hotels in Brussels,

Beirut, the District of Columbia;


then retire to a purpose built shed

the far end of the garden to drink

Ginseng tea through a handmade straw

and draft the twenty seventh best novel

in the history of front cover blurbs written

by critics with specialist haircuts

and names translated into Gaelic;


bathe in the sunlight of the quality press

declaring it brilliant

before it’s even written.


But last things first: those business cards,

and the professionally done head shot

all the websites say a novelist of his standing

must these days have.


For now, though, the struggle to rise

pinkly out of the bathtub while feeding

an eel buzzing its discontent

frogs and crabs by the bag load,


so tomorrow he can again be Zenith

and talk a man from Anbally or Gortlusky

into a tank with a rotating paddle

guaranteed to maintain the quality of his slurry.


KEVIN HIGGINS


KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five previous full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020  was published in late by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press this year. Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, will be published by Salmon next March.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Fags villanelle, by Heather Moulson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Fags villanelle


Please give me back my fags

You’re a scrubber and a thief

Rifling through our handbags


You really should be wearing tags

Or turning over a new leaf

And please give me back my fags


From the sweet shop you nick mags

From Tesco, joints of beef

You’re just like the other slags


So please go and nick more swag

To be honest, it will be a relief

When you give me back my fags


Remember it was Rothmans fags

Don’t hide behind that sheath

And get some more carrier bags


You didn’t do it? Good grief!

It was your boyfriend Keith

But you were still behind the blags

So please give me back my fags


					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The love song of Sergeant Wilson, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The love song of Sergeant Wilson


I say would you mind awfully

if we went to the cinema to see one of those

new fangled films the kids are talking about?

Sir are you absolutely sure that’s a good idea?


And I say would you mind awfully if I were

to walk you home afterwards to your humble abode?

Sir are you absolutely sure that’s a good idea?


I say would you mind awfully if I told you about my sergeant’s exam?

Shall I tell you about my manager at the bank?

Or about Jones the greengrocer?

How about Fraser?

He says we’re all doomed.

At times I think I agree with him.


I say would you mind awfully if we went to one of those new nightclubs?.

I think I may be too old for them these days.

I like a good club with a bit of dancing.

Maybe they’ll have a bit of jazz with trombones and trumpets.

Or maybe I will just bring my ear trumpet.


I say would you mind awfully if we just went to a tea dance.

Or maybe we could play bingo

Maybe we should just not bother.

I see the kids are watching that new Mrs Brown’s boys comedy.

Have you watched it?

I haven’t, I am not absolutely sure it is a good idea.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Rubbish Love Poem, by Martin Grey

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Rubbish Love Poem


Love is like a kung fu fighter.

It conducts itself with grace,

but if you let it draw you in,

it might kick you in the face.


Love is like a chainsaw.

Proper use is not a laugh,

‘cos if you treat it irresponsibly,

you might cut yourself in half.


Love is like a cup of tea

that someone else has made.

Sometimes it tastes so wonderful.

Sometimes they put the milk in first.


Love’s a bit like shopping,

full of newness to be handled,

but sometimes you’ll end up in Ikea

with a trolley full of candles.


But love ain’t unconditional,

no matter what you’ve heard,

‘cos if I see you put the milk in first

then I’ll need to have a word.


Martin is a Nottingham based poet. His first collection, The Prettyboys of Gangster Town, was published in 2020. He’s co-director of World Jam, co-host of Lenguas Open Mic and co-presents Poetry Global Network’s The Poetry News. He often wonders if people keep mistaking him for the poet they actually wanted.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What is a marriage?, by Bridget Hynes Murphy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What is a marriage?

A marriage is the strangest thing

It’s really not that clever

To squeeze two folks together

And tell them it’s forever

The first few months of wedded bliss Are really like a dream

You walk together hand in hand

A handsome, youthful team

But then reality comes to stay

And he never plans to go

Just like the one you married

The one you really didn’t know

You fight over the dishes

Or who got two hours sleep

You wasted all your wishes

On this Prince Charming what a creep But then he does the kindest thing

He let’s you sleep in late

He changes baby’s nappy

And tells you, you look great!

He stands beside you in your darkest hour He’ll gently squeeze your hand

As you say goodbye to one you love

And softly you will land

The years go by as they always do

Time, it never stops

Your lovers hair gets greyer

But you think he still looks hot


Now you’re hot too

But its not the same

Your flushes are mean and sweaty

Hes aging like some fine wine

But you’re feeling like a yeti

Then he takes you home and sits you down

Hands you a glass of wine

I don’t care how hot you get

I’m just glad you’re mine!

If time rewound this minute Would you still pick me?

I would indeed my darling For your love has set me free.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Bed of Nails – Nail Beds, by Mandy Beattie

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













BED OF NAILS — NAIL BEDS


​​            Before chemical spills and pandemics

​my finger nails used to be

​quarter moon Botticelli’s. Half

​            moons when I had bones of double

​            cream and vegan-inked in strawberry

moon and peridot. Once in a super blue blood moon

a French manicure with white wavelets: without

fish scales, guano, crushed beetles

and deadly nightshades they put in nail polish as protein –

Pointing the index finger a tattie bed

after tugging nettles. Middle nail has hang-nails

Ring finger a rock-stack. Peedie nail bit

between aikle’s into a sixteenth moon; an own goal

in the raffia-hoop – Thumb nail’s thumbs-up

inside the Arc de Triomphe

On the other hand

a peeling shallot. Pinkie stubbed its toe; a pitted moon

Third nail’s a salt cave

with stalactite-striations — A sign

on my nail-palm I could read in tea-leaves

when I wore a fur muff and long cloak. Toe nails

an obsessive compulsive

buzz cut. My skin used to be

slathered and seduced with calendula balm. Each hand

Rapunzel in circlets of gold, silver and semi-precious pebbles

​Now my nails are geek-nails

​in the buff

​with an edge


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
She was no James Herriott . . . By Aine Kelly

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













She was no James Herriott…….  by  Aine Kelly


Síle’s favourite was the Alpaca, with its traits of the Gobán Saor,

Hygienically meticulous and much valued for their hair.

The story started in Brown Thomas, when Síle’s jaw dropped

On hearing the inflated price for a small Alpaca  top.

When she finally composed herself and her heart was beating calmer,

She decided there and then to become an Alpaca farmer.


So she searched the Farmer’s Journal, found an auction in Athy

Put a loan from her Credit Union, with savings she’d put by.

In the excitement of investment, common sense failed her –

In Athy with six Alpacas – but no access to a trailer.

So she phoned up Farmer Kelly who was glued to the election.

‘Give me two hours and I’ll be there, are their cards ready for collection?


Síle waited in the carpark  under Level 5 restrictions

Sipping takeout Americano , while reading a work of fiction.

Farmer Kelly drove behind her, the six Alpacas going Ga Ga

Named them Angie, Tom and Tracy, Theo, Biden and Kamala.

Well they settled in Claregalway , ate their way through all her money.

Now a six foot fence surrounds her house and the big dream’s not so funny.

So one day she packed her trailer  – Tuam Mart said they’d take five.

She held on to sweet Kamala to keep her Alpaca dream alive.

But alone, she whined and whimpered  now the neighbours were going Ga Ga

So she formed a small support group called the ‘Friends of the Alpaca..’

(some years later)

Pondering her investment

Years after Kamala got the chop,

Síle felt life might have been easier

If she’d just bought that bloody top!


My name is Áine Kelly and I fancy myself as having an eye for the funnier side of life!  I have attended some poetry workshops and completed a creative writing module,  and love the idea of getting a serious idea across either in a poem or a short story. I have had a book of short stories. called ‘Has Anyone A Set of Jumpleads?’ published in 2018, with accompanying artwork by Christopher Banahan.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Iron Hat, by Ed Poetastic

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Iron Hat,


Come on, where the facts?

Its not under your aluminum hat?

I dont hear anything from that cat?

Wait, whats with the chaotic format?

Okay!Okay!okay, i wont do that!

There nothing wrong with the thermostat,

No No No the earth isnt fake or flat,

No im not a CIA agent, snick or a rat,

I thought we could hang and chat,

Yes, ill watch out for your mystical mate,

Ow Alright! Alright! please dont snap!

No im not doing some MKultra Crap,

You hear sounds? Tap, Tap, Tap,

Its the Tv. Have you lost it or snap?

I keep telling you, No your not on the map!!

Yes, this isnt paint, im actually black,

Yes, check my id. Careful with that strap,

Its seem common sense you lack,

Hey!Hey!Hey! Dont you smash my Mac,

Man, you only have paste but no snacks?

Yes, my electronics and shoes are on the rack,

No, Im dont have a wire or being tracked,

No, No, No this isnt a sting or a Trap,

No!! Time moves foward, there is no gaps,

I think you need a rest or a quick nap,

Prepare for combat? Are you smoking crack?

No! Your cellphone and computer arent hacked,

Im going, i hope your humanity is intact,

For real, you dont need to worry, your a huge paranoid brat,

By Ed Poetastic


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Attitude to Life, by Nancy Tully

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













When I was young and told to mend my ways

Because I was turning my mother’s hair grey


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


Just take a look around today

It happens in a similar way


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


As we progress through life

We are always giving someone strife


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


See that queue, well I’ll push to the front

If anyone complains, I’ll be blunt


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


If someone is helpful and kind to me

Do I feel I have to return that kindness? NOT ME!


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


I’ll drive my car so close behind yours

Do I really care about an accident and the laws?


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


I don’t need to drive with my seatbelt on

I don’t care if it’s right or wrong


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


If you drive through town at night

I’ll just walk right out and give you a fright


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


My children are so precious to me

When they are in the car they stand so they can see


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


And so we go on through our lives

Without a care and full of jibes


WHO ME? I DON’T HAVE AN ATTUTUDE PROBLEM


So when are we going to show people we care

I would like to think we could all be a little more fair


WHO ME? I DO HAVE AN ATTITUDE PROBLEM


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Ballad of Bertie Bassett and the Bisto Kids, by Ray Pool

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













THE BALLAD OF BERTIE BASSETT AND THE BISTO KIDS


This is the ballad of Bertie Bassett

And how he dealt with the Bisto Kids,

He rode into town to settle a score

And to see the woman he did adore.


He felt like settling down at last,

To put away his chequered past,

Mary was in his line of sight,

He hoped to see her this very night.


The Bisto Kids were on his list

riotous gamblers who carried arms,

Bertie now was on the prowl

And soon would face them cheek to jowl.


Meanwhile unbeknownst to them

A US marshall was on the train

Coming to put the kids in gaol,

For shooting and looting in Cripple Dale.


In the diamond X saloon

A poker game was starting up,

the Bisto Kids were always cheating,

The atmosphere was overheating.

Bertie was known for his licquorice log

And had his pick of womenfolk,

Now in the bar, his legs astride,

poor Mary nearly had a stroke.


The players all got up to leave,

as in strode the marshall, the place went quiet

all the drinkers began to burp

They thought it was old Wyatt Earp.


The Bisto Kids had pulled their guns

And theirs were not the only ones

Bertie held his weapons high

But Mary revealed a gartered thigh


Which drew old Bertie’s eyes away

when a bisto bullet hit his leg

but Billy had the quicker draw,

the Bistos fell upon the floor.


“Jack, Jack” a voice was heard,

“Jack, Jack, wake up, wake up !

You fell asleep and the dinner’s ready,

And what have you done to your favourite Teddy?


Little Jack, just shy of ten

His allsorts box quite empty, then

As the smell of gravy came through the door

Said: “Mum, I’m not hungry anymore.”


My flirtation with poetry blossomed whilst working at the BBC. I had a poem published in the Breathru Magazine run by Ken Geering in the late sixties.  It is only since semi-retiring from the music business that I ventured into live poetry reading, and am now a prolific writer of poetry.  I tend to choose subject matter of a quirky or satirical aspect, often read with mimicked accents and dialects.  I have had two pamphlets published by Dempsey and Windle and poems in anthologies by Paradox and Indigo Dreams.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
An Ode to Simon Reeve, by Robert Garnham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Poem


I stepped into a tropical bar.

Simon Reeve was there in a slow dance,

And I lost myself to his floppy fringe

Whose sweat-soaked flappy fronds would

Tickle my blushing cheeks,

Whose stubble scraped at the twilit skies

Like a cat’s claws on anaglypta,

Whose come-to-bed eyes betrayed none

Of the entitlement of his classical features

But a yearning for a sweetness so virile

That he could have been a treacle tart

And I ached, how I ached,

To be the custard.


Backpack merely decorative,

Naive tone a faux Theroux,

Poor man’s Palin,

Cargo-trousered doyen of sand dunes

And jungle trains,

No armchair droner he,

Riven with Reevisms, river crossings,

Barrier reef rovings,

Now gyrating for my pleasure in the aptly named

Club Flamingo.


Simon Reeve whose dimpled smile

Hauls in the night like a Titicatan net-lobber,

Whose unblemished skin betrays the

Goodness of various restorative unguents,

Whose manly chin is jutted like the

Bulbous bow of a speeding Shinkansen

And probably twice as purposeful,

Whose sensitive eyebrows are seldom parabolic,

Yet neither do they quiver intense for

Reevsie is an empathic soul,

Whose backpack is admittedly superfluous,

Whose torso is Michaelangeloian in its

Sculpted accommodation of his lean yet

Muscular frame on whose bounty I would

Willingly consume a quadruple-decker cheeseburger

Dipping a chip in a reservoir of mayonnaise

Stored for convenience sake in his belly button.


Action man for aunties.

Secret poet banging sand out his boots.

Earnest and eager though neither over with either.

Mortal enemy of Professor Brian Cox.

No world-weary Whicker he, but a clamorous compassion

And the kind of face

That would make even Vladimir Putin

Contemplate a five minute fumble

In the broom cupboard.


Simon Reeve, whose tousled locks hold

Within their definitely un-dyed verdantness

A vitality that would put Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson to shame,

Whose rich deep Colombian coffee coloured eyes

Might penetrate x-ray-like beneath layers so effectively

As to pass right through the earth’s core every time

He bends down to pat a puppy.

Whose nostrils hardly flare.

Whose afterthought goatee clings on like

A countryside hilltop copse stunted

By the choking emissions from a nearby pig farm

Yet in whose branches barn owls berate the night

With their haunted warbling,

Whose luscious lips have tempted many a plastic surgeon

To bemoan the artifice of their own creations

And now before is delicate tongue-moistened plumpness,

Whose sturdy shoulders in their perfect powerful paralleogramatic

Precision

Would easily raise a live rhinoceros clear out

Of the Serengeti mud hole

Into which it had stumbled probably distracted

By the beauty of Simon Reeve’s face in the first place.


And I,

Simon Reeve,

I am that rhinoceros

And this ain’t no mud hole,

It’s the Club Flamingo

And our song has now ended

And our dance has now ended

And you’ve picked up your backpack

Which definitely doesn’t contain

Just a couple of pillows to make it look full for the cameras,

And off you go.


Robert Garnham https://professorofwhimsy.com has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. Je has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. He has made a few short TV adverts for a certain bank, and a joke from one of his shows was listed as one of the funniest of the 2017 Edinburgh Fringe. Lately he has been writing short stories published in magazines such as Stand, Defenestration and Riggwelter, and a humorous column in the Herald Express newspaper. In 2021 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and shortlisted as Spoken Word Artist of the Year by the Saboteur Awards. His influences are diverse and include Ivor Cutler, Salena Godden, Bob Newhart and Laurie Anderson.


Robert is the editor of Spilling Cocoa.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Playing Space Invaders, by Ann Gibson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Playing Space Invaders


He ignored empty places down the carriage, sidled

into the seat beside her, wafted sour beer, stale smoke.


‘Cheer up love,’ he leered, ‘it might never happen’.

It just had, she wanted to tell him.


‘What’s it about?’ he nudged her, nodded to her book.

‘Cartesian Dualism,’ she lied, almost spat.


He nodded again, as though he understood.

For a split second she thought she’d been sussed,


was relieved to see his sneer

dismissing her as a smart-ass.


Off the hook, (she wouldn’t know where to start

with Descartes) she resumed reading.


Ann Gibson spent her childhood in Dublin and now lives in North Yorkshire. She has published poetry in Acumen, Prole, Dream Catcher, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis, and The Poets’ Republic, as well as online in Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, The High Window, Lighten Up Online, Snakeskin, Ofi Press Magazine and The Ekphrasis Review.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Body Art, by Jennifer A. McGowan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Body Art


Elephant face on the outside of his arm.

They tried to discourage him. Think of your kids,

they said. He laughed. Think of aging,

they said. I’ll get old and wrinkly, he smiled.

Like an elephant.


Jennifer A. McGowan is a disabled poet and re-enactor who generally prefers the fifteenth century but is addicted to indoor plumbing. Awkward. She has five collections out, and a sixth is currently under scrutiny by editors.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Loyalty Penalty, by John Lanyon

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













LOYALTY PENALTY


Dear Sir or Madam,

your Policy of Love is due for Renewal.


Wait!


It pays to shop around.

Switch now!

Whatever your offer we’ll beat it.

Comprehensive Love?

Damage to a Third Party?

We guarantee a minimum Level of Affection.

In the event of a Breakdown

we supply a Courtesy Partner

(for up to 28 days).

Choose your Level of Excess.

Suddenly kicked out by your Lover?

We’ll find you a lonely Bed-Sit.

Add European Cover? No Problem!

Add a Spiritual Dimension? Easy!


Note: we do not replace matching Items.

We do not operate a new-for-old Policy.


Indemnify your Heart!


You’re covered –

should you fall from Grace*.


*Terms and Conditions apply.


John Lanyon


John Lanyon lives in West Oxfordshire where he works as a gardener, linguist, musician and writer. He is approximately 25% of the poetry quartet www.fourwordsmen.com . He is excited by the secret lives of words, the play between the animate and inanimate worlds, the spirit of places.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ageing Process, by Jane Shaer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













AGEING PROCESS

Have you ever looked in the mirror

To reflect your age

And noticed cellulite and wrinkles

Have taken centre stage?

It’s then you wonder to yourself

How old must I be?

What sort of a body is this

To be given me?


Have you noticed the hair upon your head

Is starting to thin out

When the roots underneath are turning

White

And suddenly beginning to sprout?

It’s then you wonder to yourself

Am I really okay?

Why not have a wig aswell

Let alone going prematurely grey?


Have you ever been to the dentist

And while lying in the chair

He’s fitting you with a crown

As you gaze up his nose in despair?

It’s then you wonder to yourself

This guy’s a nice enough chap.

But I only wish he’d finish off

Bridging that gap.


Have you ever been to the doctor

To get a jab for the flu

And asked him time and time again

Can I make love to you?

It’s then you wonder to yourself

If my senility’s on par.

Why not have a man aswell

When I’ve a crush on my car.


Have you ever had a Garam or Tikka Massala

From an Indian takeaway

Not realising the effect it has on you

For many a day?

It’s then you wonder to yourself

If this stuff is going to keep on

Passing through.

How much longer must I spend VINDALOO?


My name is Jane Shaer & live in North London.

I was inspired by Pam Ayres to write poetry

when she won Opportunity Knocks back in

the 1970’s.

I have epilepsy & learning difficulties & putting pen to paper can be quite a challenge.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Jack Kerouac’s Orange (An Origin Myth) by Cáit O’Neill McCullagh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Jack Kerouac’s Orange (An Origin Myth)


Your mind makes out the orange by seeing it, hearing it, touching it, smelling it, tasting it

and thinking about it … depending on your mind to exist! By itself it’s a no-thing …

it’s seen only of your mind

– Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums


Like Jack Kerouac’s Orange

I am awake for you baby

baby taste this flesh, smell

smell the myth of limonene

this orange wants to be seen

see me, hear me, touch me

make me become.


Make me a some-thing baby

baby don’t you feel the want

want to feel how it is

how it is to be empty

empty & awake & a no-thing

nothing unless of your mind?


Spilled out like squeezed sea

sea squeezed from an orange

a sodden orange from a Spanish ship

shipwrecked & empty & a no-thing

nothing except for the mind of a poet


‘thinking about it it’s really mental

things only seen of your own mind’.


But Jack got it wrong baby

I am not your orange

you may have me

in your mind’s eye

thinking about it & me

& all that existential baby


& you may say you saw me

saw me only & only me

& only of your mind


but it was me who was looking

baby I was looking at the apple

& it was me who was awake

awake & looking at the apple

it was always me baby

baby it was always me

who took the first bite.


Cáit is a straying archaeologist. At home in the Scottish Highlands, she makes films and writing with folk hoping to assemble good ways of living in this queasy world. Poems have been peeling from her since January 2021.  This is one of her first.  You can find her tweeting @kittyjmac.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Knock Knock, by Ed Poetastic

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Knock,Knock

Who’s there?

Knock, Knock

Should I care?

Knock, Knock

Do I dare?

Knock, Knock,

yes I can hear, I’m aware.

Knock, Knock,

I didn’t do it!! I swear!!

Knock, knock,

I don’t need a prayer!

Knock, Knock

My house doesn’t need repair!

Knock, Knock,

I don’t need any cookware!

Knock, Knock

I don’t need any armchairs!

Knock, knock

I’m losing my hair!!!

knock, knock

Don’t have money to spare

Knock,Knock

OMG!! I’m in a nightmare!!!

Knock, Knock

Are you a Grizzly Bear!!

Knock, Knock

I’m only in my underwear!

Knock, Knock

please just be air

Knock, Knock

I have nothing to share

Knock, Knock

This isn’t a freaking daycare!!

Knock, Knock

Sigh Yes, I’m here. Are you still there


By Ed Poetastic


My name is Ed Poetastic and I’m here to make you feel fantastic. I’m regular at open mic such as Nuyorican, Barbwire, Grassroots, Antics Open Mic, Poetry Cafe, The Mitch Salon, Phynnecabulary Open Mic, Time to Arrive, The Word is Write, Unmesh Life Open Mic, Tokyo Kotoba, and many more. I was interviewed by Rick Spisak, Pal Sujata, and Harrison Hickman. My Facebook is Eddy Foreman and My Ig is edforeman92.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Whatever Happened to Fay Wray?, by Dominic Weston

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Whatever Happened To Fay Wray?


No one wants to fall

from the tallest building

in the world

but the journey down

sure gives you time to think


Broke nearly every bone

in my body – damn near died

took a year just to walk again

still, Time’s a great healer

Ma said, before she passed


Bullet holes closed up

but I got smaller inside

folks think cos you’re big

you’re strong

it ain’t the same thing


Couldn’t hold down

no job for a long time

not till TV came to town

but no way was I goin’

back in front of the cameras


I shoot doc-u-ment-aries now

not the people type –

sad fuckers in a trailer park

but dumb animals –

sad fuckers in a national park


Same story every time

but stressy folks lap it up

I just change the players

change the places

tell it forwards, tell it sideways


It’s all about sleight of hand

what really happens don’t matter

it’s what they want to see

what matters, and one thing

I’ve always been good at


is a side show.


Dominic Weston produces wildlife television programmes, runs over the Mendip hills and writes poetry.  His work often relates to family or the natural world, undercut by a healthy slick of darkness.  His poems have appeared in Agenda, Black Bough Poetry, Magma, The North, Under the Radar and many other publications.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Homing Pigeon, by Hilary Willmott

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













HOMING PIGEON


You won’t bloody believe this. It’s his best stunt yet.

He’s only going to drive it back to Derbyshire in the car!

We live in Bristol, mind, so it’s a bit of a trek.

I really think he’s lost his mind this time.


It has one of those rings around its foot, apparently

so that’s how he made contact with the owner

and I guess when he offered to drive the thing back.

I wasn’t privy to that conversation, so I’m surmising.


But I’ll tell you this and you can call me cruel if you wish.

I’ve been to the Cat Rescue this morning and come home

with a muscly ginger one, who has an intense stare and licks

his lips alot. I’m not risking all this fucking nonsense again.


HILARY WILLMOTT


Hilary has been writing for many years.  Her poetry has been published by Templar Press, Bristol Poetry Can, Obsessed with Pipework, Leaf, Velvet, The Exeter Broadsheet and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis.  She has also been shortlisted nationally.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
A man on the 19.34 to Birmingham New Street, having misread the signals,  uses his mobile to try to arrange another date with the woman who has  hastily waved him off at Liverpool Lime Street , by Emma Purshouse

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













A man on the 19.34 to Birmingham New Street, having misread the signals,

uses his mobile to try to arrange another date with the woman who has

hastily waved him off at Liverpool Lime Street


Whah?

Say again.


I bet yum freezing

ya baps off ay ya,

bab?  Say again.

Say again. Whah?


I could come back


like, warm you up.

Whah?  Say again.


Say again.  Whah?


Errrrr……Runcorn.


Say again?  Whah?


Thursday.                         Thurs…


Say again.  I know,


yeah.  Say…………


Ok…………..Tarrah.


Tarrahtarrahtarrah.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
To Professor John Henderson, by Maria Andrews

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 
To Professor John Henderson, about my/his belly.


John,


Would be great to cut a fine figure.

I do, says your belly,

Swaying on my two pins.

Uh huh? I’m listening, I say.

Yeah, I cut a fine figure of a Henderson belly

asking John for a hug.


You’ve got persistence going for ya,

I give you that. Yeah I have,

my/your belly drawls,

taking a long drag of a cigarette,

I’ll ask him till the day I die. I placate curve

with smoothing palm.


Are you thinking about John now?

John Henderson belly closes her eyes.

Yeah. All his vocatives rolled

into one tumbling waterfall of cadences.

What about his ablatives, his hyperbatons?

All cases. All cadences. One long


Belly schmoosh. His semantic analytics?

His patterns? His parsings? His epics?

His topsy turvey word order?

My belly is opening her lips, lost

for words. His exploratory thematics?

She’s gone, lost in loin-louche.


Maria Andrews is a short film maker and photographer who occasionally gets published in poetry mags (Polka Dot Ceiling, Still Life) and was once published in a collection (Bloody Amazing). Her current alias is a puppet called Leopold, who is a London correspondent for Helmiflix.com She likes belly laughs. manifestafilm@weebly.com.






					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Do Come to my Party, by Ruth Aylett

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Do come to my party..


This time, just for close friends

so no Facebook public event;

I’m celebrating the spring equinox

but haha – without fertility rites.


I am not inviting anyone’s ex

as far as I know, but nobody said

last time about Liz and Dean

or Janice and Liz, or the tragic death.


This time the veggie option

will not contain chicken stock

and I told everyone no hash brownies,

whether labelled or not.


The party games will all be voluntary;

there will be no charades

acting out cocktail names,

no removal of clothes.


No dog-sitters will bring the pooch,

another time for the twins with AHD

and we already established

next doors cat won’t fit the BB Q


This time no stand-back-fifty-metre

fireworks in the tenement’s back green;

it’s the wrong time of year

and the facing flats weren’t keen.


Though the emergency services

were actually rather pleasant

and the front door

has now been mended.


RSVP. Do come!


Ruth Aylett teaches/researches computing in Edinburgh and her poetry is published widely in magazines/anthologies. Joint author of Handfast (Mother’s Milk, 2016); her pamphlet, Pretty in Pink (4Word) was published Jan2021. More at http://www.macs.hw.ac.uk/~ruth/writing.html


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Earthworms are Awesome, by Holly Conant

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Earthworms Are Awesome


I mean, they literally feed the fucking planet. Take our fermented banana, yellow miasma and crap it out as wise-man’s gold. And I feel impressed with my morning turd! But that needs hours of processing, by loads of people in hazmat suits with fancy gizmos, before it turns into anything useful. I’d rather be a worm: take a shit, and boom, job done; it’s warm and ready to be laid into by a seed-bean or bulb. Maybe I’d be more fulfilled without a human brain to contradict my purpose. I’d find my way into a middle-class compost bin, spend all day eating potpourri detritus, and be a rent-free master architect, redacting common land law. I’d be humbled by my legless body, my simple ways of building, mindful of camber structure instead of grey velvet sofas and Mrs Hinch. I’d be at home in dirt, throw my gender away and bag the kinky night-time rendezvous’ amongst an orgy of grass with wet breath. The human hand would be no more risk to me than it is now, maybe even less, and mother Earth might forgive me for my flesh. I just hope being swallowed by a bird is a quick death.


Holly is a mature student currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems have been published since January 2021 by Ink, Sweat & Tears, Anti-Heroin Chic, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Dreich and more, as well as appearing in anthologies. She is currently working on her debut collection.


Twitter: @Holly_C_Writer


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Plums, by Lee Campbell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Plums


I walked into the kitchen and there was Mum

Sitting at the table with a truck load of plum

As Mum de-stoned the fruit to make it into a pud

She wrote a short verse which I thought was quite good


She has this skill of writing as if she is somebody else

Looks like the voice of this poem is that of myself


And so, she wrote:


‘My mum’s been busy cutting up plums

Her son, her chum thinks they all look like bums

Now she is glum as she is getting numb thumbs’


A few hours later she had no reason to grumble

Those numb thumbs had made way for the perfect crumble


Lee Campbell is a performance poet and regularly performs at Paper Tiger Poetry in London His poem ‘Clever at without being Seen’ was recently included in Sometimes, The Revolution is Small, Disarm Hate x Poetry’ project by Nymphs & Thugs Recording Co. UK and published in Queerlings online magazine. His poem Juniper Park was recently published on this website.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
My Mother Said, by Sharon Phillips

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













My Mother Said


Always take care of your man

and try not to seem too clever.

The home is a woman’s domain;

this floor could do with a hoover.


Men like to think they’re clever

so buck your ideas up, my girl:

this floor could do with a hoover

and you’re wearing a dirty skirt.


Buck your ideas up, my girl,

make him feel proud of your looks:

you’re wearing a dirty skirt

and wasting your time on books.


Make him feel proud of your looks

and give that bathroom a clean;

there’s no time to waste on books;

cook something nice for his tea.


Go on, give that bathroom a clean;

the home is a woman’s domain,

so cook something nice for his tea

and try to hang on to your man.


(Previously published in Snakeskin, May 2018)


Sharon stopped writing poetry in 1976 and started again forty years later, after retiring from her career in education. Her poems have been published online and in print and she is currently studying for an MFA at York St. John University. Originally from Bristol, Sharon now lives in Otley, West Yorkshire.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Reincarnation Revenge, by Catherine Doherty Nicholls

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Reincarnation Revenge


If I come back

I’ll be a flea,

A sexy flea

who’s bitchy


Throw wild flea orgies

in your bed,

and bite you

’til you’re itchy




Winner of no Poetry Ireland Competition, or any other competition, no published debut collection, nothing printed anywhere else yet except here. 

Her poems have been nominated for nothing so she’s nominating this poem to go on this page – a great place to start nominating. 


She is the curator of nothing. Her anthology doesn’t exist, yet she keeps going.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
One to Tenant, by Peter O’Toole

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













One To Tenant


One house to rent

Done deal over the phone

Finally we have a place

on loan not quite our own


Two months saving up

we needed to hurry up

Got the first months rent

and the deposit

We got lucky,

There is a lot of competition out there

we nearly lost it


Three people start a new chapter

two adults one child

Days of struggling

but days that contain laughter

our first journey to happy ever after


Four in the morning

and the little one wakes up

Still half asleep as i hurry

to reach for a bottle or cup

A distant memory is 8 hours sleep

but its four hours only

Before i hear the sound

of the alarm clock beep, beep, beep


Five days a week

on a basic wage

After the rent is paid

be lucky to get a mcdonalds

eurosaver burger at this stage


Six months go by

starting to borrow money

on the sly

Even though i work

It’s hard to save

How can you save for a mortgage?

when money is tight

like chains on a slave


Seven loans to my name

cant say im the only one to blame

But living in Dublin

feels like your paying double

But down in the country

you pay less so no trouble


Eight hours overtime on

next week’s payslip

But i’ll only see a tenner

of that so i will head to

The bookies with a hot tip

Football or horses

Il do what it takes

to save for a mortgage again

And if i win

Just maybe, my saving can begin


9 attempts at a loan

from the bank to the shark

Still the chances of balance

are looking a bit stark

Chances look dark

but there is light

at the end of the tunnel

Maybe a dream of a decent life

is not so impossible


10 years of struggling

10 years of juggling

All the the times the bank

told us not a chance

during the boom and

after the economy collapsed

But after ten months

Ten days and lot of years

Something came out of

the blood, sweat and tears

We may have our keys

And can look back at the rent

and be proud to say

I served living a life on borrow

a life as a tenant.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Vege, by Julian Matthews

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













VEGE


Hey, remember me?

I am the leafy vegetable at the side of your plate that never got eaten

The one your mother insists is good for you

I lay there getting cold and soggy until the meal was over

You waited — until she wasn’t looking

Then receded on tippy toes and tossed me in the step-bin


These days, you speak of being organic and eating brown bread,

brown rice, brownies made of all-natural black beans,

fairtrade cocoa and grass-fed butter

You carry a metal straw and forsake plastic

You are an environmental warrior

A climate change defender


You do yoga and meditate and stand on your head

You attend retreats on mindfulness — to empty your mind

You go to the gym to stretch your body to its limit and call it de-stress time

You eschew coffee and prefer green tea

You drink cold-pressed juices made of avocado, cucumber, carrots, celery and pumpkin

You speak of their antioxidant properties and gloat about the anti-aging glow of your skin


I was the leafy green you threw in the bin

I still remember mum insisting that wasting me was such a sin

You are vegan now —


I win


Julian Matthews is a former journalist and trainer finding new ways to express himself during the pandemic through poetry and fiction. The Malaysian-based poet is published in “Unmasked: Reflections on Virus-time” (Heliconia Press), an anthology curated by author Shamini Flint, Poetry and Covid (poetryandcovid.com), a project funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council, the WordsFest Zine (Insomniac Press), Borderless Journal, Nine Cloud Journal, Second Chance Lit, Poor Yorick Literary Journal and Wingless Dreamer


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
How Papa Never Got His Guapa, by Julian Isaacs

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













How Papa Never Got His Guapa


As Astrud Gilberto once said to Stan Getz,

The thing about the sun is it also sets.

Then along came Hemingway in a big white Beemer,

Saying: Hello darling — are you the girl from Ipanema?

Maybe I am, she said, but that bell never tolled for me.

You’re just a dirty old man, so please go back to the sea.

I think you’re a bit of a beast,

And you’re not invited to my moveable feast.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Two-day soap sud death dance, by Gary W. Hartley

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Two-day soap sud death dance


Cars washed. A million cars washed

Baby Shark sung without enthusiasm

In a million supermarket aisles

To juvenile audiences

Already considering it passé

We are all passé

A nation of proud plastic polluters

Big-mouthed bottom feeders

Believing we’re on top, what we’re used to

What we’re told is true

By Jeff Stelling on Soccer Saturday

And other pundits

We should do something

About that overhanging tree

We should pull up grass

And lay down the latest AstroTurf

We cannot enjoy what we have left

In fact, we flatly refuse

When it all falls

We will treat it as the longest weekend ever

WAHEY

Buy in crates upon crates of Corona beer

In deepest irony

Until we run out of that

And all the other stuff

Then what? Put baseball bats through flatscreens

Blame it on them next door

Congregate in imaginary corridors as if in queues

We’re fine, they’re fine, we all say it

And to be fair

To be honest

To never be anything other than honest

That will just have to do.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Golfing Heaven, by Paul Francis

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













GOLFING HEAVEN


I hope there’s golfing heaven.

I’m sure there’s golfing hell.

I visit it most weekends –

I know it really well.


The devils haunt me from the tee

They mock my grip, my stance.

“Should you be doing this at your age?”

They think I’ve got no chance.


I shan’t give in. Some practice swings,

I‘m made of sterner stuff.

They smile and clap sarcastically

As I blaze into the rough.


The bunkers seem to chuckle

They’re driving me insane;

The way my chip shot hits the edge

Then bounces back again.


There’s the giggling of banshees

Who devour my inner soul

As once again a two-foot putt

Goes bobbling round the hole.


So as my scores get higher

Par threes take six or seven

I like to dream of changing course –

A move to golfing heaven.


Where drives zip down the fairway

Chips always reach the green

And wedge shots from the bunker

Are the finest ever seen.


It’s hard to pick a highlight

When everything is fine;

Was it the eagle at the fifth?

The albatross on nine?


The clubhouse beer is nectar

All members are my friends.

The round is only eighteen holes

But the feeling never ends.


For there’ll be no more sorrow

In the solace I have found.

They’ll smile and say “Tomorrow

We’ll play another round.”


Paul Francis lives in Shropshire, and is active in the West Midlands poetry scene. He has won three national competitions, and in 2020 came second in the Beyond the Storm poetry competition (2,381 entries). His most recent collection is Rescue from the Dark (Fair Acre Press, 2021).


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Sleep on me, by Enda McGarth

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Sleep On Me


Sleep on me

so I can hold your exhaustion

and weariness.

Your bleary eyes haunt me.

I dream of the days

they used to hit me like a sunrise.


I made the mistake

broken trust.

In your bleary eyes

so much to regain.

I’ll be the workhorse

this time

to fix it

before I’ll proceed from shame.


Sleep on it

and decide if you’re mine

while I lay beside you

holding cold promises

In the night.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Their Relationship Inventory, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Their Relationship Inventory


He’s proof there’s nothing as loud and long

as an idea whose time will hopefully never come.

She’s the type who gets illnesses,

her own, and other people’s.

Shutting him up is like trying to screw down the lid

on a coffin full of alligators,

all in a rush to get to the airport.

His list of those who need to be taken out and garrotted

is thick as Ghislaine Maxwell’s black book,

and always being updated.

Her sulks are more protracted

than a bad summer in Kilkee.

He’s the sort who paints a mayonnaise and chocolate

Jackson Pollock

on the new furniture she spent months choosing

within five minutes;

though, about the household accounts,

he’s uptight as a pro-lifer’s under-elastic.


And when she ran him over

in the small car he bought her

for her birthday

and didn’t visit him in hospital afterwards,

he sat up in bed and announced:

he was choosing not

to take this personally.


That she’ll be back

to run him over again.


KEVIN HIGGINS


Kevin Higgins is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 is was published late last year by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland is just published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press. Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, Ecstatic, will be published by Salmon in March 2022.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
President Marcus Choy, by Art Ó Súilleabháin

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













President Marcus Choy


Marcus Choy was an awkward boy

all homework had a tale

teachers, it appears, he set out to annoy

with excuses, no matter how stale.


The pup ate the page, he was at that stage

he couldn’t find a pen

a budgie escaped and left its cage

the lights went out again.


He was so sick, he developed a ‘tic’

re-repeated his words

a doctor was called, he was anemic

the house was invaded by birds.


An alien landed, he was stranded

a tiger escaped from the zoo

little sister the book demanded

what was he to do?


Teachers, all fed up with his tricks

digging under their skin

a job that expected excuses – politics!

some seat he would have to win.


So, he bought a suit to appear resolute

as sharp as any pin

promises, promises, all the truth

the better to help him get in.


With so much wealth, he’d solve the health

thousands of houses he’d build

he’d change the system by acts or stealth

every promise fulfilled.


No one would be poor, he’d be a real doer

things would simply get done

Dublin homeless would be fewer and fewer

living would be fun.


But he made up his mind to be one of a kind

he’d be a poet or die

his wardrobe had to be redesigned

for ‘the job’ he would apply.


He’d develop a blog and get a dog

the voters he would dupe

decrees he’d write, laws he could cog

a saying he could loop.


Oh, what a lark, a house in the park

just like Uachtarán Higgins

in seven years, he would leave a mark

another story begins …


Art Ó Súilleabháin was born in Corr na Móna, Co. Galway and spent some years in Boston USA. He worked in Dublin, Castlebar and Washington DC before returning to Corr na Móna. His first collection of poetry for adults (Mayflies in the Heather) was published by Revival Press in April 2021.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
No Joy, (after Marie Kondo), by Agnes Warren

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













No joy


After Marie Kondo


I drew the line at Marie Kondo

and not a straight, well-behaved line.

More a squiggly, thrice drawn,

twice rubbed out, kind of line,

the likes of which Marie could never approve of.


I attempted to fold my underwear, à la KonMari,

but my rebellious knickers had other ideas.

Protesting at every turn,

like a bunch of radical feminists at Miss World,

defiantly refusing to be folded into submission.


She could never accept

my need for thirty books,

piled precariously on my nightstand,

a leaning tower of delight.

Even when I swore

they all sparked great joy.


Her sanctimonious smile,

her Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up.

It was never going to work.

It was her, not me.


In the end, she just wasn’t

nightstand quality


Agnes Warren lives in the West of Irelans. She is new to poetry writing, having recently participated in a series of workshops with Kevin Higgins, through Galway Arts Centre.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
King Roger, by Melanie Branton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 
King Roger


Roger de Mortimer, 4th Earl of March and 6th Earl of Ulster, was heir presumptive to Richard II between 1382 and 1398


King Roger! We nearly had a King Roger!

So, did we dodge a

bullet or should we, in fact, bemoan

the fact that Roger never, ever

made it to the throne?


When Richard needed spies,

then he applied for the position.

So, Roger went to Ireland

on a very secret mission.


He skulked about and got himself

in thrilling scrapes galore.

Was he James Bond?

No, he was Roger, more.


To blend in with the Irishmen,

he found it a no-brainer

to paint his face a lurid blue

and wear the brat and léine.


So maybe he went AWOL,

but I can still relate if

he got a little overkeen

and went a little native.


Some said he took it way too far,

some said, “He’s off his trolley!”

but I say, like the pirate flag,

Roger was jolly.


Roger’s story reached its end

in 1398.

He walked into a brigands’ trap:

they fell upon him, straight.


They knocked him off his horse

and then they pummelled him about.

Alas, that was the end of him:


Roger was over and out.


Melanie Branton is a spoken word artist from the Bristol area. Her published collections are Can You See Where I’m Coming From? (Burning Eye, 2018) and My Cloth-Eared Heart (Oversteps, 2017). She is inordinately fond of hats, historical linguistics, and porridge.






					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Colonoscopy, by Vern Fenn

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













COLONOSCOPY


This poem is irrelevant for young people

until the doctor says:

“At your age you need one of these

for a lifetime regimen,

every few years until…”


Snow White’s Step-Mother

must have invented

that  first evil prep potion

you had to drink for hours,

which almost killed me

and made me swear off

lemonade for six months.


I was so sick I told the doctor

I would gamble against colon cancer

rather than drink that stuff again.


But they changed it to something

drinkable only by comparison,

the rest of the process not the stuff of poems.


I went in for mine this morning,

greeted by the same smiling face of the man

I see once every five years

as we go through this together,

he for the thousandth time,

me, starting at fifty, only for the sixth,

hoping for only polyps,

which are benign–hooray–once again.


When he pulls me out of sleep

to share the good news,

I mumble how many years until the next;

he smiles: Five.


But that will make me 82!

Is there a statute of limitations,

an age where old age and death

wait grinning heartily: “Why bother?”


And each time I say:

”I’m sure glad this is over.

Don’t ever want to do it again!”


But at 77, 82 in five years, I do.

I really do.


A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein has published over one hundred fifty poems on over eighty sites, a few being: *82 Review, Oddball Magazine, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, Courtship of Winds, Young Raven’s Review, The Daily Drunk, and The Monterey Poetry Review.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Neighbour’s Fish, by Lynn White

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Neighbours Fish


The neighbours had asked her to feed their fish.

They were going on a short holiday.

It sounded straightforward,

should have been straightforward.

“But I overfed it,” she said,

“and it burst open,

exploded

all over the place.”


She looked glum.


“But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Next thing is

the dog’s eaten it.

And that wasn’t the end of it,

next thing is

he started to be sick,

just puked it up all over their carpet.”


She looked glum.


“The carpet’s wrecked,” she said.


First published in Scrittura, Summer 2020


Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Bubble Wrap Blues, by Pete Mullineaux

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Bubble Wrap Blues


Stack away the coffin boards – pack away the nails,

moor that boat for Avalon, lower down the sails.

Place me on a bed of foam before I take a nap,

swaddle me in comfort,

bury me in bubble wrap.


Take down the big marquee – pay off the cabaret,

cancel the choirboys and girls – come back another day.

Hold back the holy waters, the tree bark with no sap,

let a band of homeless sing –

‘bury me in bubble wrap.’


No bankers to hold the handles, no regulator prayers,

no corporate greed to drive the hearse, no soft landing soothsayers.

No message from our leader, no sentimental crap,

give me a dry-eyed crocodile,

bury me in bubble wrap.


If I rage into the night, can’t take it on the chin,

find it all too much to bear and go without a grin –

let the feelings run and run like a leaking tap,

lend me a suit of armour,

bury me in bubble wrap.


Farewell world it’s been a gas, a never ending joke,

banana skins to beat the band, fun-loving goats to poke.

Laugh me forward to my spot, place me in the trap,

bundle me in comedy,

bury me in bubble wrap.


Life is just a holiday, brief relief from nothing,

huff and puff and other stuff, we get on by bluffing.

But even an off-performance deserves a slow handclap,

minimise the damage,

bury me in bubble wrap.


What’s done is done, no mileage in regret

if it wasn’t exactly all my way, too late to get upset.

The exit doors are beckoning, time to mind the gap,

don’t spare the layers,

bury me in bubble wrap.


Pete Mullineaux has published four poetry collections, most recently How to Bake a Planet (Salmon 2016) – “A gem” – Poetry Ireland Review. A new collection is forthcoming in 2022. He’s been interviewed on RTE’s Arena and also had three plays produced by RTE radio. His work has been described by reviewers as ‘profoundly sensitive’ ‘gorgeous and resonant’ & ‘grimly funny’, and comparisons made with Roger McGough, John Clare, John Cooper-Clarke and Pete Seeger. His debut novel Jules & Rom: Sci-fi meets Shakespeare (Troubador UK) was published in April 2021, (‘Certainly worth a gander’ – Irish Times). following an ebook version in 2020. Website: petemullineauxwriter.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Mnemonic: or, When Dr Asperger met Dr Alzheimer, by Mandy Macdonald

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Mnemonic: or, When Dr Asperger met Dr Alzheimer


For example:

you are about to leave the house.

You have a letter to post.

You forgot it yesterday. It must be done

today.


You put it on the hall table, where you can see it.

But you know you have to check

one more time

that the back door is locked

and that all the burners on the stove are turned off.

(15 February 2010 has never quite gone away.)


But you know, too,

that after doing these tasks you might well leave

without picking up the letter.

So you set the letter slant

on the hall table. For as soon as you see it

slant on the hall table

you will have to straighten it so that its edges are parallel

to the edges of the table.

And as soon as you touch it to set it straight

you will remember

that you have to post it.

And then you will pick it up and put it in your bag, hoping

that you will remember to post it.


NB: You do NOT go back and check

the back door and the burners again.

Things have not got that bad

yet.


Australian writer and musician Mandy Macdonald lives in Aberdeen. Her poems appear widely in anthologies and magazines; her pamphlet The temperature of blue was published just before lockdown by Blue Salt Collective (http://bluesalt.co.uk/the-temperature-of-blue/index.aspx). Mandy writes in the hope that poetry can change the world, or at least make it laugh.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The List of Things I Can’t Explain (After John Cooper Clarke) by Nigel Lloyd

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The List Of Things I Can’t Explain (After John Cooper Clarke)


Solicitors Fees

Signs in Chinese

Why people like the blue mould in cheese

Voice operated TV’s

I can’t explain any of these.


David Icke

A frog on a bike

Why a Lesbian is called a dyke

Touring a rainy country by trike

The value of a Facebook like

Why there’s two Mr Reids called Mike

If you can’t explain then take a hike.


I don’t think I’ll ever explain

Why it’s a dyke and not a drain

How people don’t suspect Batman is Bruce Wayne

Why people are fascinated by David Blaine

They will all incur my distain.


An overnight sensation

Romesh Ranganathen

The demand for a Christmas Playstation

A windfall from an unknown relation

All of the above defy explanation

And therefore will avoid notation.


I don’t think I’ll ever understand

How a watch can cost one hundred grand

How they make glass out of sand

Why prostitutes don’t work a week in hand

Who’s in the Plastic Ono Band

How English food always seems bland

How a car can drive unmanned

How unfriendly becomes offhand

Why you’re never alone with a strand

None of these feature in my future plans.


The Northern Lights, Trilobites

Disco music by Barry White

Why the London Palladium only opens on Sunday Night

Why your breath doesn’t smell when your talking shite

I can’t explain them, but someone might.


Nigel Lloyd lives in rural Donegal and has had poems published in several magazines

From Crannog to Progressive Rock Magazine, he also had a poem featured on

BBC Radio Ulster Soundscapes programme and was a finalist in the

Bring your Limericks to Limerick competition 2018 and a finalist in

The Piano Academy of Ireland Limerick competition 2021.


www.nigellloydpoet.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Driven Bats, by Jim Lawrence

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Driven Bats


Just 27 nautical miles

Off the eastern coast of Nowhere

Rusts an old abandoned oil rig

Where guano is piled impressively high


The bats that leave this rich deposit

When not hanging upside down

Off the western coast of Somewhere

Fly backwards like black hummingbirds


Other times they love to hover

Helicopter-wise for fun

Above the ageing public buildings

Of Nowhere’s bureaucratic streets


And when they flit through Somewhere’s skies

Bothering tourists for fish and chips

They cackle like demented demons

As they dive bomb with Stuka screams


But there is nothing they love more

Than flying over the oil rig

Cranked up on snatched carbohydrates

Shitting a mountain of minerals


Bio: Jim Lawrence is a poet, freelance editor, writer, translator and bedroom guitarist in Southampton. He likes the blues, cats, Jack Daniels, Gillian Anderson and any food that isn’t an avocado or a sprout.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Instructions for reading a gas meter, by Ama Bolton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Instructions for reading a gas meter


1. You’ll need a pen and paper and a torch.

2. Open the door of the cupboard in the corner.

3. Move the vacuum cleaner and the two pairs of boots.

4. Get a brush and remove the cobwebs from the meter.

5. Lie down on the floor so that your face is level with the meter.

6. If there isn’t enough room for you, move the sofa.

7. If you can’t move the sofa, get help.

8. No, not me. You know I’ve got a bad back.

9. Press the button.

10. No, the other button.

11. If you can’t read the numbers, get a magnifying glass.

12. Press the button again.

13. If you still can’t read the numbers, get your camera.

14. Turn off the flash, if you can remember how.

15. If you can’t remember, find the instruction manual.

16. No, I don’t know where it is.

17. Try the top drawer in the kitchen.

18. Under the mousetrap?

19. Press the button again and take a photo.

20. Quick, before the number disappears.

21. Maybe use the zoom?

22. Try again.

23. That’s better.

24. Upload the photo and write down the numbers.

25. Go to the website.

26. The password’s in the blue book under G for Gas.

27. Enter the reading.

28. Yes, I know it’s a smart meter, but the new supplier can’t read it.

29. No, we’re not changing back.

30. Cheer up; you only have to do this once a month.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
GDPR, by Marie Studer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













GDPR


He stretched his legs under the hospitality

Of her kitchen table, listed the locals lately deceased,

Those who reached old age, those taken young.

She offered currant cake.

Reaching for a slice he asked in a flash,

What age would you be now, Nonie?

She returned the plate to ellipsis equalised

On oilcloth. Smiling benignly, she enquired

What age would you think I am?

He subtracted generously from the score,

Near enough, she said.

No hacker would ever crack

My mother’s personal information or ransom her ware.


Marie Studer has written poetry since her teens in the1970s and started to submit in 2018. She won the Trocáire Poetry Ireland Competition 2020 and the Halloween Ekphrastic Poetry Challenge, Bangor Literary Journal 2019.  Her poetry has been published in the Stony Thursday Book, The Waxed Lemon, Wee Book of Wee Poems, Fire & Water, Drawn To The Light, online and local anthologies.


Twitter handle: @StudiMarie


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
This shit?, by Jo Sachs-Eldridge

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













This shit?


Is this it?

This shit?


Are you happy with your lot?

Cos I’m fucking not.

Not with this lot.

This rot.


Not this.

Is this it?


This shit?

If it is

I’ve had enough.

I don’t want this lot.

Not this.


I don’t want the trying

The crying

The sweating

The giving

Of everything

I’ve got.

For what?


Is this it?

This shit?


But don’t you dare ask

What do you want?

Cos who fucking knows.

But it’s not this.

Not this lot.

Not this.


She’s happy with her lot.

But what’s she got

That I’ve not?

What is it?

Maybe she just doesn’t know

What she’s not got.


Or maybe

I don’t.

Maybe whatever I’ve got

Is the lot.

Maybe you just grab that shit

And you say

THIS IS IT!

I’VE GOT IT!

This lot.

My lot.

I’ve got it.

I’VE GOT

THE LOT!


Jo Sachs-Eldridge lives in Leitrim where she mostly dreams up community projects involving bikes and words and other stuff she naively believes will change the world. She has notebooks full of writing that is legible to no-one and a daughter who is a wonderful distraction from everything.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
There’s no toilet seats in the psych ward, by Aoife Cunningham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













There’s no toilet seats in the psych ward.

I nearly fell down the loo,

Like Alice in wonderland.

While im trying to excrete  urine.


There’s no toilet seats in the psych ward.


My shoes are dr martens

And I dress like

a bohemian goth,

This I must say,

Gets in the way,

of my OOTD.

Because I don’t have access to my belts or my lace!


There’s no curtains in the psych ward,

So I have to get crafty,

I get a little bit arty

and hang a sheet.

It’s like a sad tapestry

For the room that it is.

I guess that’s true


There’s no toilet seats in the psych ward


Now I’ve learnt all the tricks,

From drifting between institutions.

To wear a scuba mask,

In case  I fall down the toilet bowl.


I’ve learnt all the tricks

From years of experience.

To use your wit to find a way

out of this hole.


There’s no toilet in the psych ward


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Sleeping Legion, by Jennie E. Owen

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Sleeping Legion


They’re all here tonight you know,

every face you’ve ever seen

flickering behind your eyes like cherries

spinning like bells

they put on a show

as you push off your blankets

then swaddle them again.


Your old maths teacher chases you

to the edge of the cliff,

a book of equations in one hand

a garden gnome in the other. Whilst

a midwife leads you

down endless

hospital corridors


where at the end

you’ll find nothing but the check-out boy,

the one with whom you locked eyes

over a cucumber

and a packet of hob nobs,

last Tuesday.


Jennie E. Owen’s writing has won competitions and has been widely published online, in literary journals and anthologies.  She teaches Creative Writing for The Open University and lives in Lancashire with her husband, three children, and cat.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
When Brian Became Broccoli, by Ben Macnair

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













When Brian Became Broccoli


When asked what he wanted to be,

three-year-old Brian thought about it,

for a while, and with a smile,

said that he would like to be Broccoli.


A strange choice for a career,

you might have thought,

but Brian was only three,

the age where you could be what you wanted to be.


When a kindly local Wizard was told of this tale,

he visited Brian and asked: ‘And who might you be?’

Are you the little boy who wanted to become Broccoli?

Brian nodded his head.


Brian went to bed that night,

but he woke up with a bit of a fright.

His hair was green, stiff, and standing on end.

The following night, he went to bed,

and woke up completely Green.

His Mum and Dad had never seen anything

quite so obscene.


The next day, they found Brian in bed.

He had become Broccoli.

The kindly Wizard broke the spell,

and for 14 years, all was well.


Until the Wizard turned up one day,

and was quite drunk.

‘I am afraid that the spell didn’t quite wear off.’

he said because Brian was becoming a Punk.


Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire, in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @benmacnair


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Why I ended up (for a while) in Hull, by Janet Sillett

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Why I ended up (for a while) in Hull


My group of friends read Larkin aloud

skiving off hockey,

outliers in a school

which dished out piety at 9am


We admired his contrariness,

dirty words,

and suburban weariness,

his constipated ennui


Larkin inspired me to study

in a god forsaken east coast city

a shared terrace with a parrot

a bath in the kitchen

on Anlaby Road


I skulked in vain in the library,

until we parted company abruptly,

Hull, Larkin and me

I moved on, as they say,

to Plath, Stevens, Crane

to a concrete place of learning,

and Larkin expressed his adoration

for Margaret Thatcher


I reread his poems, when living

in bedsits, in semis,

in the disillusionment of marriage


But let’s face it,

Larkin was a bigot, racist, serial snob

I  want to see them starving,

the so-called working class

nostalgic for the good old days

when only white men played cricket for England


Consumer of pornography

(but never in the library)

composer of sado­masochistic reveries

shared to fellow man poets

posh adolescents fumbling with themselves

in bedrooms after lights out


I want to cancel Larkin

unknow his life,

his pervasion of archetypal Englishness

I settle for drowning in his poetry

with fingers in my ears


PS Apologies to Hull which I now think is a great place.


Janet Sillett recently took up writing poetry and short fiction again after decades of absence. She has had poems published in the Galway Advertiser, Poetry Plus magazine and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis, and flash fiction in Litro. She works for a think tank.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ode to a Pee Funnel, by Christine Fowler

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Ode to a Pee Funnel


Alan’s caravan was the apple of his eye

It was a 1979 beauty

And only ←———-→ this wide

It had nowt of this modern rubbish

It was retro through and through

But there was one adaptation

He was really proud to use

It was a plastic funnel

Set up at just the right height

And the circumference you know

Was really not to tight

With wiggle room to spare

So when he stood there

And let it all hang out

There was only sound of running ‘water’

And moans of delight

And when the last drops were shaken

And everything tucked back in place

He was often heard to murmur

That’s a cracking thing I’ve made.


Christine Fowler was in her 60’s, when she began focussing on writing and performing poetry in autumn 2019 and published in journals and anthologies since 2020. Her poems are informed from a life time of experience of working with people in challenging situations. https://www.christinefowlerpoetry.com Instagram@christine.fowler.poetry




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The camera never lies, by Sarah J Bryson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The camera never lies


Take off your rucksack, it’ll spoil the image.

Here I’ll watch over it. Can you pull the scarf straight?

Zip up your jacket. That’s it, turn your face

so that it catches the sun. No – I can’t take it yet.

There’s a whole family in the way having their fun.

Just wait. Stay there. it won’t be long

before they are out of shot.


Damn. Now the sun’s gone. Hang on. It’ll be back soon.

There’s a strand of hair … can you pin it down?

Now. Are you ready? Look this way…without squinting?

Yes, I know it’s straight into the sun. Look away,

then I’ll give you a count…. One, two three, ready:

chin up, that’s it. Now smile.


Sarah J Bryson

Bio: Sarah has poems published in print journals, anthologies and on line. She has been a regular participant, during the Covid pandemic, in a weekly on-line arts event, combining photographs with haiku style poetry and has recently had several poems on the Poetry and Covid site.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Grumbles, by Amanda Baker

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 
Grumbles


I don’t want air treacle in my nostrils

a sullen clot of exhaustion in my stomach

sending spider webs of weakness through my veins

as I trudge up the hill.


I don’t want the miniature catgut squeal

of mosquitoes behind my right ear

to brush its crushed body off my upper arm

as I flail at the soft hollow behind my knee

driven in from my twilight garden.


I don’t want to stretch my fingers to relax

after clenching the steering wheel for thirteen hours

trapped between the swaying container walls

yellow blue and white barely visible in the torrential rain

as useless goods get transported across Europe

in response to an impulsive click on the tick box.


I want to be Legolas,

dancing lightly through ancient lichen-hung forests,

intact ecological webs singing their joy,

untouched by wildfires, beetles and drought.


Amanda Baker is based in Berlin. As a scientist, teacher, and animal physiotherapist, she loves exploring new ideas. She has had performances in KlinkerdIn, the Curious Fox and Over the Edge and has poems published in Automatic Pilot, Poethead and Strukturriss. She thoroughly enjoys Kevin Higgins’ Poetry workshops.






					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf in Night Attire ( with apologies to Charles Perrault who probably wrote the original story in 1697)


‘Ah but just feel that cloth, the quality, the cut.’

Red Riding Hood noticed the glint in his eye

as the wolf’s hot, bad breath crept round her pale neck,

‘That’s one piece of clothing I simply must buy.’


‘It’s an heirloom,’ she said, with a vital step back,

‘belonged to my grandma who, if it wasn’t for you

would be waiting for me in this very bed.’

The wolf grinned, ‘but sweetie, it’s just me instead.’


‘I’m not at all sure’, Red Riding Hood said,

‘I should be sharing this feast with somone like you,

there’s a quiche in this basket and I know for a fact

that the canis lupis (and I suspect that you are), doesn’t eat that


‘Oh silly Red Hood, don’t be so unsure, we have changed

over years of the telling of tales, we eat quinoa, and eggs

you can trust me to share your fine basket of wares,

we even’, he murmured, ‘eat most things with legs.’


‘Take your hand of my quiche you ravenous beast,

and look what you’ve done to my cloak

where is my grandma? You must think I’m dim.’

‘There’s room for one more in this bed, do come in.’


‘You’re joking,’ she said, I’m just not that sort

and you’ve not had a haircut or shave

I’m taking my wares and my very fine cloak

I’ll leave you the food; perhaps with some luck you will choke.


‘But sweetie you must see that all through my life

and the length of this very fine tale

I’ve been waiting for you, it’s predestined, it’s fate!’

And the poor girl became the last thing that he ate.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Poem by Julia Whatley

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Been feeling quite nostalgic

About that council estate

I was dragged up on

Where my mates and I ran amok

After school I frequent the youth club

Jimmy Cliff and Marvin Gaye

Song in the Key of life

Dancing every night away


At home we had a radiogram

I put the Beatles, White Album on

Dad said that their hairs too bleedin long

And that Jimmy Hendrix’s guitar

Sounds like a strangled cat

I’m off out dad

If you’re going to be like that


My dad smoked park drive

And I helped myself

He used to leave his fags on the shelf

I smoked one in the outside loo

Blamed my little brother

Seemed the only thing to do


Down the youth Club

I met my boyfriend, Vernon

He had a vesper scooter

He ‘d often take me home


This night we skidded and off we fell

My dad was driving in his Zepher Zodiac

My hair blowing in the breeze

He must have noticed me on the back

As we overtook at high speed

My fishnet tights all ripped

And blood pouring from my knees

No helmet and my dad flipped

Grounded, but well worth it!


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I am the Genie in the Jar, by Mandy Beattie

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













I AM THE GENIE IN THE JAR


A wee glass jar with a maroon lid

is an insect-tent, it sits

on a shelf watching the sunflower

clock’s second hand scurry

on yard thick walls of stone

the wee glass jar peers down

above, around and spots a ballerina

in a white tutu and pink tap shoes

on a white wall waiting for Genie

to lift the maroon lid

to flit and look for ladybirds, spiders

and moths to scoop them up and squeeze

through yard thick walls of stone

to re-pot the ladybird on a Hyacinth

bush and the scurrying spider

on a newel post by raised beds

of rhubarb and blueberries

but Genie lets slaters bide inside

a yard of stone to scurry

over oak and hide under knots.


Mandy Beattie, is a feminist from Caithness, Scotland with an MA in Social Work Practice & Research. Her poetry is a tapestry of stories and imagery, rooted in people, place and the natural environment, set at home and abroad.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Padraig – Who Drove the Snakes Out of Ireland, by Pratibha Castle

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Padraig – Who Drove the Snakes Out of Ireland


At the allotment, daddy

forked the crumbly black earth

till the air quaked

with anticipation

of excess, me

sifting stones

in search of treasure;

the robin sat, pert, on the lip

of the bucket meant to carry

spuds or cabbages, the occasional

giggle-tickle carrot

back to placate the mammy.


The bird’s eye bright

with a lust for worms, his song

a crystal cataract of merry;

though none of the seeds we sowed

ever showed head out of the sly earth

and we saw nothing of the slow worm

daddy promised so that, his name being Padraig too,

I guessed he must be a saint, especially

when he himself vanished.


Though he turned up

months later

at the end of school

again and again and again till

I had to tell the mammy

where the books and toys came from

and that got me sent off

to board at St. Bridget’s convent

where the head nun was nice to you

if your mammy gave her fruit cake in a tin,

bottles of orange linctus sherry, a crocheted shawl

like frothy cobwebs, none of which


my mammy could afford, Padraig

having banished more than snakes.


Pratibha Castle’s award-winning debut pamphlet A Triptych of Birds and A Few Loose Feathers (Hedgehog Poetry Press) publishes 2021. An Irish poet living in England, her work appears in literary magazines including Agenda, Dreich, HU, Blue Nib. Highly Commended in various poetry competitions, she reads regularly on West Wilts Radio.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Record Players are just trendy, phonographs are the real thing, by Jorge Leiva Ardana

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Record Players are just trend, Phonographs are the real thing.


I have come to know people that love the old so much

they wish they could die from dysentery.

These are people who feel they don’t belong

to this world or at least to this century.


They like to handwrite letters with a fountain pen

or even worse a feather quill,

to listen to broken vinyl records every now and then,

and if they’re women they prefer to drink mercury than having to use the pill.


They miss so much the days when drinking gin didn’t involve having to study a masters degree in botany,

and even tragedies had so much flair back then

such as it was the notorious case of the huge titanic.


If they drink coffee the beans must be freshly manually ground

otherwise they moan and say the taste is not the same,

and those are the type of things they complain about

because everything now is made by mechanical means

and that’s a real shame.


They love the liturgy of going to the post office or down to their local bank, because there is no queue in this or other worlds that can’t beat the joy of getting stamps. They’re more than happy by owning a typewriter and a landline phone, and they prefer sending documents by fax than flying drones.


When justice wasn’t the annoying slow bureaucracy

we know today but something less human and more divine,

and all the problems if you ask them started with democracy because before if you acted wrongly you would end up like Lot’s wife.

There was a time when crime was smoothly dealt by a hanging

according to the quickly and efficient eye for eye law

and there would be people standing, their hands clapping

because it also was a great show and the only think to worry it was the size of the rope.


If you had a bit of dough you didn’t have much to worry about,

for a small fee you could lift your sins and redeem your soul,

because there has always been classes, there is no doubt,

and that my friend, I’m afraid hasn’t changed at all.


Jorge Leiva is from South Spain and he lived in Ireland for over eight years. Some of his work has appeared in Skylight 47 Magazine, The Galway Advertiser, Drawn to the light press, Headstuff.org, Dodging the Rain and 2 Meter Review. In 2019 he was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competition.

He has been on the waiting list for a tonsillectomy since he was a child.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
First Mayor of Richmond, by Peter Kay

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













FIRST MAYOR OF RICHMOND


T’was sixteen hundred and six,

for legend has it so,

when, whilst out hunting all alone,

Robert Willance, future mayor

of Richmond, shattered his femur bone.


His horse, a noble steed of some renown

had always borne him well,

but as November’s dense mists thronged,

the bewildered beast bolted,

racing headlong into nothingness.


With Willance clinging on for life,

his horse plunged to its death,

two hundred feet o’er Whitcliffe Scar.

Robert lay prostrate, right leg broken,

twisted, breached, death’s door ajar.


With no prospect of immediate respite,

he slit soft belly of his beloved horse,

using a trusted hunting knife. No malice.

Plunged his leg in up to groin and hilt,

to try and keep it for his balance.


For two days he held on to life and limb,

before rescue came at last.

Alas whilst Robert survived,

his poor leg could not be saved, t’was buried

with due ceremony, in his chosen grave.


T’was sixteen hundred and eight

when brave Willance and his stump,

became first mayor of Richmond.

Eight long years, without a single blunder,

Before dying, reight well, in his slumber.


And so it came to pass that in his death requited,

Robert Willance and his leg were gladly reunited.


Peter has had two books published: A Pennine Way Odyssey, 2012. Show Me The Way To Santiago, 2020. A third book is with his publisher. He writes travel memoirs, fiction, short stories, monologues, children’s books and poetry. Three poems have been published in anthologies. His website is peterkaywordspace.co.uk


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Because it’s total crap, by Karen Jones

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Because it’s total crap


Ratner lifted the lid on a sherry decanter

At £4.95 a pop too good to countenance

When asked about his high-street gems

Little tacky rings for working class girls

Risking bedtime dealings with blue collar boys


It was Gerald who had himself by the balls

All for earrings costing less than a quid

He’d choke on an M&S sandwich now

Fish the prawns himself if he could

Than grapple with the loss of a

$10 billion business, 10 seconds to nought


Now 30 years after the biggest PR gaffe

The Sultan of Bling can only think back

To Mrs Ratner and her word of advice

The only pearl he declined to string

Ego really is a terrible thing


Karen Jones is new to writing poetry, a student of Kevin Higgins, born in Northern Ireland, living in Dublin and working in public relations.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
My Mother Doesn’t Know that I’m a Poet, by Rodney Wood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













MY MOTHER DOESN’T KNOW THAT I’M A POET

after Billy Bennett


I’m cherishing a secret about this poets-life I lead

as according to the papers that she reads all poets

are lazy bastards, cads and cowards who live in ivory towers.

They’re scum of the earth, much worse than bureaucrats

and really don’t give a toss for anyone but numereo uno

but I know is that really us poets are decent folk.

All the people I hang out with think I’m quite OK

and say I’m a poet of the much more pleasant sort

but I never breathe a word of this at home.


You see my mother doesn’t know that I’m a poet

sometimes she sees the inky stains upon my clothes,

the trembling of my voice and that haunted look in my eyes

I tell her is from the solvent I’ve been using for cocaine.

When I spend hours in my room alone and writing poems

I tell her not to worry as I’m only watching porn.

and when I go to London for a Forward or TS Eliot Prize

I tell mother I’m off to meet and reminisce with fascists

because you see, I’ll never tell my mother I’m a poet.


And those parcels that drop through my letter box

I say are guns, knives, explosives, lubricants and sex

toys. If she knew I was a poet she’d shoot me like a dog

and all those books came, I say, by mistake from catalogues

and I keep them, just in case. She can think I’m a murderer

before she’ll know the truth. I have to respect her old age but

she knows that I’m a liar, a crook and arsonist

but it would break her poor old heart if she found out

that I write odes, epics, ballads and get my kicks from sonnets

so thank heavens Mother doesn’t know that I’m a poet.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Free Spirit Ward of Court, by Aoife Cunningham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Free Spirit Ward of Court.


My Heart yearns while my mind dwells,

For liberation.

Liberation from the restraints,

Imposed by the state.


I am energy, so free and abundant,

I crave distance from the piercing eyes of my Nurse.


Give me the sky and I will soar,

Bring me a melody and I will sing.

A free spirit forced to fit into a square box.

A hammered, bent misfit yet vivid and vibrant.


My bodyguards are deaf to this

Boho’s screams.

I cant abscond in present,

But in spirit I am free.


You can cage my body but not my mind,

You can dictate my actions.

But you can’t compose my soul.


You can’t tame me!

I will break free.

And fly as high as my dreams go.


But first,

I must hug recovery.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Or your scants will come back to haunt you, by Beth McDonough

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Or your scants will come back to haunt you


Here’s to the thrill of ethical knickers


delivered by post through your own front door.

Each pair of pants comes carefully wrapped

in tactile fantastic brown papery packets,

patterned with turtles, octopuses and whales,

skilfully block-printed in India.


All of these garments are guaranteed free

of nasties like plastics, except just perhaps

those barcoded stickers proclaiming these knickers

one hundred per cent organic cotton, designed

entirely to delight on the very fine Isle of Wight,

dyed in colours as smashing as eggshell.


Already, I’m advised on my pants’ end of life,

little symbols explain how these ethical undies

can be sent back, then recycled safely. I must

express just a little alarm about future

manufacturing tactics of endless elastic, but

why not have big hopes for the morals of smalls?


Beth McDonough’s poetry is widely anthologised and published in Magma, Gutter, and elsewhere. Her first solo pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word.Fairly soon, her site-specific poem will be installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. She swims year round in the Tay, foraging close by.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Trespasses to be prosecuted, by Rebecca Gethin

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Trespasses to be prosecuted


We tied string to the door knockers after dark

yanked on one and watched the lit fuse of fury

run down the street.  We made all the dogs bark

at one another and then started miaowing

so they wouldn’t stop. We wrote letters to neighbours

for a secret lark in invisible ink

and told them fibs they’d never read

and then asked to search their backyards

for a dog we hadn’t lost. We climbed trees

to drop water bombs on passing cars

and swapped round the smalls

we unpegged from their washing lines.


Rebecca Gethin has written 6 poetry publications (which makes her feel rather over-rated). She was a Hawthornden Fellow and a Poetry School tutor.  Vanishings was published by Palewell Press in 2020 and Fathom was published by Marble in 2021.  She blogs sporadically at http://www.rebeccagethin.wordpress.com


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
On Flatulence, by Simon Williams

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













On Flatulence


It’s commonly held that farts are methane.

While this is true for cows, sheep, goats

and other herbivores, it’s not for humans.

Our flatus (that’s the word, I looked it up)

is largely hydrogen, lighter than air.


So the story of the Persian Prince

with noteworthy and continuous flatulence,

who is supposed to have suffocated himself

while asleep on a low bed-pallet on a trip abroad,

could not have happened.


However, should an equerry have brought a lamp,

a naked flame into the chamber,

his highness, without rising from his sleep,

could have raised the roof.

I think that trumps the suffocation story.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Spring in Castletroy, by D’or Seifer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Spring in Castletroy


The daffodils came up in time to call the receiving line of spring

begonias, pansies, allium have risen, heads abuzz,

guarded by sentries of Siberian Bugloss.


My droning throne circles,

delineating traces of shadowed green,

bladed bounds,

decapitated daisies and other weeds in its wake.


I perfume the public pathways

beyond my fence (across town lines)

with discarded cuttings.

Sure, they’re organic. They fall like rain

over the wall on the heads of the unsuspecting,

joining the emptied cans from men in trainers

re-filled with golden liquid, circumscribed with butts.


Maybe we’ll finally win Tidy Towns this year, if

Tommy Collins’ kids don’t express their creativity

in chalk on the pavement.


*Tidy Towns is an annual competition, in order to honour the tidiest and most attractive cities, towns and villages in the Republic of Ireland.


D’or Seifer contributes to poetry gatherings such as Filí an Tí Bháin and Over the Edge. She co-runs the online series Lime Square Poets. Her work has recently appeared in Skylight 47, The Galway Advertiser , and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
King Edward VII, by Steve Harrison

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













King Edward vii {1901-1910}


had to hang around a lot

as his mam was Queen Victoria who lived for ages.

I never met him but I knew his face

portrayed sideways on stamps and on old penny coins until 1971.


He went all over the world, not just on stamps

and being very rich, with loads of relatives in Europe ,

he could stay in his cousin’s palaces.

Running errands for Queen Victoria

some say he invented royal tours ,

the meet the people greet

and even Sunday Dinner.


Google his images and blimey that’s not fancy dress

but what he could wear with all his titles.

His Facebook friends page

a right royal impress.


If you live in an old house it could be Edwardian

built between 1901 to 1910 like lots of houses in cities.

The style in houses and trousers remained until later.


The present queen’s great grandad

though rumours abound who his other great grand kids may be;

and though it may sound like treason

the rumours have their reasons.

In his own day, as famous as jedward.

The seventh King Edward


Steve Harrison from Yorkshire now lives in Shropshire. His work has been published in The Emergency Poet collections, The Physic Garden, Pop Shot, Wetherspoons News, HCE, Strix, several on-line sites and appears on YouTube as steveharrisonpoet. He performs across the Midlands and The Marches and won the Ledbury Poetry Festival Slam in 2014.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Speed Dating, by Enna Michaels

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Speed Dating


So here I am, A newly single mum of two.

Not exactly all that defines me – But it’ll do.

Some friends suggested I go on a date,

Find ‘someone special’ before it’s too late.


Thanks ‘friends’ if that is what you are.

I thought I was doing well thought I was shining like a star.

But my ‘friends’ are quite persuasive so here I am in a shabby hotel.

Surrounded by the desperation brigade and things are not going well.


First, we’re told to mingle, we have been given a free drink.

But frankly it’s not that appealing and the majority of them stink.

The ‘ladies’ are sat at tables, the ‘fair blooms’ should be approached.

With caution in my opinion – the men circle ready to be reproached.


The first one is called Gary and he really likes his car.

He promises to drive me wherever I want to go – so long as it has a bar.

The second one is ‘Mikey’ – he went to university you know.

Although he didn’t quite manage to finish – but is quite happy on the dole.


The next one is quite exotic – Julio is his name.

He looks around with boredom in his eyes, so in some ways we are the same.

But the charms of dashing Julio are limited, he sweats more than a bull.

And as he talks about his successes it’s the clear the comparison is full….


Then I’m introduced to Arthur, he calls himself ‘a proper gent’.

He shows off a fake Rolex, and that’s not all that’s bent.

Sebastian seems quite nice; he admits he doesn’t have a lot to say.

His beloved wife brought him along – apparently, they like ‘role play’.


Oliver seems very shy – he admits it’s not his scene,

I wonder if his mother knows he is out – far too young and green.

Milo is a chef you know, cooking is his passion,

And lots of pretty young girls too, especially those into fashion.


There are more men than women here, we’re expected to be polite.

I secretly wish I were elsewhere, being more productive with my night.

I finally think of something to speed things up and end this silly game.

I look deeply into the eyes and say, “Are you Brexit or Remain?”


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Sarah, the Neighbour’s Child, by Lisa Lopresti

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Sarah, the Neighbour’s Child


She would lean forward and turn to gaze

at me from her pushchair as her

Mum, my neighbour,

would waltz her around the corner.


Always she would stare, with big blue eyes,

the same shade as mine, till the last second

stoic and expressionless

but intensely focused.


She grew and walked and ran and still

craned her neck at me, before corners

but stayed silent when greeted,

a child who was seen but not heard.


One day, when Sarah was 6, her Mum

asked me to watch her child when there

was a family emergency. Things were fine,

she remained silent. Then, when watching Dr Who


in a clear charming voice, she asked ‘Why are you

so ugly?     to which, without thinking     I replied

‘I am you          from the future’. She did not stop

crying for twenty minutes.


A published poet thrilled to be featured regularly on BBC Radio Bristol and spoken word events. Lisa likes to convey poems to portray, this life.

https://lisa-lopresti-poetry.webnode.com/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Health Check, by Mary Dickins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













HEALTH CHECK


Your veins are full of butter.

Your body mostly lard.

Teeth like wire cutters.

Arteries rock hard.


Your body mostly lard.

You’ve never heard of kale.

Arteries rock hard.

You’ve broken all the scales.


You’ve never heard of kale.

Your breath is rank with smoke.

You’ve broken all the scales.

Your diet is a joke.


Your breath is rank with smoke.

You love a Milky Way.

Your diet is a joke.

Ever heard of five a day?


You love a Milky Way.

You say Quinoa makes you gag.

Ever heard of five a Day?

You won’t give up the fags.


You say Quinoa makes you gag.

You claim whisky keeps you sane.

You won’t give up the fags

And the Friday night cocaine.


You claim whisky keeps you sane.

It’s not pleasant down below

And the Friday night cocaine

Keeps you going with the flow


It appears that what you fancy has set your spirit free.

So have another pasty. After all you’re ninety-three.


Mary wrote her first poem when she was four and poetry has been her passion and life support system ever since. However it took her another 56 years to begin sharing her work at poetry events, street parties and slams. She has been on television and radio as part of the Nationwide Building Society poetry ad campaign and continues to dish up poems all over the country as part of the Poetry Takeaway team. In 2017 she set up the “Poems not Pills” project to promote the therapeutic value of poetry for health professionals and their patients. Her debut pamphlet “Happiness FM” published by Burning Eye Books has just been selected as one of 10 uplifting books by the NHS for the NHS (see link below).

https://readingagency.org.uk/news/media/the-reading-agency-and-health-education-england-announce-a-new-book-collection—uplifting-resources.html


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Penny Dreadful, by Phil Binding

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Penny Dreadful – or The Terrible Tale of the Drive-By Poetry Murders of Old London Town


A cold wet dawn in the London fog,

an old man shuffled along with his dog

didn’t clock the limo with dark glass

whispering up from behind his arse.


The unseen driver yelled aloud

“I wandered lonely as a cloud,”

lobbed out a quill and sped away.

The shock of Wordsworth on a Walthamstow day


gave the old sod a seizure on the spot.

The only witness, a drunken old sot

bathed in vomit simply cried

“the daffodils, the daffodils!”, and died.


Officers exchanged significant looks.

“It’s another one”, they noted in their books

“Yus, he’s bin Wordswuffed alright.”

CID rocked up and security was tight.


A few days earlier, a little old bird

towing her shopping to the kerb

got buzzed by a flash motor, and heard

“…..let us go then you and I when the evening….”


In Doppler and missed the Routemaster Flyer

that crushed her beneath its Boris-funded tyres.

As she slipped into her own wasteland

she croaked to paramedics “It didn’t scan.”


The Daily Express pounced on the spate

of sonnet-soaked crimes, trumpeting hate,

“Catch the villanelle villains!!!” in red.

The Old Bill were baffled. “We’re baffled,” they said.


A senior Inspector gathered his cops

walls all plastered in digital shots

of grisly blood-spattered drive-by recitations

from Brixton High Street to Euston Station.


“You’ve had the briefing, now you know it

We’ve got a serial drive-by poet,

and he’s got to be vigorously sought.

We mustn’t rest til he’s eventually caught.”


“It’s the worst case I’ve ever met.

Oi is my cup of tea ready yet?

Gordon Bennett it’s a right old mess”

He adjusted his syrup to talk to the press.


“Just had reports of another one, guvnor.”

Some poor Nine Elms coster-monger

got Coleridged this morning, bad luck,

sadder and wiser, crushed by his sack-truck.


They raided the local poetry sessions,

poncey bards got nicked for possession

of venal volumes of popular verse,

others for criminal doggerel and worse.


Bethnal library had its shelves blocked

and records combed for lent-out stock

of Motion, Thomas, Plath and McGowan.

Open Mic evenings were brutally shut dowan.


Rumours abounded of writers rejected

underappreciated and dejected

who might consider revenge through crime

to be a creative use of their time.


Anyone caught with cravat or sandals

were stopped on the street like common vandals

entries to local competitions

were viewed with increasing and dire suspicion.


Then a breakthrough. After a hip-hop

attack of Keats in Kingston chip-shop

CCTV picked up the reg number in the night

“We’ve got im, guvnor. E’s bang to rights”.


The motor was registered miles from here

to a W Shakespeare in Warwickshire.

“Warwickshire?” What’s he doing here?”

And he hadn’t paid road tax for 400 years.


But hang about, result – it all stopped.

That couplet killer never got copped.

He faded into memory like William McGonagall.

No surprise – the enquiry turned up bugger-all.


In a quiet lane all covered in trees,

a burnt-out motor cooled in the breeze.

Nearby a discarded doublet and hose,

but who they belong to, nobody knows.


BIOG – Phil Binding

A poet and writer gently sliding into decrepitude in Burton and a member of The Lichfield Poets. I am all over Staffordshire like a rash at open-mikes and events despite friends begging me to stop. It’s already too late.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Juniper Park, by Lee Campbell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Juniper Park


My mother was convinced for 30 years that Joni Mitchell sang,

‘They made paradise and went to Juniper Park’

when in reality: ‘They paved paradise and put up a parking lot’


Juniper Park exists everywhere and anywhere you want it to


Climb aboard a bus and watch Juniper Park pass you by

Wave everyone now and then to what catches your eye

Don’t let anyone convince you that you have misheard

No one can tell you otherwise. For you, there is no such wrong word


Whilst not being complacent about the effects of elision

When two letters adjacent make one hell of a collision

Perfectly embrace it, that sonic slur

When the vowel and the consonant get together and blur


Back as a teenager, Dad drove me and my friend Kundai

into the centre of my hometown Tunbridge Wells

Royal, I may add, though there was nothing royal about me, my dad nor my friend

Kundai, new to the area at that time, had not quite grasped the lay of the land

‘I can’t find it, I can’t find it in the A-Z’, she panicked at the end of the night

‘Can’t find what?’, answered I

‘Botmer Hill. I can’t find any hill on the map called Botmer.

Botmer Hill – where your dad told us he is going to pick us up from now’, Kundai flustered

‘Oh dear’, replied I. ‘Dad said ‘Bottom of the hill’’


And how can we forget the glottal stop?

Those unvoiced letters that make sentences pop

It’s the Yorkshireman’s and Cockney’s spoken aberration

The naughty little brother of Received Pronunciation


Beginner level lesson in my English as a Foreign Language classroom around 2003

Vocabulary focus: Jobs

At the start of the activity, I told students that today I was not a teacher

and asked them to guess my new job

‘Are you a chef?’ asked Miguel. ‘No’, replied I

‘Are you an astronaut?’ asked Selma. ‘No’, replied I

‘Are you a tennis player?’ asked Pierre. ‘No’, replied I

‘Are you Harry Potter’? asked Yu Lin. ‘Harry Potter? That’s not a job’, replied I

‘Job. Yes. Harry Potter!’ replied a frustrated Yu Lin

‘Are you a doctor?’ asked Jorge. ‘No’, replied I

‘Are you a journalist?’ asked Malgorzata. ‘Yes’ replied I. ‘Well done, Malgorzata!’

‘Teacher! Journalist – Harry Potter!’ shouted Yu Lin

‘Okay, Yu Lin. Please write this on the board’, said I

Yu Lin took my chalk and wrote on the blackboard: ‘Are you a reporter?’


Let’s celebrate these mis-hearings from my days teaching TEFL*

And donated by friends, by my mum and my nana Ethel


They made paradise and went to Juniper Park

I believe in Milko. Where you from? You sexy thing

One of those dames were as sexy as hell. I said ‘Ooh I like your socks’

I’ve got shoes, they’re made of plywood


If you dream of sand dunes and salty air. Quant little feelings here and there

Solitude resistor. Is there still a part of you that wants to give?

Mega mega white pig. Mega mega white pig

The trucks don’t work they just make you worse, but I know I’ll see your face again


And moustache could defend any clipper

Like a gerbil touched for the very first time

I wish I could have told him in the living room

Anna Friel like a disco home


No one loves and no surprises

Calling Jamaica. Calling Jamaica

Poppadum Street. I’m in trouble deep

Sea lions on the shore


You’re the wizard of Oz. Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey

You come to me in a submarine. How deep is your love?

Let’s get biblical, biblical

We called in a tramp


Fairies cross the Mersey

Excuse me, while I kiss this guy

How can we be lovers if we can’t beat trends?

I believe in Malcolm


Slow walkin’ Walter, fire-engine guy

This ain’t rock and roll, it’s dinner time

… move that bunch of people

… to cut your nose off despite your face


*TEFL – Teaching English as a Foreign Language


https://youtu.be/g5JZi2L6EjM








Twitter: leejjcampbell 


Lee Campbell’s poem ‘Clever at without being Seen’ was recently included in Sometimes, The Revolution is Small, Disarm Hate x Poetry’ project by Nymphs & Thugs Recording Co. UK and published in Queerlings online magazine. 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
One of my Finest, by Clive Oseman

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













ONE OF MY FINEST


I’ve written a poem that I think is good.

Probably the third best I have written

if I’m honest,

and the fourth best is awesome!

It was published in a journal

edited by my mate.

But I’m not one to blow my own trumpet.

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried,

but I’m not flexible enough.


I shouldn’t be reading it tonight really

because I’ve submitted it to Poetry North…. Swindon.

Yeah, Poetry North Swindon.

But I don’t think they’ll be listening.


Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t perfect.

The rhyme scheme is as obvious as a

Tory at an empathy farm,

and it doesn’t always flow perfectly

which is a shame I suppose, probably.


And there are bits where

I lost concentration because

the ferret was up my trouser leg.

I keep telling it, not when I’m writing,

but it never listens.


The strength of the poem is its depth.

It’s deeper than the Atlantic Ocean

if all the whales took a piss at the same time

on a particularly rainy day,

So you’ll have to listen at least twice

before you get it.


The poem deals with

the issues of the day

in a very novel way,

like why Margaret Thatcher is

the human equivalent of Smallpox

and why Man at C&A is the

only way to shop for clothes.


Ok, it seems a bit behind the times

but you know history has a way

of repeating itself like a

particularly vengeful gherkin

on a wet Sunday evening,

so really it’s ahead of its time

in a Swindon kind of way.


What? Why a wet Sunday?

When else would you eat gherkins, stupid?

Jeez some people ask

the most ridiculous questions.


Anyway, the poem is so good

I’ve decided not to read it tonight.

If you want to hear it send

£20 via bank transfer.


I’m sorry to inflict

this rubbish on you instead


Just class it as a metaphor

for disappointment.

Crushing, soul destroying

disappointment,

and a valuable lesson learned.


Clive Oseman is a a Brummie spoken word artist, comedian, satirist and promoter based in Swindon. His third poetry collection was published by Black Eyes Publishing UK in 2020.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Apple, by Clive Donovan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













APPLE


A man and a woman presented themselves to God,

Tired and bloody from their futile war,

Wishing above all to make peace and retire

Into each others’ arms.

‘For Mighty Maker we know well our purpose

‘But cannot unite.’

Well God brought out and forth an apple

(From off his special tree)

And with his jack-knife smote it into two.

‘Observe now, this browned and swollen flesh,

‘That no longer neatly meets;

‘Refresh your mind upon this cloven fruit

‘For this is how you are.’

The man looked sad, the woman mad,

But both knew what to do.

‘Oh Lord please pare us, spare us not,

‘Cut our wounds off, shave us new

‘And stick us fast together again.’

But God had gone, his pie to make

And left the earnest pair to deal

With the osmotic principle,

And oxidation, too.

‘Let us at least eat of this apple,’

Said she of the twinkling eye.

They crunched and saved the seeds to dry

And after, lay concealed, curved and curled together,

Like spoons in a secret drawer.


Clive Donovan devotes himself full-time to poetry and has published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Fenland Poetry Journal, Neon Lit. Journal, Prole, Sentinel Lit. Quarterly and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, U.K. quite close to the river Dart. His debut collection will be published by Leaf by Leaf in November 2021.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Slipping back into the creation of me, by I Am Cereal Killer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Slipping back into the creation of me


Slipping back into the creation of me,

I find myself hollow and nobody can help,

My thoughts are mine and nobody can change them,

Someone might want to,

Lisa said “One way to float is if you die”

But I am not of that,

There is too much life there to live,

To hold,

To love,


I am rising again like a flock that floats,

Up to the cloud for no one to find,

Hide again to shock me out of this world,

The tapping of the plastic that annoys me,

Rubbing and then buff for the showing of the world,


I’m done – complete,

The finishing of this story is never near,

But to the end we mustn’t advance,

The wow in my life has been rocked back and forth, forth and back,

Rocking until we feel sick with emotion, I can’t find the right metaphor but it will come,

On air I am hungry but that era is done,

I’ve begun but I do not know how to stop,


I slipped away and nobody noticed.


I AM CEREAL KILLER was born in 1995 out of grief and anger. After 19 friends and acquaintances died from complications from AIDS over a three year period, I was advised to “get it all out, write it all down.” And once I had it on paper, what would I do with it but put on a show? Inspired by the Divine David, I discovered I AM CEREAL KILLER’s extraordinary look, a kaleidoscope of colors constantly shifting with his mood of the moment.


I AM CEREAL KILLER is also the proud author of two books, This Isn’t a Gift, It’s Just the Way I Feel (yes, never fear to reutilize a title that worked the first time) and A Collection of Dildos on My Shelf. These can be found on the shelves of The British Library and are sold on Amazon (not by him) for exorbitant amounts. There is also a spoken word CD with tracks produced by Richard Torry of Minty, and a guest appearance on the Fuzzbox video, WGAF-AWFUI!


Now, I AM CEREAL KILLER talks about a much wider range of topics in regards to LGBT rights and acceptance. A new show is coming to New York City with fresh material and the fresh title of The Aerodynamics of Giraffes and How to Slice Them Properly (see show to understand title).




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ketchup : An Obituary, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Ketchup: An Obituary


It all started that Friday he came home brandishing

another bottle of it, when there was already one

gleaming unopened in the fridge. A mistake,

the whole house told itself.


Next week he turned up dragging

six bags of almost nothing else.

From then on, had it with everything:

on his bread instead of butter; with

his cornflakes instead of his usual

low-fat milk.


Eventually, dispensing with all else,

as his main course,

tomato ketchup with a side of

another shining blob of itself.


After which, he hardly opened the front door,

except to sign for deliveries, the vast jars of it

that arrived twice weekly in a van

marked Ketchup.


When he wasn’t golloping it by the basin load,

he used it instead of shaving foam,

toothpaste, and as an ointment

to balm embarrassing rashes.

Spent most of the day bathing in it.


By the time he made it safely to his coffin

he was the colour of it,

looked as if all you need do was squeeze him

and the perfect dip for a plate of hand-cut fries

would spurt gloriously from between

those tomato coloured lips.


Kevin Higgins was born in London. He mostly grew up in and lives in Galway City. In 2016 The Stinging Fly magazine described Kevin as “likely the most read living poet in Ireland. His poems have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by film director Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. His sixth full collection of poems ‘Ecstatic’ will be published by Salmon in March 2022.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Jax, By Anne McDonald

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Jax


You know the feeling when you want to go

And he’s enrapt in stretching conversation

You wait for hours

For pause or punctuation

And when it comes

You say politely, if somewhat sharply

“Lookit, I have to go to the Jax.”

Hoping something will hold it in ‘till you find the loo

You get there fit to burst and find

A bursting, red faced, cross legged queue

And so, we females exercise our amazing ability

Not to burst.

By various positions of the legs,

Crossed, Knotted, shifting the weight from one to the other

And your bladder feels like Friesian’s udder

When the milking machine breaks down

Or there’s a power cut.

In a brilliant attempt at mind over matter

You join in gossips delirious chatter

Of fellow sufferers

Until at last the toilet’s empty-

Rush in,

Bang door,

Knicks down

Then you notice there is no lock,

O.K.

So you hold the door with one hand

Stretched 3 inches longer than its normal length

And squat,

Never, ever sit on the bowl!

Because your jeans were tight

And your position is unnaturally elongated

(on account of the door)

Your aim deflects,

But you can’t stop

Four pints and two gins

The force of which is producing enough electricity

To do a seven pound wash on a short spin.

Then you begin

the hapless search

Under the bowl

And on the floor

And this is very difficult

When you are squatting with one hand

Still holding the door,

Your heart sinks

When you realize there is none.

Not a square,

Not a scrap

Not a cardboard holder

And so,

You almost dislocate your shoulde

As one hand still holding the door

You yank your jeans up and your knickers roll

Into a rope around the tops of your legs

Like they do when you go swimming

And don’t dry yourself.

Electric shock of a wet waistband

means the shirt you so meticulously tucked

In when dressing will hopefully hang outside

And be long enough to prevent people guessing

If you’ve wet yourself.

Now, some of us have tried to make a stand on this issue

And put off performance to march defiantly to the bar

to ask for some toilet tissue.

“Certainly Madam” the bar man says

“Will you be wanting it with ice and lemon?”

As he and his cronies piss themselves laughing

If you’ll pardon the pun

And he hands you a catering bale of Andrex.

So you take the rolls and cross the room

Trying to look nonchalantly cool

And feeling like an eejit

Until you reach it

Ladies loo

Complete with queue

Then it’s you

And then you’re in

Bang the door

Kacks down

Arm out

Paper ready

But

You

Cant

Go.

Nothing.

Not a drop.

Not a trickle.

Cold sweat,

And then a Lone Pathetic Dribble

After all that.

When this happened to me

I heard a woman next door

Grumble and fumble and feel on the floor,

“Do you want paper?” I shouted

My voice getting higher

“Paper?” she shouted

“I need a fucking hair dryer!”

Now I know that paper is made from trees

And people are genuinely worried

about the slaughter

Of the tropics

Which is affecting the ozone

And messing up the weather

But if this happens to you

I would humbly suggest

you use half a roll

for spite and badness

And put a wad inside your pocket

In case you get caught short on the way home.

So girls you might as well lash back the pints

And drown in the gin

With the jax in the pub

A woman can’t win.


Anne McDonald is an award winning writer and spoken word poet. She has performed in Dublin and London as part of a Women Of Wit collective and is a regular reader on open mic nights in Ireland, the US and the UK.

Her first collection “Crow’s Books” was published in March 2020. https://creativelythinkingweb.wordpress.com/


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
There’s a pervert in the craft shop, by Ronnie Leek

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













There’s a pervert in the craft shop he’s coming down the aisle

he’s been watching me for ages and following me for miles

if I’d seen him by the Velcro

I’d have torn him off a strip

if I’d seen him near the scissors

I’d have given him the snip

his trouser flies are open

his privates on display

there’s a pervert in the craft shop

please make him go away

his manhood’s very off-putting popping through the decoupage

he’s parading it like it’s on display

a whopper extra large

he collared me at watercolours

I said I’m in a rush

he asked if I had anything to help with his stiff brush

I told him I was married

said my wife was in the store

he said it won’t affect his stroke

and then he showed me more

he lowered down his trousers

and bent to touch his toes

I got a shock my heart did stop

it took me back to Wookey Hole

I slapped him with a bumper pad of Daler Rowney cold pressed

it sent him tumbling to the ground

he didn’t look impressed

and now he’s looking out for me

this sex pest’s gone astray

there’s a pervert in the craft shop

please make him go away.


Ronnie has been an actor and writer for over forty years. Appearing on television and theatres up and down the country.

His comedy play ‘Trollope’ won best comedy at the GMfringe and the Northern Soul award for best fringe production in 2018.

And his play

‘My Fitbit called me a fat bitch!’ Received rave reviews in 2019.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Nursery Rhyme to a President, by Joan Hardiman

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Nursery Rhyme for a President

There was a crooked man who had a crooked smile

He found himself in Washington, helped out by Russian guile

Beat Hillary Clinton with Comey and spies

Moved to the White House, with jobs for his boys

“The working guy would elect me, he likes me”


Putin had a little scam to infiltrate the orange man

And everything the Kremlin said Donald had to do

Who dares impeach the commander in chief, credentials as white as snow

Nancy Pelosi, outed Zelensky for vilifying family of Joe

Blackmailed Ukraine, to Republicans shame,

played out In The Room Where It Happened

“What you’re seeing, is what you’re reading, is not what’s happening”


Immigrants and Mexicans climb the border wall

Along came the militia who tried to make them fall

Separated, incarcerated, the children put in pens

The world looks on in anger and doesn’t do a thing

“We are rounding ‘em up in a very humane way”


Climate change scientific hoax Greenhouse gases and factory smoke

Thunbergs glare, he said who cares

for plastic oceans or polar bears

NATO alone, world is prone, no yankee dollar

China and Jung had such fun, laughing at his pallor

“Man we could do with a big fat dose of Global Warming “


Two little Dickie Birds sitting on the fence

one named Donald the other named Pence

Tweet away Donald though you make no sense,

shame on you Pence for your deference

Come back Barack, come back Michelle

the country really needs you it’s all gone to hell

“Show me someone with no ego and I’ll show you a big loser”


Sing a song for Floyd, I can’t breathe they heard him cry

While three other coppers stood idly by

When Donald’s mouth was open the Klan began to sing

Wasn’t that an insult to the followers of King

“African Americans, I like them and they like me”


Melania in her tower house laying out her clothes

Trump was in the tanning room whipping of his robes

Epstein in the basement with the Duke of York

When along comes Virginia to do you know what

“I will be phenomenal to women”

“Frankly I don’t have time for political correctness”


There is an old fella called Biden,

who surely will give trump a hiding

The Jackasses will laugh,

when the NRA pass wagging their toy guns behind them

The Unite the White rally, full of hatred and spite

While cold blooded Covid destroys everyday life

“Guns, no guns it does’nt really matter

“I will make America great again”


CNN in The Rose Garden trying to get a clue

Fauci in the background face all askew

Trump is in the front row insisting it’s a flu

While fox news are airing fake Covid news

“USA will be stronger than ever before and soon”


Humpy Trumpy sat on The Hill

Humpy trumpy took a big spill

All his cohorts and red neck friends

couldn’t get him elected again

Good job, Good job.

“We used to have victories but we don’t have them anymore”


Joan Hardiman


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Chicken Mystery, by Catherine Doherty Nicholls

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Chicken Mystery


I found a frozen chicken in a hedge.

Fully wrapped, not a bit defrosted,

Maybe I could roast it with potatoes.

Who threw it there?

Some litterbug had tossed it.


I put it in my bag

and kept on walking,

White winter sunlight,

blinding as it set,

Then more things rolled towards me on the tarmac,

A tin of beans,

and lemons in a net.


If I took them would that count as stealing?

I pondered

as I wandered back to mine,

Was I being followed by the owner,

of a chicken that cost two pounds ninety nine?


Something told me someone was behind me,

It was creepy, l felt right on edge,

Panicking, I ran till I was gasping,

and threw the chicken, beans and lemons in a hedge.


Winner of no Poetry Ireland Competition, or any other competition, no published debut collection, nothing printed anywhere yet.

Her poems have been nominated for nothing so she’s nominating this poem to go on this page – a great place to start.


She is the curator of nothing. Her anthology doesn’t exist, yet she keeps going.


A student of Kevin Higgins.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Fairy-tale Romances, by Ama Bolton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Fairy-tale Romances


“Happily ever after”

(forgive my hollow laughter)

it’s fantasy, a figment of folklore.

Your knight in shining armour

could turn out to be no charmer

but a bully or a silly pompous bore.

Even sweet Maid Marian

may turn out to be a harridan,

and Sleeping Beauty! You should hear her snore!


Though the Prince may seem adorable

his manners are deplorable.

Cinderella’s pretty, but quite dim.

Snow White is vain and shallow

And Jack’s a tedious fellow;

he’s always at the golf-course or the gym.

Unless you’re into farming

don’t tie the knot with Charming

you’d soon run out of things to say to him.


Beauty’s a part-time Beast,

the prince, half frog, at least.

Beware Bluebeard! Beware of Reynardine!

The end of the love story

is far too often gory.

Living on your own can be just fine

with a dog or a cat

to sleep on your lap.

You can make up your own storyline.


Ama Bolton, former member of The Liverpool School of Language, Music, Dream and Pun, convenes a Stanza group in Somerset. Her poems have featured at festivals, on Radio 3’s The Verb, and in magazines and anthologies including Bridport Prize 2008. She blogs at http://barleybooks.wordpress.com/




					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Disappearing Act, by Lucy Tertia George

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Alright, alright, quiet down. I have an announcement and I hope you understand

that due to circumstances beyond the control of The Ritzy Music Hall and Working Man’s Club, tonight’s performance of Magnifico

will not go ahead as planned.


When we booked Magnifico, straight from Blackpool’s Magic-o-rama,

we had every intention of bringing you the Winner of the Most Promising Comeback Award, with all the trimmings

but without all this drama.


The last communiqué we had from the artiste said he was on the A324. But somewhere between Little Billingsdene and Crug we lost all contact. To the management this qualifies

as ‘force majeur’.


His assistant Delores is backstage, crying her eyes out, confidence cracked. She’s done up like a Christmas Tree, but her nerves are shot

and your hollering has upset the doves

they use in the act.


We regret there’s no refund but you’re not paying for nowt, you enjoyed the free buffet and the singalong with Marjorie and that, we feel, should constitute

a good night out.


No, this is not like the time we promised Night of 100 Stars,

when, in a misunderstanding that some of you felt should come to the attention of the Advertising Standards Authority,

we only had 12 people on stage

and three of them didn’t have their Equity Cards.


Of course, I’ve called his mobile phone, I’ve dialled his agent twice.

I even rang the Magic Circle, but have you tried getting information from a secret society? No dice.


Throwing anything at the stage will result in a lifetime ban.

You’ll not see the panto or get a seat for the Tom Jones tribute act where he wows the crowd with Sex Bomb like the very man himself— and I know you’re a fan.


You’re only hurting yourself if this place is trashed.

I’ll cancel Weekly Bingo and the darts team will be forced to practice in the boys changing room at the Youth Club

and that place stinks of Flash.


If you won’t listen to reason, I’m off, do your worst.

I’m taking Delores to the All-U-Can Eat at the Golden Horseshoe and if I see Magnifico I’ll have his guts for garters.

That’s if you don’t get him first.


Lucy Tertia George is an author, publisher and satirist, sometimes known as Lucy Lyrical. Her novel, Three Women, was published by Starhaven Press in 2018.


Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lucytertiageorge

Twitter: @Wordville




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Broccoli, by Melanie Branton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Broccoli


If you have to eat broccoli,

gobble it cockily.

Flaunt it with pride,

don’t gulp it with guilt!

You’ve done nothing wrong –

it will make you grow strong,

for broccoli-eaters

are stockily built.


If you have to eat broccoli,

stick to it doggedly:

pick up your fork

and submit to your fate.

Don’t let it go cold

and disintegrate soggily.

Eat all that broccoli

up off your plate!


Melanie Branton is a spoken word artist from North Somerset who is totally obsessed with cats, linguistics, Vikings and vegetables. Her published collections are Can You See Where I’m Coming From? (Burning Eye, 2018) and My Cloth-Eared Heart (Oversteps, 2017) melaniebranton.wordpress.com




					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
For the Breakdown Men of the Leamington Spa Vehicle Recovery Office, by Kerry Priest

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













For the Breakdown Men of the Leamington Spa Vehicle Recovery Office


O breakdown men, O Bob, O Mick, O Roger, when fourth gear

failed to engage on the A46 just south of Coventry,

we were right there, Eileen and I, between those twin keeps,

the castles of Warwick and Kenilworth, and it transpired that chivalrous

men worthy of Elizabeth I still walk, or rather drive,

the asphalt and tar of the low-slung heart of England.


When we attended the conference, Hello Kitty from a Feminist Perspective

at the department of Sociology of a nearby university,

it was suggested in some quarters that academic standards must be slipping.

But standards in vehicle recovery in the South Midlands are, if anything,

clearly rising, O Mick, O Roger, O Bob!


With an exhaustive collection of alphabetized Haynes manuals,

you await the phone in the back office

like three Tibetan Bodhisattvas with a library of ancient scrolls.

And there’s something about your matching waffle-weave polo shirts,

call it a casual formality, but it took only one glance

to know you’d never presume to assume that it was friction disc wear

that left Eileen and me stranded on the dual carriageway,

but would allow for the possibility that the clutch pressure plate

was prevented from sliding on the transmission input splines,

or that you might need to refit the clutch release bearing and lever,


for you combine a sharp sense of the way things should be,

of a job done right, with the purest instinct of those who have laboured

a lifetime in a vehicular environment.


Breakdown men, you know your camshaft from your crankshaft

as easily as I know any two Sanrio characters from one another.


I’d wager your MOT checks are thorough without being overly stringent.


And is it The Specials or Madness or some more obscure Two Tone release

that you play, Mick, on your retro record player with inbuilt speaker

when you go back to your virgin Queen, your Anne Hathaway,

who you keep in Yorkshire terriers and cream leather sofas?

And is it a Ruby Porter or an IPA you gulp of an evening, Bob?

as you share a table in a 1930s brown brick tavern?


O breakdown men, we were brought together by hapless luck,

but our entire lives were one long collision course

to this enormous corrugated box, a testament to metal

where Eileen and I bask momentarily in your benevolence.

Such benign technocracy O Bob, O Mick, O Roger!

What rottweilers, what girders, what stanchions of steel!


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I want to be . . . By Geraldine Ward

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













I Want to Be…


like Pam Ayres

and Victoria Wood.

Not care what others think,

and are highly talented.

I want to be a cross between Julie Walters and Buddy Holly.

Get your head around that!

I do not have the sideburns

or matching quiff

of dark suits and shades and sixties glitz.

I would have loved to have been Debbie Harry.

Blondie was just the biz.

Eighties punk rock glamour puss.

Name a celebrity you admire?

Chances are they are either still here,

or harps and lyres.

Shaken not stirred.

Bond had his last dance.

Sean Connery really was a class act.

The problem I am left with, is who I could choose to be?

Well, everyone else is taken, all that’s left is me.


Geraldine Ward is an author and poet from Kent. She has had work in ‘The Sunday Tribune,’ and ‘International Times’ among other publications. She enjoys playing the piano, cello and ukulele. Her twitter handle is @GWardAuthor




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
To my first boyfriend, by Carla Scarano

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













To my first boyfriend


You liked my loose denim dungarees

and the XL second hand chequered man’s shirts

I bought at Porta Portese Sunday market.

My girlhood knee-length skirts and matching tops didn’t fit.

I felt fat, my body rounding

shaping itself beyond my teenager’s imagination, dangerous.


But you liked my new look

you thought I was cool.

I could sit on your knees during the break,

the trousers brimming under my shoes

dragging when I walked.

The hem became ragged so mum sewed it up.


The head teacher called me one day

and asked why I was dressing in such a way

despite my good marks.

I said I felt fat, I needed loose clothes

I needed space to fit my body,

a better chance.


Carla Scarano D’Antonio lives in Surrey with her family. She obtained her Master of Arts in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and has published her creative work in various magazines and reviews. Her short collection Negotiating Caponata was published in July 2020. She worked on a PhD on Margaret Atwood’s work at the University of Reading and graduated in April 2021.

http://carlascarano.blogspot.com/

http://www.carlascaranod.co.uk/




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What’s that?, by Judy Darley

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What’s that?


I glimpsed a water vole.

You declared it a rat.

I wasn’t sure why it mattered.

One flourishes alongside

our slack species, the other

struggles amid choked rivers

in shrinking habitat.

Either way, I admire

the opportunists battling

to eke a life from scraps:

snub-nosed voles nibbling

their burrows neat door mats,

and rats thriving from dropped

chips and suspect kebabs.

Discarded snacks clog canals

and blood vessels alike.

I tell you, we’re all a little vole

and a bit rat, even if

we’d rather not admit that.


Judy Darley writes prose and poetry in Bristol, UK. She is the author of short fiction collections Sky Light Rain and Remember Me to the Bees. Her third collection, The Stairs are a Snowcapped Mountain, will be published by Reflex Press in 2022. You can find Judy at http://www.skylightrain.com; https://twitter.com/JudyDarley




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
To Whom It Concerns   A Late Late After Word, by Susan Lindsay

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













To Whom It Concerns A Late Late After Word


Have you noticed the dead don’t pronounce their ‘ts’?

Indistinct they offend my ears. I ran a campaign, you know, down there,

the tongue to tip the roof of the mouth behind teeth.

Tutt, tutt. It’s not quite like that here. Marian dear


I didn’t expect to see you so soon.

That Brendan lad took over your gaff, I hear

not doing too bad, I believe, but hasn’t your style I think.

he has a thing or two to learn I expect. He will.


But I’m out of touch. Touch doesn’t quite cut it here.

Was it all as we were taught; Peter, the pearly gates, all that?

Yes, I asked myriad persons, while alive, on air

they were often vague in response. Of course


vagueness was the scourge besetting you and me.

Broadcasting vagueness is like inviting grey sky

it is neither limpid like mist, nor sharp as frost

but we needn’t concern ourselves with that any more.


Tell me, how are they treating you? Have you

acclimatized to your new regime? We can’t open doors

for each other here. Doors, a bygone thing.

What say us to Joe, Liveline, Ryan and the crew?


The last deadline past. From beyond,

I wish you and our listeners well, my dear.

It’s good not to talk. To no longer have need. From the later

Late, Late – cross your ‘T’s, thanks for listening, that’s it.


Note. R.I.P. Long-term Irish Radio and Television stars Gay Byrne (4.11.2019) and Marian Finucane (2.1.2020).


Susan Lindsay has had three books of her poetry published by Irish publisher Doire Press: Milling the Air (2018), Fear Knot (2013) and Whispering the Secrets (2011). Her work has appeared in national and international journals. She blogs at susanlindsayauthor.blogspot.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
You Know!, by Carl Burkitt

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













YOU KNOW!


The other day I was chatting to that pig.

You know, the one with the wig.

The wig that’s too big

and made of figs and bits of twigs.


You know, the pig,

he’s friends with that goat.

The goat with the tiny boat

made of dusty coats and TV remotes.


You know, the goat and the pig,

they hang out with that cow.

The cow with the eyebrows

made of snow ploughs and know how.


You know, the cow and the goat and the pig,

they’re always chatting to that duck.

The duck with the monster truck

made of hockey pucks and dog muck.


You know, the duck and the cow and the goat and the pig,

they’re buddies with that horse.

The horse with the racecourse

made of brute force and tomato sauce.


You know, the horse and the duck

and the cow and the goat and the pig!

You know what,

maybe I’ve never introduced you.


Carl Burkitt likes to tell tales. He tells long tales, short tales, silly tales, sad tales, and likes to tell them online, behind a mic, in books, in schools or on the sofa with his young family in Manchester. His debut collection What Does A Baby Think It Is? And Other Questions was published in 2020 by Enthusiastic Press.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Diminishing Poem Spliced with an Ovi, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Diminishing Poem Spliced with an Ovi


My Nan has got an iffy bladder

not good when climbing up a ladder

she was once bitten by an adder

though it came off worst


She did let out a curdling scream

and reached for antiseptic cream

I wrote it up, it took a ream

But I doubt it will ever be published


Nan quite soon lifted up a glass

she always was a dypso lass

and once rode naked on an ass,

made page three of the Daily Mirror.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
My Other Sticker is Funny, by Claire Hadfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













My other sticker is funny.


They began as a statement, a declaration, proclaiming affection for a prime location.

I ‘heart’ New York- a harmless affirmation of warmest thoughts- just information.


Then things evolved, just a slight mutation; we began to proclaim our procreation.

Baby on board, Lil’ Princess, Lil’ Man all hail and salute the next generation.

Do we really need such information in the form of an adhesive notification?


But the worst, the nadir, the abomination is a relatively recent innovation;

Your family in graphic representation.

The mum, the dad and confirmation of their successful insemination, cartoonified in silhouette

Reduced to a ‘quirky’ simplification of hetero-normative ideation.


“So what?”, you say, “Cease your assassination!

Why begrudge us confirmation of our plastic-coated validation?”

No! Go look elsewhere for your aspiration.

There’s only one cure for my vexation: total sticker annihilation!


Twenty years of teaching teens led to a highly developed sense of cynicism, a thick skin, and the compulsory eyes in the back of the head. Now a teacher-trainer at Plymouth Marjon University, Claire gets paid to indulge her curiosity, enthusiasm and passion for words on a daily basis.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Not every mushroom is safe to eat, by Jorge Leiva Ardana

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Not every mushroom is safe to eat


Whenever you switch on the telly

there are always people cooking.

You come home with an empty belly,

in a blink they have finished a pudding.


They cook from home, Mexico or Brittany,

their food doesn’t burn or get soggy.

Like Beethoven composing a symphony,

while yours is rejected by the doggy.


With sharper knives than a two edge sword,

plenty of gadgets you can’t afford.

All you have is a ruined frying pan

that sticks when heating up a can.


Using fancy ingredients like tamarind or tahini,

but in the store they’ve run out of tapioca.

What’s the difference between courgette and zucchini?

why do some call it yuca and others mandioca?


Why your stew doesn’t look like theirs?

Why in yours there is always hair?

What are the benefits of Himalayan salt?

Is that flavoursome for what it cost?


Without the necessary piece of advice,

no cooking lesson is ever complete,

so you won’t end up paying the price.

Mind you, not every mushroom is safe to eat.


Jorge Leiva is from South Spain and has been on the waiting list for a tonsillectomy since he was a child. Some of his work has appeared in Skylight 47 Magazine, The Galway Advertiser, Drawn to the light press, Headstuff.org, Dodging the Rain and 2 Meter Review. In 2019 he was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competition.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Alive in the Age of Stupidity, by Chad Norman

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













ALIVE IN THE AGE OF STUPIDITY


Here in

Nova Scotia

the party in power

overlooks

the importance of

protecting and

allowing to stand

the structures

and buildings

from the Past

(somehow still with us).

Mostly men

unfortunately

who

without knowing

each day include

their names

by believing

there is no profit

in being wise enough

to be part of History

through its preservation

and making sure

as politicians they avoid

a category of fools.


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




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Paddy Andy, by Joe Naughton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 















Joe Naughton has been writing poetry since 2017 which

derives mainly from memoir and topical issues.

He attends “Over the Edge” writing workshops with Kevin Higgins in Galway.

He has had poems published in Vox Galvia section of “Galway Advertiser”

and is a regular reader on online open mic platforms.


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Vague Notions, by Ruth Marshall

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Vague Notions


Quizzical buttons, spurious seam rippers

Sketchy fabric markers, dubious zippers,

Threadbare illusions, unbiased binding,

Fat quarters, gauze, and cloudy lining,


Measuring tapes that are imprecise,

Embroidered cats and felted mice,

Bags of stuffing and hair for dolls,

Lace, as always, full of holes,


Evasive trimmings, circular cutters,

Scissors that couldn’t cut through butter,

Buckles, toggles, crochet hooks,

Yarn and paper pattern books,


Hesitant hessian, unsure curtain ties,

A loose collection of hooks and eyes,

Tassels and fringing of questionable quality,

Elastic guaranteed to stretch credulity,


Thimbles, tape, magnetic catches,

Tailor’s chalk and elbow patches,

Hazy braid, ribbon by the yard,

Needles, pins and rolls of cord,


Applique trim, and frogging loops,

Large and small embroidery hoops,

Bins of remnants, green and red,

And somewhere in there, my lost thread.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Doing It, by Heather Moulson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Doing It


Sexual intercourse did not begin for me.

In 1973.

That science lesson when we were told

we will all Have Sex in adulthood.

What?! Every night?! Doesn’t it hurt?!

I look down at my grey school skirt.

Girl’s faces screwed up in distaste.

Sir! Julie piped up, would we get paid?!


The lesson was a disaster,

Julie was sent to the headmaster


Against a tree during the miner’s strike,

Julie was known as the local bike.

But it wasn’t true, she was taking the piss,

it never went further than a kiss.

A french one with tongues, I believe,

although maybe I’m being naïve.

But she was intact like the rest of the class.

To be honest, it just sounded a pain in the arse.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Cleaning Up, by Sue Spiers

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Cleaning up


I’ve a hoover that no longer sucks

despite clearing out all kinds of muck:

three spiders, my hair

and John’s underwear,

So, I have to concede that it’s fucked.


I’ve rinsed out my J-cloths and duster

of grime with what zeal I can muster.

I’d rather be fed

cockroaches instead.

At best my approach is lack-lustre.


I have mopped Flash and polished my brass

I’ve grown weary to Windowlene glass.

I’ve sprayed Mr. Sheen,

got surfaces clean.

That’s enough for this year. Kiss my ass!


Sue lives in Hampshire and has poems in Acumen, Orbis and Stand magazines and on-line at Ink, Sweat and Tears. Sue works with Winchester Poetry Festival and is editor for the Open University annual poetry anthology. Find out more on twitter @Sue Spiers




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Recently Reactivated Twitter Account, by Stephen McNulty

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Recently Reactivated Twitter Account


My name is @barryotoole12345

but you can call me BOT

if you wish.


Though we have been

seen in the same chatroom

I am no relation of

@barryotoole54321.


I will respond to your

each and every tweet

regardless of insult.


Trust me, I have the time.

I speak fluent algorithm

do ratios in my

faceless oval head.


I am a shuttlecock

of political opinion

flying from one

Twitter racket to the next.


Or at least I would be

if I was capable of metaphor.

I detest the left as they cannot afford me.


My parents were opinion polls

before I strangled them to death

with a hashtag.

Between elections, I sleep.


Bio:

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




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Advice for undergraduates re-submitting work for this semester’s poetry module, by Emma Purshouse

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Advice for undergraduates re-submitting work for this semester’s poetry module


If you see a cliché kill it dead.

Don’t use rhyme for rhyme’s sake, red.


Steer clear of obscure abstraction,

it will drive your lecturer to distraction.


Want to piss of him or her?

Then use a t’will, a t’was, a t’were.


All good things in moderation

applies in particular to alliteration


which when wildly wielded will

wind one up and make one ill.


At this point I’ll interject,

that it should only be used for deliberate effect.


As for rhythm don’t get me started

Please, avoid extra long lines which jut out miles further than the rest of the poem, these lines probably should be split and parted.


Oh and never say the same thing twice.

Don’t be an oxymoron all your life.


No tormented soul or bleeding heart,

this makes my nervous twitching start.


Show me, show me, please don’t tell.

Follow this advice and all will be well.


Emma’s first novel Dogged is now available to buy from Ignite Books.                                              https://ignitebooks.co.uk/products-page/emma-purshouses-books/




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Tuesday, by Hugh Maxwell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Tuesday


In the depths of the ocean he found it, he did, he did.

Golden hero from the deepest sea he came.

Warbled and wriggled, it did, it did,

And rejoiced at the light of day.


On a cushion of mandrakes he brought it, he did, he did,

And offered it to her on her throne all fey.

Placed it on her head, she did, she did,

And they danced with the moon till day.


Hugh is in his late sixties and lives in St Leonards on Sea




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Tango, by Trevor Alexander

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Tango


You’ve heard of policemen out walking their beat,

while wearing those shiny black boots on their feet,

a slow measured march as they come down your street,

but now what if that beat was a tango?


They’d shimmy and slide to a rhythm so hip,

while lookin’ so cool the kids wouldn’t give lip;

watch out for the sergeant and give him the slip,

because he’d want to switch to fandango.


The neighbourhood hoodlums in bovver-boot shoes

come round every week to pass on the bad news,

and make you an offer that you can’t refuse

‘cause the boss man is channelling Brando.


If you’ve got the chutzpah, decide not to pay,

I’m sorry to say they won’t just go away,

because if you’re late they’ll be round the next day

to break both your legs with a Kango.


The coppers are useless, say their hands are tied,

there’s nowt they can do until somebody’s died,

and not even then ‘cause they’re all alibied

in a place where the rest of the gang go.


The gang leader hangs with the rest of his crew,

till the squad comes around and they’re all dressed in blue,

‘cause somebody squealed so that all he could do

is to scarper and hide in Durango.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Forever and an Hour, by Patricia Walsh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Forever and an Hour


Recommending some films on back of experience,

watching same under pain of repetition,

burning poetry in a ghost of an existence

nothing comes close to having the rights.


Handling pressure, the better through the fakes,

die-hard cartoons bounce back on themselves

the smell of chocolate wafts through the confines

reading into a cough turgid with indifference.


Death, dropping slow, reads all with due care.

The academic disposal weeds out the hour

poetic gems tweaked out of other existence

some rarity of form calls for recognition.


Government fakes weigh down the reserved,

raw literature in its thousands decreed,

taking pictures of monuments capturing souls,

jealously committing to a lover in-box.


Incidental hatred, poured in the kitchen,

an omnibus realised, taken seriously, never.

Fed on this horror of worthy exclusion,

sleeping for preferment is a righteous burn.


Reading into another book like there was no choice,

cursed from adolescence to live like a freak,

falling from love and its lowly citizens

hoarding the experiential until further notice.


Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Mourneabbey, in north Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International; Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; Brickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014. A second collection of poetry, titled Citizens Arrest, was published online by Libretto in 2020. A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in late 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and a further novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina will be published in late 2021.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Trial by Poetry, by Oscar Windsor-Smith

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Trial By Poetry


My first time at a formal workshop:

Comes the question of poetic voice and

I’m soon stumped.

Worrying.

It seems I’m not one person

for long enough to tie-down

a single stable output;

flibbertigibbet:

north/south, east/west

mongrel that I am;

a middler;

a literal mediocrity…


But then again,

the middle may provide

firm footing

for a bridge

between divergent minds.


And what’s so wrong with that?


Oscar Windsor-Smith lives in Hertfordshire, UK. He has fooled enough editors to get fiction, creative non-fiction and non-fiction published in diverse places, in print and online, and has occasionally been falsely accused of poetry. By jammy luck he has been a finalist/shortlistee in various international competitions. He graduated from the Birkbeck, University of London BA in creative writing in 2018.

—

Oscar Windsor-Smith – Writer


Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/oscar.windsorsmith


LinkedIn: uk.linkedin.com/in/oscarwindsorsmith/


Blog: http://oscarwindsor-smith.blogspot.com/


Twitter: @OscarWindsor




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Precitive Text, by Nigel Lloyd

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Predictive Text


I am not really a fanbelt of that predictive text

It’s giving meat loads of grief

I would steal a manuel on how to correct it

If only I was a thief.


I’ve spoken to the staff at the phone shop

Who Canterbury help me with my plight

At one point I threw the phone at them

Saying “take bacon your pile of shite”.


I know I am getting on a bit

And technology is not my thing

But I need a phone that when someone needs me

The bugger will vibrate and ringworm.


The mobiles now are very light

Where as my old phone’s made of stone

I don’t have a camera or any apps

I only use it as a phonebox.


Everything’s typed out in full

No abbreviations or emoji face

Every full stop and comma

Is in the right placebo.


Should I invest in a hands free kitten

For when I am out on the road?

I feel like going back to a more reliable system

Good old morsel code.


Nigel Lloyd lives in rural Donegal and has had poems published in several magazines

From Crannog to Progressive Rock Magazine, he also had a poem featured on

BBC Radio Ulster Soundscapes programme and was a finalist in the

Bring your Limericks to Limerick competition 2018 and a finalist in

The Piano Academy of Ireland Limerick competition 2021.


www.nigellloydpoet.com








					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I Used to Smoke, by Rodney Wood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













I USED TO SMOKE


before, during and after a break, while smelling jasmine, feeding penguins,

on buses, trains, the top of church towers, in domes, at home, police stations,

prisons, crematoriums, sanatoriums, sci-fi conventions or the birth of a nation,


before, during and after sex, when wearing spandex, carrying a briefcase,

having an enema, practising yoga, in cinemas, open spaces, hiding places,

deep space, being chased, playing bass, being embraced or holding an ace,


before, during and after bugger all, measuring rainfall, drinking highballs,

at football grounds, suburbs, inner cities, digging up the grave of Andy Warhol,

in jail, under sail, playing pinball, crawling, at shopping malls or concert halls,


before, during and after a meal, when kneeling, playing with myself, watching TV,

walking, talking on my mobile, blinking, in bookshops, outside Westminster Abbey,

being filthy, looking at pornography, dancing to Bowie, having a pee or drinking tea,


before, during and after flying, when saying goodbye, beneath the London Eye,

when sitting on the loo, pruning roses, blowing a balloon under a mackerel sky,

riding a bike, circumscribing a lake or rafting down the Thames in the middle of July,


before, during and after a cigarette I had to have a cigarette.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ultimate Bathroom Experience, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Ultimate Bathroom Experience


The bathrooms of Late Capitalism differ

from the bathrooms of feudalism

and the bathrooms of the industrial revolution

in that they exist.

No more throwing it

out into the street

in the hope of hitting the neighbour

you argued with yesterday.


As you depart

the bathrooms of Late Capitalism

the attendant tries to sell you

bottles of your own widdle, jars

of what you worked so hard

to make, labelled Organic.

When they succeed

you feel like you came away

with a great bargain.


The perfect skin cream

for the Father’s Day market

to help them stop withering

in the face of Late Capitalism;

a dressing to drizzle

on your favourite salad

to stop it wilting

in the light of

Late Capitalism; the perfect

pep me up


days you’ve visited the doctor

and been told: Madam,

it’s Late Capitalism.

But, tragically,

not terminal.

On your way out

kindly swipe your card

on the relevant part

of the receptionist

and continue to the exit.


Kevin Higgins is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 is just published by Nuascealta. Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, Ecstatic, will be published by Salmon.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Saboteurs, by Holly Conant

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Saboteurs


The mice knew they were lucky, or did they. It’s one thing to infest a windmill, another thing ripping the piss by getting the elves to tailor them clogs. Maybe they’d caught wind of the Pied Piper from the rats, made contingency plans to save their children. Maybe they were blind, and were adapting to echo location. I thought they’d seen the horses at the mill and wanted to be fashionable. That’s what happened with me, anyway. I’d heard about the mice in Amsterdam, thought they sounded fun. I wanted to clip clippitty clop like them, like the grown-up women going to work in a skirt and cloppy shoes. I found some little clogs for my fingers in my Grandma’s thimble collection, and I’d drive them along flat, wooden surfaces, wear a thimble on my thumb like a fez, sing clip clippitty clop. My fingers got too big after a while. I upgraded to my mum’s rank, cloppy-cloggy shoes. I wore them to school fancy dress, remember clopping to collect my first prize. I wore them out on the concrete in the rain, remember clippittying water back into clouds. I pretended they were tap shoes, and tried to become the first clog dancer/tap dancer/ Irish dancer hybrid. Maybe that’s what the mice were doing, dancing, whilst they could, because there’s only so long the world will let you wear clogs for, before they start grinding.


Holly is a mature student, studying at the University of Leeds. She likes sarcasm and silliness. Her poems have appeared with Ink, Sweat & Tears, Anti-Heroin Chic, Dreich and more.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Five Limericks, by Mark Totterdell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













FIVE LIMERICKS


When Rick, a young workman from Limerick,

Started strimming, they yelled ‘watch that strimmer, Rick!’

When he slipped off the bank

Of the Shannon, and sank,

Then they cried ‘what a shame you’re no swimmer, Rick!’


If pigeon that’s sly does a sly coo,

And pigeon that’s shy does a shy coo,

Does a pigeon that strives

To coo 5-7-5s

From the top of a tree do a high coo?


This limerick’s started so well,

I could just carry on. What the hell,

If I reach line nineteen

With repeats, it will mean

That I’ve written a damn villanelle!


A talented poet called Nina

Attempted to write a sestina.

Her end-words were ‘bum’,

‘Bugger’, ‘bollocks’ and ‘cum’,

And then two that were somewhat obscener.


There was a young poet from Cheam

Whose limericks ran out of steam.

After four lines had passed

He just couldn’t be arsed…


Mark Totterdell’s poems have appeared widely in magazines and have occasionally won prizes. His collections are This Patter of Traces (Oversteps Books, 2014) and Mapping (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2018).






					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Dear Sir/Madam – by Karen Jones

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Dear Sir/Madam – by 				Karen Jones


We hope this finds you well

No need to respond

Our letters always start this way


Thank you for your recent correspondence

It languished in our inbox

Growing mouldier by the day


We refer to the issues raised

Certain you will feel heard

By their very mention on this page


And sorry you feel that way

(Add allegation here) without prejudice

The lawyers got their hands on this


Out of an abundance of caution

Very pedestrian steps have been taken

And nothing will change


We can assure you of that

It sounds solid when you read it back

We liked that last line a lot


There are no plans at present

We’ll bend like palm trees in the morning

It’s a fluid situation at the end of the day


As a gesture of goodwill

We hope the enclosed brings no luck

But needs must, court and whatnot


The matter has been referred

Somewhere, someone, head office

That dark hole of corporate resolve


Don’t hesitate to call

If we can be of any assistance

Now piss off pal, jog on


Committed to the highest standards

Is this statement of vague ambition

We like to shoehorn in at the end


Kind regards

Customer Services

(No, you can’t have the manager instead)


Karen Jones is new to writing poetry, a student of Kevin Higgins, and putting her head above the parapet with this first submission. Born in Northern Ireland, she lives in Dublin and works in public relations.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Evolution of a Complaint, by Roisin Bugler

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Evolution of a Complaint


Neanderthal man enters the cave

throws another carcass of deer

at Neanderthal woman’s feet.

Grunts and gesticulates towards fire.

Woman sighs loudly

throws arms up in exasperation

sets about preparation.


Always the same old meat.

He never cleans up the bones.

Not once has he covered the piss corner with dirt.

Same old charcoal for decorating the wall.

A bit of help with the babies would be nice.

He’s always out hunting with the guys.


I’d kill for a bit of mammoth

or red ochre

or a sleep on

Why can’t he just evolve and become a man?


Róisín Bugler is working on her TBW (to be written) pile.  She was the winner of Strokestown Percy French prize for Witty Verse and runner up in the Padraig Colum International Gathering competition both 2019.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The agony of treading on Lego in bare feet at 3.30am, by Gabi Marcellus-Temple

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The agony of treading on Lego in bare feet at 3.30am


Dovchenko Bazooka Pants is up in the attic

He’s been there for years

He’s definitely plotting something

Fulfilling all my fears

Dovchenko Bazooka Pants

Is under the bed

I can hear him there sniggering

Trying to get in my head

Dovchenko Bazooka Pants

Hides in a kitchen drawer

Under old lighters and tape

Doesn’t like it there

He says it’s a bore

Dovchenko Bazooka Pants

Is down the back of the sink

For one little minifigure

He’s more active than you think

Dovchenko Bazooka Pants

Is under my foot

It’s 3.30 am

And now sleep is kaput.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Truth, by Maurice Devitt

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Truth


In my early years,

The Zebra Book of Facts for Boys

was my go-to reference;

rarely stuck for a capital city, flag

or element on the Periodic Table.

It was only when, at fourteen,

I brought it as a comfort blanket on my first date,

that I realised its shortcomings:

the conversation flowed

as I sought to impress my consort

with the range of my general knowledge,

but when I left her to her door

and she asked me

if I’d ever kissed a girl before

I didn’t know the right answer.




A past winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland and Poems for Patience competitions, he published his debut collection, ‘Growing Up in Colour’, with Doire Press in 2018.


His poems have been nominated for Pushcart, Forward and Best of the Net prizes and his Pushcart-nominated poem, ‘The Lion Tamer Dreams of Office Work’, was the title poem of an anthology published by Hibernian Writers in 2015. He is curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Half-Starved Virgin, by Bobbie Sparrow

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The half starved virgin


Mother told me not to be greedy,

to sit on my hands and wait.

‘Hold in your stomach and tighten,

you never know who’s at the gate.’


Mother always looked good in an A-line,

kept her fingers off the cream buns.

Smoked cigarettes at breakfast,

tried filling her hunger with puns.


‘Keep smiling at those dancing boys

be cheerful and do not pout.

Go walking, cycling, play games of cards

and never ever give out.’


Mother frowned at my father’s kiss,

sat straight on her stool thinking thoughts.

Did the crossword and drank fizzy water

for the little pleasure it brought.


I wore white on the night that he took it –

a boy with clean nails and a purse.

He spent longer than I thought

but during it I caught


desire is a belly full of want. Now


give me some sweet with my sugar,

give me chocolate with my wine,

give me tongues in my kisses,

give me rapture in my crying.


Give me saunas in the sunshine,

give me plunge pools in the rain,

give me sand in the desert,

give me ecstasy in pain.


‘Leave the table wanting more’ said mother,

To hell with that, I state.

Give her food when she’s hungry ,

unlatch the half-starved virgin’s gate.


Bobbie Sparrow‘s poems have been published in many journals including Orbis, Crannog, Skylight 47, The Honest Ulsterman, Cordite, and Southword. Bobbie won 3rd prize for her Chapbook in the Blue Nib competition 2018 and came second in the Saolta Arts Trust Poems for Patience competition 2020. Her Chapbook Milk and Blood was commended in the Fools for Poetry competition 2020 and she was nominated as one of Dodging the Rain’s best published poets 2018/19. She loves lake swimming and cycling downhill.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Gannet, by Catherine Doherty Nicholls

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Gannet


Alice had a mallet

and she swung it at a gannet

as it swooped

to steal her sandwich at the beach


Then the gannet landed on the

sandwich,

and with malice

pecked her hand that held the mallet

till she screeched.


She was really bleeding

but the tide was not receding

so she swung again

and nearly cracked his head


In the great commotion

they were swallowed by the ocean

as they fought for ham and bread

and now they’re dead.


Catherine Doherty Nicholls


Winner of no Poetry Ireland Competition, or any other competition, no published debut collection, nothing printed anywhere yet.

Her poems have been nominated for nothing so she’s nominating this poem to go on this page – a great place to start.


She is the curator of nothing. Her anthology doesn’t exist, yet she keeps going.


A student of Kevin Higgins.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Nothing, by Ama Bolton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Nothing


Nothing’s worse than toothache.

Nothing’s worse than fleas.

Nothing’s worse than finding

half a maggot in your cheese.


Nothing’s worse than tasting

coffee you thought was tea.

Nothing’s worse than failing

your Maths GCSE.


Nothing’s worse than losing

car-keys down a drain.

Nothing’s worse than choosing

the wrong till, once again.


Nothing’s worse than Christmas

when you wake up with the ‘flu.

Nothing’s worse than birthdays

when no-one’s there with you.


Nothing’s worse than meeting

right person at wrong time.

Nothing’s worse than G&T

without a slice of lime.


You’re right, my dears, for nothing’s

far worse than all of these.

You’ve got one life. Enjoy it.

And stop complaining. Please.


Ama Bolton, former member of The Liverpool School of Language, Music, Dream and Pun, convenes a Stanza group in Somerset. Her poems have featured at festivals, on Radio 3’s The Verb, and in magazines and anthologies including Bridport Prize 2008. She blogs at

http://barleybooks.wordpress.com/




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Do dust mites eat ginger biscuits?, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Do dust mites eat ginger biscuits?


I did wonder as I sipped my morning tea

dark and caffeine free

accompanied by a ginger biscuit or three

it was the crumbs, you see

parent mites with little mites of their own

living on the breadline during Lockdown

but then I thought, of course not

they’d have gorged themselves on me

I know they eat people,

if only by miniscule degrees

but perhaps I could tempt them away

with my ginger biscuit crumbs, flax filled, gluten free.


Trisha has had three pamphlets published by Dempsey and Windle. She is a regular contributor to Surrey Libraries Poetry Blog and has a regular poetry spot on her local radio. Humour escapes from her work regardless of any constraints applied. https://www.facebook.com/Trisha-Broomfield-Poetry-2340859049276291




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ads for adults, not suitable for children, by Carole Donaldson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			
 


Here’s one concerning my embarrassment at the conversation I was forced to have with a highly inquisitive and precocious four-year-old boy to which I’ve always told the truth …erm, except in this case. I mean, how does one start?





Ads for adults, not suitable for children





 When your four-year-old is smart and bright,





and sat there watching telly one night,





Well it’s not quite what I’d call ‘night’ really,





more afternoon/early evening clearly,





then he looks to you to innocently ask,





while you look on, somewhat aghast,





about the advert he’s just seen.





And he’s like “What does it all mean?”





and in that moment it’s soon the case,





that you don’t know where to put your face





 Why so untimely the ads must show,





such intimate detail to let your child know,





that ladies suffer at a certain age,





and especially after the menopausal stage





It’s stunning these inappropriate ads





in front of young impressionable lads





without a hint of unbridled shyness,





discuss the ins and outs of vaginal dryness







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Buffoon in a flowery shirt, by Hannah Kiely

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Buffoon in a flowery shirt


Hannah Kiely


Bastard, you took a piece of my life, screwed it

into a younger version, razed, ripped, torn apart


Bastard, you took the piano, the silent hall

echoes torment, tears, spartan space


And bastard, I cursed you harshly at night

closed the outside light, curled like a gnarled arthritic hand


Damn you, big shot, deluded at the apex

of your own illusions, a buffoon; child seats, schools


Who are you now, living under hollow pretence

is it greener on your side?


Your flowery shirts, an over-compensation

the rise and fall of a default man


Ill-fitting skinny jeans, Gen Z or millennial

you are not, they won’t make you younger


Long hair, an ageing rocker, who never made it

your fondness for the old wedding cake, three slices so far


Unbroken, I begin to steal it back,

middle aged fool.


I secretly don’t envy you anymore.


Hannah Kiely is from Galway. Kiely completed an MA in writing at NUIG in 2020. She has been published in Vox Galvia, RTE Sunday Miscellany, Pendemic.ie and has been a featured reader on Over The Edge.






					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Never eat shellfish, by Janet Sillett

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Never eat shellfish


My aunt, nothing like my mother,

used me as a sounding board, captured,

ten years old, in her stifling kitchen,

smelling of chicken soup

and terror


I was licking the cake bowl dry,

she proclaiming

that the Russians sent bad weather,

on purpose

tell your father that, the commie,

insisting I pray for Israel,

and that I must never eat shellfish

on pain of death from God


My aunt, never one for irony, was firm

that I should trust my instincts

and be myself,

but even then, I thought being myself

might mean downing small pink shrimps

from seaside stalls,

striped in pink sweet rock colours


I should shun men with slinky hips, especially

those with guitars

I had never met one of these wonders

but from then on, I would look for them on every street corner


Be careful what you wish for

I wished for Cadbury’s dairy milk,

and that her daughter,

younger than me, whose life’s work was snitching,

would be kidnapped to a desert island,

clutching her Hebrew scriptures

as her book of choice


Things happen for a reason,

I knew she meant

bad things,

as I mixed chopped fish in her yellow cracked dish


My father died later that year


My aunt was a lodestar

a beacon to what not to do,

an upside down road map

from childhood to flimsy maturity


In middle age, diagnosed depressive,

I missed her declarations

In old age, visiting my dying mother,

she picked wild flowers for her bedside


Janet Sillett recently took up writing poetry and short fiction again after decades of absence. She has had a poem published in the Galway Advertiser and is about to have her first flash fiction piece published in Litro. She works for a think tank.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What the Dickens, by Julian Isaacs

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Angela Merkel, reading Edwin Drood,

Said she liked Durdles the best.

Although she never found how Eddie met his end, And without intending to be rude,

She felt sure Jasper had something on his chest, And was not a faithful friend.

That night in the hookah bar,

It was just like Cabaret.

She played the part of Rosa Budd,

And was certainly a star.

She’d learned all her lines to say,

And looked like Joan Collins in The Stud.

Thus demonstrating that all the world is nothing but a stage,

Whether for Schubert’s Unfinished, Mahler’s 10th, or Edwin Drood performed off the page. That’s the thing about literature and history;

Read all you like — some of it will remain a mystery.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Duolingual and becoming 007, by Beth McDonough

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Duolingual and becoming 007


Lately, I have become anxious in Spanish.

Sonia. Trust me, I must keep checking.

Does she really have two jobs, this Sonia?

Clearly someone is certain this matters.

That maybe explains why she’s tired every Tuesday.

After all, she can’t even rise in the mornings at 5,

which I’m told my own Abuelo does daily.


How much does she need other work?

I’m assured that her bosses (Amanda y Ana)

are muy simpáticas. Undeniably.

(I can only assume they’re superiors

in job number one. Name her other employers!

Although I can now order up to 39 beers,

that number of jobs seems extreme).


So, I’m worried poor Sonia’s moonlighting,

perhaps as a tasseled pole-dancer, in a club

owned by inexpressibly sinister figures.

That’s confirmed by el jefe’s grey graphic. He’s mean.

What can Fernanda, her much older sister,

be thinking? She’s always annoyed in her big house,

loving three pretty cats and a dog.


But I’m sure El Señor Perez has noticed.

After all, he’s a man with two desks.

What is he jotting with his red bolígrafo?

Surely that can’t be nothing. We know

he is hungry, though yet again he is eating

his favourite cheese sandwich (no ketchup)

with a café con leche. He never drinks wine.


El Señor Gomez is now part of the scene,

wearing his brand new zapatos.

Don’t be fooled by his boleto from Mexico!

He arrived at the estación de tren!

One Señor Castro claims he is a friend!

No-one has mentioned that this one’s Cubano!

Oh, how I fear for you, Sonia.


Then out in WhatsApp, there is Babs.

She tells me nothing of Sonia, but thinks

she’ll just quit this, then ascend some Via Ferrata.

So she’s switched to Italian, to be shocked

that she’s to survive solely on chocolate ice cream,

which she hates. No beers or wine. That won’t help poor Sonia,

as my voice lisps a much slower Sean Connery.


Beth McDonough is adept at spilling cocoa, particularly after winter swimming in the Firth of Tay, or escaping from a bramble bush whilst foraging. She tries hard not to spill on poetry books, including her own fairly recent pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish(published by 4Word). 




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Wallpaper, by Anne Donnellan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Wallpaper


It was no menial operation nineteen sixty seven

when the decision was taken to paper the kitchen

with walls that climbed to the sky flaking and bruised

a reek-making timber ladder from a the hayshed was used

lugged to the decorating site by a fleet of giddy relations

eager to exhibit their finer skills of smoothing ridges

they attacked the tedious of peeling scraping and filling

made festival of their chalky chore

with whistling lilting and tale spinning


our mother muttered at the makeshift paste bench

fretted over flour and water stirred in thick strictness

relieved when all was prepped to hang the sticky sheets

her elder sister plumbline dangling matched patterned strips

precision scissored like the postman’s moustache

she sponged bubbles and creases without blemish

patted the pink Victorian flora

splashed on velvet red finish


after decades of fading layers

I remember decorators no longer there

stories crawl from wallpaper


Anne Donnellan’s work has been published in the NUIG Ropes Literary Journal 2018 and 2019, A New Ulster, The Linnet’s Wings, Bangor Literary Journal, Boyne Berries, Poethead, Vox Galvia , Clare Champion, Orbis and The Galway Review. She was a featured reader at the March 2019 “Over The Edge: Open Reading” in Galway City Library.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Coup de Tea, by Bern Butler

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Coup de Tea


I can’t remember when lunch muscled in

shunting dinner, in our house, from one to six,

and spiriting tea away altogether, but recall

it was the same time as kiwis, broccoli,

Telecom Eireann, a flat beige phone in the hall.


No-one missed luncheon-sausage that was

Already dead; rancid slices of blood moon,

or tomatoes, quartered like seasons, falling

backward over lettuce, or salad-cream

blobbed across sulphurous eggs, tinned

salmon, Welsh Rarebit, beetroot from a jar.


Baked beans survived but the toasting-fork

fashioned from a coat hanger was banished

to soot-black tiles at the back of the range

where dour chimney brushes hung

like artefacts from a frightening age.


Corned beef took off to America.

Bananas endured with bunches being

purchased as before but not eaten so much

between slices of bread; more relegated

to the fruit bowl from where they were

abducted, stuffed into Tupperware


to be eaten at school (but only with friends

whose mothers acquiesced with reform)

while we looked down our noses at those girls

who still went home at lunchtime for dinner,

and continued to speak of tea as a meal.


Bern Butler writes poetry and prose. Her work has featured in The Ropes Anthology, TheGalway Review, North West Words, The Blue Nib, Abridged 0-60, The Ireland Chair of Poetry, Ink, Sweat & Tears. She has an MA in Writing from NUI Galway and will be a guest reader at Cuirt Festival Galway New Writing Showcase 2021.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
able, by beam

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













able

I wrote into my note app

I ate beans on toast for the millionth time

no exaggeration

I wore pink velvet trousers

I looked at myself and thought ‘’cute’’

I smiled

I fed my dog purina, carrot and peanut butter

but held onto my porkchop

I sang into my computer

I felt like the wheels of my life were moving again

I watched benjamin button become a baby

I felt cold

I wanted to be close again to gone friends

I read kevins book

I was outside

I peed

I used the magic of the internet

I forgot to connect my feelings to the mains of my friends

I warmed up and down

I used my fingers, feet, hands, body

I was able to imagine myself next year

not in a pandemic


‘beam’ is a woman from Galway who is interested in self expression, politics, art and human-beams. Her recent work includes surviving the pandemic and several disappointing sourdough loaves. You can find more of her poetry at @personalbeam on instagram.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Weather says ‘Wake up’, after Dorothy Parker, by Art Ó Súilleabháin

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The weather says ‘Wake up’

after Dorothy Parker


You do

nutrients flowing against gravity

through xylem to extremities

from spear to soft

brown to green

cased to unfurled

you are cloaked in a new life

dressed in a spring trousseau

yellow for forsythia

white for blackthorn

pink Japanese Sakura

multi-coloured apple blossom

but what of a late frost in April

We’re here now

We might as well live.


Art Ó Súilleabháin was born in Corr na Móna, Co. Galway and spent some years in Boston USA. He has worked in Dublin, Castlebar and Washington DC before returning to Corr na Móna. He has been featured in Poetry Ireland, Writing Home (Daedalus Press), Hold Open the Door (Ireland Chair of Poetry), Boyne Berries, Skylight 47, Salt on the Coals (Winchester) and Cinnamon Press. He has published books for children as Gaeilge. His first collection of poetry for adults ‘Mayflies in the Heather’ was published by Revival Press in in March 2021. (www.artosuilleabhain.com)




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Fruit, by Stephen Wren

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Fruit


I rub my wrists, being a male lemur,

to produce aldehydes that smell of fruit

they attract mates. I must be a dreamer!

I rub my wrists, being a male lemur,

the smell was designed by the redeemer

He devised bespoke aromas to suit

I rub my wrists, being a male lemur,

to produce aldehydes that smell of fruit


Dr Stephen Paul Wren was educated at Cambridge and worked as a chemist in industry for many years. He transitioned back into academia at Oxford before joining Kingston University in September 2018 where he works as a Senior lecturer.


Stephen’s poetry can be read at www.stephenpaulwren.wixsite.com/luke12poetry and on Twitter @Stephen34343631.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
A Grudge, by Heather Moulson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













A Grudge


On my tenth birthday, I got a toy horse

A party was out of the question of course

But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll


Gran got me Playdough, my smile

became thin

I thanked her profusely as it went in

the bin

But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll


Was there no end of crap presents today?!

Oh, a construction set! Cheers, auntie Gaye!

But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll


Mum baked a cake, the icing was pink

I pigged the lot and was sick in the sink

But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll


Heather Moulson has been writing and performing poetry since 2016, and has featured extensively in London and Surrey. Heather’s first pamphlet Bunty, I Miss You! Was published in 2019 She mainly hankers for a certain era and lives in Twickenham with a stroppy black cat.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Good Morning Mr Magpie, by Teresa O’Connor

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Good Morning Mr Magpie


So how is life in your new job?

It couldn’t be simpler

Your brush stroke always black

Not a hint of light

Only your face calico white


Do you still magnify a molehill?

Huff and puff it into a peak

like the Reek and talk is cheap

And have you climbed it yet?

Oh! and don’t forget your umbrella


And whose ear do you burn now?

You’re a gossip blogger, I hear

Always knew you as a luddite

But then you usually found someone

useful just around the corner


By now you must have genius status

It takes a lot of time to be a genius,

you have to sit around so much

doing nothing, really doing nothing


Teresa O’ Connor-Diskin’s poems have been published or forthcoming in The Galway Review, Skylight 47, Dodging the Rain, Vox Galvia, The Irish Farmers Journal and she was shortlisted for Poems for Patiences 2019.

One of her poems has been added to Poetry in Lockdown collection at the James Joyce Library UCD




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Emperor and the Daddy, by Michael Allsopp

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Emperor and the Daddy


I am a Great Emperor attracted by the light of the many Moons and you are a Daddy Long Legs, are you ready to dare enter the court of man, where there are so many rooms.


Whilst I flap and flutter you just rest now on the bottom of the door and when the door is opened, just the tiniest ajar, in we’ll go and muster, dancing in afar.


But, dear Great Emperor this is not a game, these men inside these courts I’ve heard they’re not quite so tame and their children act so beastly, grab my wings, pull off a leg, so I no longer can fly, surely to enter is to be murdered and to die.


Don’t be silly, as Emperor I’ll sit majestically in the corner of a wall, these beasts if to kill me would have to be like seven foot tall. I’ll claim this my castle and my Kingdom if you break-in with me, we won’t become of fate, in fact once inside you might find a loving long legged mate.


Now I’m dancing in excitement at the thought of finding love, so glad that you did tell me, thank you Emperor Moth, I’ll float in through any window for I have such little time and desperate to find a mate and of course it’s dark now and getting rather late.


So, these beasts of these courts, to be greeted by a spindly bug and a buzzing ball of fluff turns them into murderers, sounding sort of huff. The light of their many moons, trance us into a trap, oh no what is happening as I hear a cloth being rapped.


The moth takes off again and again as the beast takes aim, circling at eye level now and seems to have lost rudder control, smacking into the walls in this deathly game. He circles lower and lower, spinning around a moon in tighter revolutions, like a soap sud over an open drain. A few times he seems to touch the light but dances off unhurt but the beast succeeded and reduced him to dirt.


Now I dance and flit and plead don’t kill me I am not full of venom and I cannot bite, I was just attracted by the lure of your lights but I can feel a leg detach and a searing sensation of pain, I was just looking for a mate and now death be my fate.


I dream of flower beds and grasslands and wooded coppice, free with all the wildlife and pretty flowers and trees. But here I am dying inside this court of man, slain a slow death as I dream of flying across the Great Gromboolian Plain.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Enrichment, by Katherine Noone

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Enrichment


When you shake the family tree,

my branch will yield no heirs, no heirlooms.

Mired in brambles, curved

clinging to the garden wall.


Look,

a restless robin lingers there.

A wind chime tinkles heavenly tones,

in the gentle evening breeze .


Hold back the pruning shears.


Katherine Noone’s first  poetry collection ‘Keeping  Watch’ was published by Lapwing  Publications in 2017. Shortlisted Vallum Poetry Award (Montreal).Her poems have appeared in Orbis, Crannog, Boyne Berries, Linnets Wings, Skylight 47, Vallum digital edition, A New Ulster,Ropes.  Poethead. ‘Out Here’ was published in 2019.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The World Has Run Out of Curry, by Nigel Lloyd

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The World Has Run Out Of Curry


It came to my attention last night that the world has run out of curry

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat with my head all full of worry

The one I had last Friday may have been my last

I never thought that curry would be a thing of the past.


What am I going to do without my Vindaloo?

There’s only so much pepper you can add to Irish stew

I am thinking of all the plain food and how to pep it up a bit

I hope they haven’t run out of chillies or were really in the shit.


There’s no more Biryani, no more Keema Nan

The spice suppliers have closed their warehouse

and sold their fleet of vans

There’s no more Tikka Masala, no more Beef Madras

The government have declared a state of emergency

And the Pope has cancelled mass.


There’s talk of foreign countries

Going to invade in our weakened state

The news channel headlines refer to Tandoori Gate

All the politicians are keen to show they care

There’s even a Curry Crisis Celebrity Special

Who Wants to be a Millionaire.


I am really starting to panic now with all these thoughts I’ve had

I reach over and wake my wife and tell her things are bad

I wait for her reply as the news given might sound odd

She said “go back to sleep there’s plenty of curry

You dreamt it you silly old sod”.


Nigel Lloyd lives in rural Donegal and has had poems published in several magazines

From Crannog to Progressive Rock Magazine, he also had a poem featured on

BBC Radio Ulster Soundscapes programme and was a finalist in the

Bring your Limericks to Limerick competition 2018 and a finalist in

The Piano Academy of Ireland Limerick competition 2021.


www.nigellloydpoet.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Honorificabilitudinitatibus, by Mohammad Zahid

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Honorificabilitudinitatibus


This is no gasconade, do I need to depone

or cull an imprimatur to asseverate

that I am pretty good at anamnesis

I am no lamb that you may calumniate

for having muddied your waters flowing down from you

Your puissant depredation shall yield you no more

I’ve grown intransigent tenaciously

My skin has overgrown your claws

My heart, deaf to your war cries

My silence, louder that your vociferation.

Scan your fortress walls there’re cracks

My determination has insinuated in them

Your shields, armours have grown questionable

For, spears of my sight shall pierce them athwart

Count your days, despot,

I’ve etched my ingress to emerge

Honorificabilitudinitatibus




Mohammad Zahid is a poet and translator from Kashmir, India. His maiden poetry collection The Pheromone Trail bagged the Best Book Award from the Academy of Art Culture and Languages, Jammu & Kashmir in 2015.


His poetry has appeared in many Indian and international journals. He is a translation editor for Kashmiri Language at Muse India and Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Openings, by Mary Lee

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Openings


Henry Moore walks sideways

on the stairway down to the cellar –


keeps his eyes on the lighted doorway,

frightened of the dark as he fetches

apples for his coalminer father. Henry,

needs to find a way out,


remembering the crypt and the sun

struggling to press through the slag

heaps and the cavernous subterranean

world of his youth’s landscape. He sculpts


stone; the light enters through its

many openings.


chiselled poems– pursue precision,

may puzzle – a glimmer’s enough –

the tiniest ray, a wave, crossing

distance like sound – immensely faster.


Mary Lee’s poems have been published nationally and internationally; including Skylight 47; Orbis; The Galway Literary Review; Poems for Patience competition, (highly commended, 2018) Crannog; The Poet’s Quest for God, 2016 (anthology, Eyewear Publications, UK); Dodging website; A New Ulster website; The Wild Word website; Her work has been broadcast on A Living Word, RTE Radio 1. Mary’s second poetry collection Everyday Epiphanies is due in 2021.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Dr Queenie May, by Sally McHugh

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Dr Queenie May | she/her


Dr Queenie May is an awful state

Hard working academic, a lot on her plate

Colleague of the Dean of Improbable Possibilities

A woman of integrity and acutely high abilities.

Dr Queenie May designs robust measures

Of students opinions, though not heeded, what treasures!

Nominated for excellence in research and teaching

Another honour for LinkedIn and some serious retweeting.

‘Assessing Assessment’ webinar, she needs to sign on

Dr Queenie May tells herself it won’t take long!

Committees on committees, all the day through

Four hour zooms with the camera on, troubling too.

‘Can you oblige? We have no woman for the panel

It’s an issue with which we must graciously grapple’

Committee-ing with the Dean of Desperate Dissertations

He suggests she produce some collegiate presentations.

Dr Queenie May devised a prototype app

For struggling academics, a clear word map

Her jargon generator runs on full poop

As she chairs the Diversity in Inclusive Communities sub-sub-group.

Dr Queenie May longs for time to renew,

When she can catch up on her writing, publications, reviews

When will they give her a free weekend?

Some yoga, mindfulness, time to mend.

With a string of publications, and a professorship in the bag

Dr Queenie May suffices with an odd quick shag

While the Dean of Wild and Wicked Atlantic Ways

Golfs his way around greens on yellow sunny days.

She knows no other life, bound to academia

No family, partner, children, just a house in suburbia

Grant proposals, funding, where is the time?

Dr Queenie May is driven to ‘doing a line’.

She needs an external outlet to let off steam

So she’s on Twitter as the academic dot queen

She vents her anger tweet by tweet

The Dean of Succulent Stoicism suggests they meet.

Dr Queenie May has just had enough

Time to set her generator to engender gruff

She sets the auto-reply on her phone and email

‘Sod off! I’m the new Executive Director of my own ship’s sail.’


Sally McHugh lives in the West of Ireland. She has published poems in ROPES 18 (2018) and The Blue Nib (2019).




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
After the . ., by Siobhan Potter

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













After the


…Suffering divine Jesus Christ almighty

Grant me the serenity to be an utter fucker

Grant me paucity of desire

Render that further into scarcity

Grant me the courage to change all I

Hold in contempt and still hold them

Grant me a dictatorship of vegans and

Wisdom whilst wielding a

Hand held tongue remover

Let me crow lyrical

Give me sleight of hand. No more

Sitting at home writing poetry

Let me fly- fleet of foot in

Boots of zoom leagues from

Open mic to open mic, garnering

Lines and concepts from the

Unpublished work of newcomers to

Plaster online and call my own. Take

Your only begotten son from his cross

Nail me on. Re-crucify him, because

I am worth it. Take everything so

I can write. Leave nothing but

Poetry. No lover nor kin, nor dog, be

Damned. Take my bitterness, leave me

Nothing to warm me but

Occasional spite. Then take that

Leave me reasonably content. Then

Come down, from on high on the

Backs of all four horsemen, so fast

That you trample the reaper

Leave me here in the woods, training for

Life. When I am proficient, have me

Eat fruit from the lonely tree and

Be driven back to the village I

Burned to the ground, with an

Olive branch, its adjoining tree and a spade

Make me fit in. Do—or

Let me never forget why I don’t

Take away access to the cupboard under

The stairs. Leave the stairs, so I

Neither remember nor forget

Make me love again

Fiercely

Wholly and holy

Have me swoon and gush and

Let it end there, on a corner

Let that light shine on me

Have me die in no doubt, my

Work here remains undone, that

My next job is lined up, and

That Mother is there


Waiting…


Siobhan Potter Bio

Siobhan Potter is a verbal artist.Her practice centred in relationship explores the capacity of oral epic poetic form to midwife experience. She has poetry published in oral and print form, curates ‘not the time to be silent’ and is a recipient of an Arts Council of Ireland Literature Project Award 2021


Twitter @soma_psyche




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
You Gave me a Geranium, by Robert Garnham

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













You liked me enough to give me a geranium


You gave me a geranium.

I said,

‘You know I’m not into salad.’

You said, ‘It’s a houseplant.

Not even you could kill this’.


But it was your way of saying

I love you.

The geranium sat there in passive,

Filtering C02 and judging me,

Reporting back my foibles and transgressions,

Taking photographs

When it should have been taking

Photosynthesis.


But you looked at me,

Your eyes as dopey as a spaniel,

And I forgave you your hardy annual.

‘When will it flower and bloom?’, I asked.

‘When will it light up my room?

When will its scent take to the breeze,

Provide pollen for the bees,

Put me at my ease,

Probably make me sneeze,

Each one of which is

One eighth of an orgasm,

That eight of these

And I should think of you?’


That night I trailed my fingers through a box of

J. Arthur Bowyer’s Syncho-Boost Houseplant Compost,

And it reminded me of you, Pete.

The geranium made me complete, Pete.

My life so recently deplete, Pete,

Of love,

Now suddenly filled like the pot,

This upturned cranium

With the roots of the geranium,

Need I explainium?

Sorry for being a painium.


Because you liked me enough

To give me a plant

And I liked you enough

To keep it

Pot it, plant it, deadhead it,

Water it, feed it, treat it for greenfly,

I even gave it a name, ‘Dirty Liza’,

Because she liked her fertiliser.

Every time I looked she was there

And still alive because I still care

And even though you eventually

Disappeared

Like the pests I treated,

Like the greenfly,

I never did

Glean why

You gave it to me to begin with,

Suffice to believe

You liked me enough

To give me a geranium.


Robert Garnham has been performing comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had two collections published by Burning Eye. He has made a few short TV adverts for a certain bank, and a joke from one of his shows was listed as one of the funniest of the Edinburgh Fringe. He was recently an answer on the TV quiz show Pointless. Lately he has been writing short stories for magazines and a humorous column in the Herald Express newspaper. In 2020 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.


Robert is the editor of Spilling Cocoa. His website can be found at https://professorofwhimsy.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Particles, by Marcus Bales

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Particles


With Einstein, we have gone too far to call

Him real. That’s antithetical

To physicists like him, who, after all,

Are purely theoretical.


The cop asked Werner how fast he was going.

When writing up a speed citation.

Heisenberg said stopped there is no knowing,

But he did know his location.


Schroedinger’s box — it doesn’t matter that

It’s opened or remains still closed.

There doesn’t even have to be a cat —

It’s only meant to be supposed.


There’s rumor that there is a tape-recorder,

Paul Dirac is heard to talk

And place his normal evening take-out order

For himself: a Pizza Dirac.


“Minnesota Twins?,” asked Wolfgang Pauli

“Don’t give me any crooked spin

And if they are identical, by golly,

There’s no state they can both be in.”




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Night I Told Genesis to Fuck Off, by Rodney Wood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













THE NIGHT I TOLD GENESIS TO FUCK OFF

27 May 1972, Farnboro Tech


Chubby set up a trestle table inside & said to me

Mike was a student here & I’ve seen

the band practising at the Farnham Maltings.

They’re on fire!

I nodded, took the tickets

from my old school friend.

The Melody Maker

shakes hands with you on that, I said, Pass

my Dad’s regards on to yours.

The stairs behind

him went to room 306 where I spent two

years, one night a week, studying, & failing,

English A level. Then to the bar for two halves

of mild & ten Embassy.

The equipment

gathered dust on stage, the drums & guitars

waited like groupies but the band were elsewhere

high, smoking, drinking & talking like me

and my girlfriend gabbing about how I never

spoke to Chubby at school, why I couldn’t

pass English, I mean, I knew Brave New World,

Two Cheers for Democracy & Anthony

and Cleopatra backwards.

It wasn’t that,

said my girlfriend, it was the essay, your teacher

said you wrote funny & not in a good way.

Just then a smell of musk arrived followed

by the ginger-haired Jasper, swearing as usual

and scratching his nose.

Then Nick, striking a pose,

saying Genesis sounded like a river of silver

that glows, & Jon, who really made an effort

to be hip with long hair, wooden beads, flowery

shirt, flares & suede boots; he was posh

and came from Farnham, the nicest town in Surrey

We sit & talk till the support come on

to play their dreamy cross of Bach & Bee Gees.

A break, two more glasses of mild then

ex-public schoolboys, Genesis, amble

from the wings & they looked earnest, the real deal

for a few seconds until the lead singer came on

dressed as a daffodil & sang, in falsetto,

Walking across the sitting-room, I turn the television off

Sitting beside you, I look into your eyes

As the sound of motorcars fades.

My girlfriend didn’t like this bunch of posers.

Jon & Nick loved them.

An hour later Daffy shouted

Do you want more?

I yelled back Fuck off.

The hall was silent & the band slunk off stage.

My girlfriend gave me a kiss & that was the best

thing I’ve ever done.

Telling Genesis to fuck off.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Mind Games, by Emma Purshouse

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Mind Games


We played

imaginary Kerplunk.

He won.

Very quickly

it seemed

all of my marbles

dropped!


Never one

to give up

I suggested

invisible Buckaroo.

But he said

it was getting late

and

couldn’t be bothered

with setting it all up.


Emma’s first novel Dogged is now available to buy from Ignite Books.  https://ignitebooks.co.uk/products-page/emma-purshouses-books/




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
This Is Not a Pipe Dream, by Julian Isaacs

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













This Is Not A Pipe Dream


The cow sprained its fetlock jumping over the moon,

Claude Rains went shopping in Monsoon,

The cowboy mauled by the viper fell in the dune;

Good morning midnight — this is death in the afternoon.


However Ernie and Jean were seldom seen

In the same Parisian bar at once;

Though always on the absinthe, shying grenadine,

When drunk they could both be eyes fronts.


In Natalie Barney’s Temple d’Amitié,

They were scoffing a moveable feast;

The phantom of the opera slept all day,

Dining on cake not bread because there was no yeast.


They got drunker and drunker till the hour became late,

And the hunchback of Notre-Dame straightened right out;

At the Porte de Clichy, André Gide had straitened the gate,

And in Benjamin’s arcades all the lights had gone out.


So beware the demon drink, for it may ruin you;

You’ll think the sun is black with melancholy.

As Baudelaire said, opium’s far better, it’s true.

Your dreams may be bad, but you’ll kid yourself they’re jolly.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Bigger Issues, by Clive Oseman

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













THE BIGGER ISSUES


Some people seek answers to big issues

like the meaning of life,

or what happens to us when we die.


To them my issues are small fry,

insignificant in the scheme of things

and i have to confess, that stings.

Because I may not be intellectual,

my grey cells are somewhat ineffectual

when deep thought is deemed essential,

but to me, the small things matter more.


What are wasps actually for?

They get mildly angry and it’s all out war.

You try to repel them and they sting you to fuck.

Then they do it one more time for luck.

They show no compassion, not one little bit

The barbarous pointless stripy shits.


When I want to appear clever

I step it up a level and ask questions like….


If music be the food of love,

are cheese quavers an aphrodisiac?

Is there such a thing as cheese semiquavers to give a quick thrill?

If so, toss one my way if you will.


On the subject of food,

does a fruitfly count as one of your five a day?

I have my doubts

but if it does I can ditch the sprouts.

They’re not veggies, it’s a well known fact

They are Beelzebub’s scrotal sac.


It’s not just food that fascinates me.

Other things I need to know.


Is a really hard Englishman in Australia

called a Pommy Granite?

If I wrote a book on the history of censorship

would they ban it?

Is David Icke for real, damn it?


If a group of crows didn’t mean to get together are they a manslaughter?


Do waterpolo players ride seahorses?

Are you lot bored stiff, or is it rigor mortis?


If you buy a wok on the internet

is it an ewok?

When it arrives are you in for a shock?


And here’s a thing.

Will the first non binary monarch

be called their majesty the qing?


When they assess the age of a dinosaur fossil

is it even remotely possible

to know if it used anti ageing creams?

Calculations could all go to hell

if it used those products by L’oreal.


But the question that concerns me most may come as a surprise.


If you stick your head down the toilet,

Which is not very wise,

do you get floaters in your eyes?


Clive Oseman is a multi slam winning Brummie spoken word artist,comedian, satirist and promoter based in Swindon. His third collection “It could be verse” was published by Black Eyes Publishing UK in 2020, and his debut one man show “Getting To Know Elizabeth” was first performed on Zoom in February 2021..




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Delta of Venus on the Bus, by Neil Fulwood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













DELTA OF VENUS ON THE BUS


Cruelly, I bend the pages back

until the force can be felt in the spine.

The volume opens like a calyx,

freeing its horny pollen of words.


My hand trembles. I lay my palm

against the cool smooth paper,

flex a single quivering finger

and caress the length of a sentence


that ends with the word “vigorous”.

I have hidden cover, title, author’s name –

folded them hard into each other.

But the words writhe shamelessly;


inky exhibitionists. How many times

can one use “penis” in a ten-page story?

How many times before it launches

itself into the aisle, daubs its likeness


on the steamed-up windows, provokes

the driver in an obvious fashion?

How long before all eyes are on me,

everyone knowing what I’m reading


and forming their own conclusions?


Neil Fulwood was lives and works in Nottingham. His new collection, Service Cancelled, is published by Shoestring Press later this year. 




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Pants, by Sue Cose

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













PANTS


Your underpants offend me.

I don’t care for the designer label,

I’d be happier if you felt able

To pull your sodding jeans up.

Up round your hips where they should be

Not sagging down towards your knee

So the rest of us are forced to see

Your PANTS!

Which may have a print of smiley faces

But fail to raise a smile on mine

And ‘no’, I’m not a moody swine,

My mood was actually quite fine

Until I saw your arse.

Which really doesn’t pass

For fashion sense or class.

If that is creativity

The art in it is lost on me

For all I see is PANTS.

And ‘yes’, this is a rant,

But one I feel is overdue,

For far too many men like you

Have got their underwear on view

And I don’t think it’s right.

It’s not a pleasant sight.

And even though you might

Claim your look is ‘hip’ or ‘street’

Your jeans are bagging round your feet

And seal the fate you soon will meet.

For suddenly you trip and fall

And face-down on the pavement sprawl.

Your jeans now well below your arse,

There’s nothing you can do to pass

For trendy, hip or cool.

You’re just a flat-out, fashion, fettered, fool.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Trousers, by Ray Givans

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













TROUSERS


“Is there no one who feels like a pair of pants?” Kenneth Koch, from his poem ‘Fresh Air’.


38L


54% Polyester, 44% Virgin wool, 2% Elastane.


We met in the Men’s department of Marks and Sparks.

I was hanging on a ‘bargain rail’

squeezed between a short-sleeve, Hawaiian-style shirt

and a chunky mauve jumper, XX Large.

He examined my labels. Dry Clean Only.

I recall being taken only twice to Ballyhackamore Dry Cleaners.

The attendant addressed me as, ‘one pair of pants’.


I am, what-they-call, a year-rounder

which gives me an advantage over the 30 + pairs

vying for a prominent position on his wardrobe rail:

chinos, cargo, drawstring, khaki, joggers, jeans – regular,

relaxed and loose – suit pants, moleskin, 3 band hi-vis polycotton

and corduroy – narrow and wide wale, in cream, blue and green.

In lightweight wool I am his favourite for the Office,

but, in truth, I am uncomfortable in summer, supplanted by

cropped trousers, shorts and long-leg cool linen.


Sometimes I am worn 2-3 days consecutively,

then shunned for several weeks.

Stich by stich my loop-holes are unravelling,

I see the day when I am turfed out for some bright young Turk.

I stay positive, think back to happy days of our association.

I was there when his son was forceps delivered in theatre,

proud to carry the digital compact in my front pocket.


There is still a faint stain on my knee

from the spilled celebratory flute of bubbly.


Ray Givans lives in Belfast. He has been published in five poetry pamphlets, and in one full collection. The latter was ‘Tolstoy in Love’, published by Dedalus Press, Dublin. This collection was shortlisted for the Strong award, for best first collection by an Irish poet in 2009. His most recent pamphlet collection is, ‘The Innermost Room’, Salzburg Press, at the University of Salzburg




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
In Praise of the May Tree (Perhaps an Ode) by Hillary Willmott

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













In Praise of the May Tree (Perhaps an Ode)


I want to praise thee, May Tree

For the joy you’ve given me

For those few weeks each year

You set my spirit free


When your gentle flowers bloom

You cover all that open space

that’s twixt my neighbour’s window

and what I call my private place


So for that special time

when you reach up toward the skies

I can run round bollock naked

Without his prying eyes


Hilary has been writing for a very long time.  Her poems have been published by Templar Press, Bristol Poetry Can, Obsessed with Pipework, Leaf, Velvet, The Exeter Broadsheet and Mr Garnham himself. She has also been shortlisted nationally.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
When Two Worlds Collide, by Jeff Horsey

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













When two worlds collide


Eric worked at the post office.

Sorting letters at 6 am.

Finished early.

Home at four.

Picked up guitar.

Played ‘til his fingertips were sore.

He had a plan,

he had a goal.

Dug the blues and jazz and soul.

One a these days “Johnny Sansom” gonna MAKE the grade,

not just get post office pay.


Johnny played in pubs at night

until one am and only then,

did he worry about the early shift,

sifting letters and whistling riffs.

See Johnny was Eric in the broad daylight.


Monday morning six am

One of his post office friends

said “Man, you look just like the guy

played down the Bull and Bush last night.

Me and the Missus went for a drink,

she said she couldn’t even think,

‘coz this guy Johnny was in the bar,

trying to play an old guitar.

He could NOT sing.

He could NOT play.

What a WANKER,

she said to me.”


And here’s a video of Jeff ‘The Horse’ Horsey:







					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Invisibility Rant, by Abigail Ottley

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The young think they invented cool but they know diddly squat.

Those ankle-snappers shut their eyes to what we wise ones got.

So this old bird is set to strut and fan her tail and crow.

She’s primed to blow her cover. Here’s a thing or two the yoof should know.

This woman’s old but she ain’t dumb. She ain’t pretending she ain’t grey.

Don’t matter if she’s billiard-bald, she still deserves to have her say.

And what she says is simply this. She’s deep-down tired of being dissed.

At worst reviled, at best dismissed, if there’s a mill, then she’s the grist.

Now guys that used to flirt and stare will mostly fail to see she’s there.

One day, she’s classy, gorgeous, hot. Next morning, passé, clean forgot.

How plaintive sounds her shrill lament as she asks where her ‘sexy’ went.

Now just existing leaves her fazed. A life outside her master’s gaze.

That gaze which won’t admit she’s there and for the most part doesn’t care

but turns its back and sends no flowers. In bars, sometimes she waits for hours

before the barman can’t ignore the fact that what she’s waiting for

is to be served like all the rest. Great hulking guys with beards and chests

that press against the bar where she can’t get, can’t hear, can’t even see.

And girls with boobs and killer shoes marked out like maps with blue tattoos

and all the heartless, hip-less yoof who cruelly mock those long of tooth.

In restaurants waiters turn their heads to tiptoe round the dining dead.

In any queue how cursed is she by this in-vis-i-bil-i-ty.

I’m here to say that such as we reject this anonymity.

We won’t sit down, we won’t shut up calm down, make tea. We’ve had enough.

We’re women. We have earned our stripes our stretch marks and our right to gripe.

We’ve paid our dues, we’ve lived this shit. And now we’ve had enough of it.

It isn’t fair, it isn’t just.Where is it writ we woman must

accept our lot and know our place in short, that we must self-efface?

Back in the day when I was young my grandma said a woman’s tongue

dripped wisdom, sweet and strong as wine that, aged in oak, improves with time.

And she was right to teach me how a woman grows into her power.

A witch is but a woman who won’t still her tongue as others do.


Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance. A former English teacher with a lifelong interest in history, she has been Pushcart nominated, translated into Romanian, and is carer to her very elderly mother. Find her on Facebook or @AbigailLaLoca on Twitter




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The best superhero we can conjur, by Rob Schofield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The best superhero we can conjure


sits in splendid self-isolation. He

does not fret about provisions, other

than how best to keep the plebs supplied with

bread and circuses. And toilet roll. His

tenebrous consigliere, last seen

scuttling away from the black door sans

smug grin, is at home now, mired in his blog,

scribbling his fiendish marginalia

and plotting how and where to push the blame.

How will he muddy waters already

soiled by years of verbal diarrhoea?

Where were his not-so-super forecasters

when the rest of us were glued to the news

from Wuhan? And the second string, these Lords

of Misrule, whose misplaced confidence rides

shotgun with incompetence, snatch at the

coat tails of the experts they scorned, alive

to the scapegoat’s scent. Eton College closed

its doors before our children were sent home.

What of the rich, no longer able to

stake sole claim to being idle? Boltholes

undetected, they feed foie gras and fox

cubs to the hounds, riding out the storm while

trusting their Joker to keep their backsides clean.




Rob Schofield writes fiction and poetry from a temporary bunker in the Yorkshire Dales. Rob is a member of the 2021 Northern Short Story Festival Academy and has been published in The Blue Nib and Prole. He has been long and short listed for several short story prizes. Rob publishes work in progress at robschofield.uk.  


 


					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Uncle Peter, by Nigel Lloyd

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Uncle Peter


Uncle Peter wasn’t Elvis, but he thought he was.

Admittedly, at family parties even after a skin full

he could hold a tune, but Elvis didn’t need to be

helped into a taxi after a gig, and he didn’t have to retrieve

his false teeth from the garden the following day.


Uncle Peter wasn’t Fred Astaire, but he thought he was.

Admittedly, at his daughter’s wedding, even with indigestion

after a three course meal and several brandies,

he could throw a few shapes.

But Fred Astaire didn’t nearly get arrested

because he was running through the town centre

with a traffic cone on his head.


Uncle Peter wasn’t Casanova, but he thought he was.

Admittedly, he was married three times

and always seemed to find plenty of women

who liked the aroma of Brylcreem and Castella cigars.

But Casanova didn’t put so much Hi Karate on

that you could smell him in the next street.


Uncle Peter wasn’t a young man, but he thought he was.

Admittedly, he had read the NME since the 60’s

but you can’t be cool forever.

He started to look like he had lost it

When he thought Kanye West was a holiday destination.


Uncle Peter wasn’t my favourite uncle, but he thought he was.




Nigel Lloyd lives in rural Donegal and has had poems published in several magazines


From Crannog to Progressive Rock Magazine, he also had a poem featured on 


BBC Radio Ulsters Soundscapes programme and was a finalist in the 


Bring your Limericks to Limerick competition 2018 and a finalist in


The Piano Academy of Ireland Limerick competition 2021.


Www.nigellloydpoet.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I’m sorry I’m late, by Susan Jordan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













I’m so sorry I’m late

it was the weather the trains the traffic

a deluge of rejection letters I had to open

six weeks’ washing-up that couldn’t wait

a freak rainstorm that only fell on me

a hole in the road that swallowed me up

a crocodile that punctured my back tyre

a bomb somewhere that might have exploded

the clock starting to go backwards

the dog eating my sense of time

me losing the way inside my house

the streets turning back to front.

Actually I’m just late.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What I’m Like, by Kevin Higgins

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What I’m Like


Lively as an elderly blue-arsed fly

that’s just been clattered by

the weekend edition of the New York Times.

About as much use in a debate about anything

as a weighing scale floating through outer space.

Reassuring as a naked funeral director

stepping into the same hot tub as you

in search of new customers.

My future smells delicious

as the used odour-eaters

I was going to send you for Christmas

until I saw the price of the postage.

My dream, that little children of every

complexion and gender

will one day gather together

to play Frisbee with stray toilet seat lids

they plucked from the rubble.


Kevin Higgins has been described by The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most read living poet in Ireland. His sixth full collection of poems ‘Ecstatic’ will be published by Salmon in June 2021.  




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Mermaid and the Onion Seller, by Rosie Barrett

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Mermaid and the Onion Seller


Eckphrastic after The Picnic Basket by Dawn Timmins


I’ve just made a huge mistake

This man’s not mine for goodness sake

He’s bonny, brown and looks the part

but life is more than simply art.

Sat here on his bike I’m cold.

We’ll not be lovers when we’re old.

Mermaids don’t eat cheese, drink wine.

When I’m on land I know I’ll pine

for gentle currents, wafting weeds,

for whale songs drifting through the reeds.

My sisters, combing out their hair,

if they were here would simply stare

and tell me not to be so daft.

But they weren’t here when he laughed

said “Ma choupette, come, marry me

the good Lord will bless you, set you free

to be my wife, bear me a son.

I’ll teach you French, we’ll have some fun”.

He really hasn’t thought this through

but he’ll have a tale to tell his crew.

For the moment I’ll sit here

My nipples hardening in the air.

And later on I’ll tell him “No

We really can’t – I have to go”.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
The Astronomer’s Wife, by Rose Cook

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Astronomer’s Wife


That was the night she told us

her husband is an astronomer,

who drives off every day to his planetarium

with a box of sandwiches and a Mars bar.


He’s always has that faraway look in his eyes,

it’s quite attractive, we all thought so.

He has no idea of time though,

his head so full of space.


He knows all the stars and planets

and is looking into Saturn at the moment,

which has been troublesome.

Last year it was Venus, things got very tense.


He’s lovely though, they have four children.

He calls them satellites.

And a dog.

Pluto.


Rose Cook is a Devon based poet whose work has been published in six collections. Her latest book is Shedding Feathers (published by Hen Run, Grey Hen Press).




www.rosecook.wordpress.com




					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
My Shot, by Nikki Fine

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













When offered, I took it like a shot,

a shot in the arm – literally –

to boost the current state of existence.

It’s a shot across the bows of

the viral armada, steaming through

an unnerved population.

It may be a shot in the dark, though

I doubt it, with all the scienceing

put into it. It feels more like

a money shot, profiting everyone.

A twofer, it’s a Parthian shot.

Has the virus shot its bolt?

I’ll be okay, that’s my parting shot.


Nikki Fine is a one-time English teacher, now tutor and writer, with occasional forays, when permitted, into the theatrical world (off-stage). She has had work published in The Interpreter’s House, on Ink Sweat and Tears, and Riggwelter, and self-published a collection of poetry inspired by quantum physics.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Maisie, by Maggie Duffy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Maisie


Maisie went crazy out in St Tropez

And got sunburned wearing her thong

And when calamine cream caused it to steam

She knew something was terribly wrong


The waiter he brought her 10 pints of cold water

He just thought she was drinking a lot

And despite a quick look in her trusty phrase book

There was no translation for “I’ve toasted my Bot”


When Maisie got home she was right on the phone

A doctor must really be sought

Though the pain had subsided the redness increased

And poor Maisie was quite overwrought


For her bum like a beacon shone through her clothes

Through satin or linen or silk

It was most disconcerting to have a red bum

Which at one time had been whiter than milk


The Dr he uhmed the Dr he aahed

His diagnosis struck poor Maisie dumb

He said that one day the red might fade away

But for now she had St Tropez Roseacea Bum!


There was not much research the Dr had said

The condition was rare in these climes

He asked for a photo to show in the Lancet

But Maisie now fully dressed had declined


Well down in Blackawton where poor Maisie lived

There were equal parts of condolence & teasing

Some said look on the bright side, if you were a baboon

Your bum would be aesthetically pleasing


Well the days they did come & the days they did go

There was wind hail, frost and sunshine

And Maisie’s condition showed no sign of improvement

And she now sat down most of the time


But there was a day I am to tell

When Maisie came into her own

For one night at the WI meeting

It was just time to go home


There was a big bang a clash & a clang

And a terrible darkness descended

A thunderbolt in Dartmouth knocked out the transformer

And electricity supply was suspended


Well what could they do oh what a hullabaloo

As no one could see nothing at all

And the whole of the village for warmth & companionship

Crammed themselves into the hall


Well when Maisie arrived, oh what joy, what a welcome

She lit up the whole of the place

And the heat from her rear gave comfort & cheer

There was a warm glow on everyone’s face


Some toasted crumpets & some lit their pipes

And some just admired the view

And Maisie was happy to help where she could

After all it was the least she could do


Now I’m happy to say Maisie’s bum is OK

It finally regained natural colour

And the St Tropez Roseacea faded away

And the whole of her atmosphere was cooler


But down Blackawton way in Devon today

There’s a statue to Maisie’s good deed

It stands in the square it looks so good there

And everyone stops & takes heed


The surface has smoothed, not with weather & time

But because all the old men as they pass

Just cannot resist touching Maisie’s behind

And they say “That’s a nice piece of SCULPTURE


(Maggie says:


The W.I. at Blackawton had a social fun evening and I was their entertainment. 


All Women’s Institute gatherings have a little themed event whereby the members either bring something homemade, craft work, floral display, painting etc. The guest speaker must judge and give a 1st,2nd,3rd,. 


The theme that night was to write an amusing poem.


The president asked me as I was the speaker if I would also write an amusing poem about Blackawton !!???.


I am sure you will agree that was a fairly testing subject.(probably not for you being a full time pro) but for me it took a bit of thinking about 


I decided to come at it from a different angle and make it about a lady who had gone for the high life holiday in St Tropez and had come home to Blackawton to face the consequences.)




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
it started with a Body, by Julian Isaacs

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













it started with a Body / of evidence

a combined cadet corps / d’esprit

a white outline on the Parade ground.

Mysteriously // in the preceding chapter

it had been in the / Library.


There was no lead Piping

but there were some Soldiers / the nanny

and the little Princes in her care

were feverishly licking them / to get

as High as they could // before high Tea.


the simple Fact is that / the only thing

that starts with a Body is a Birth

and even that starts with // Two bodies.

Even the Sacrament / of corpus Christi

started with Blood as well // as a Body.


the Train of Essence / was in fact

set in perpetual Motion / by the difficulty

in identifying Somebody // as Nobody.

it all Started with no Body / and nobody

can always be recreated in their // Own self-Image.


if Death is so Bloody thrilling

then King Lear must be a // Thriller

but Shakespeare wrote it / and that makes Him

a Killer / so it didn’t Start with a // Body

it Ended with one.


in a Seminar on mary shelley’s / Frankenstein

Sheila asked Shirley / how she was going to approach

the Essay. ‘i’m going to look at the / Body’

she replied with a Face as straight as // the back

of a Hairbrush.


Author’s Note: NB primary research revealed the Body Shop does not sell // Bodies.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Art Students in a City Park, by Patrick Deeley

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Penniless, sodden, splattered

with mud and paint,

we cling to our brushes and easels,

catch tree-bark and bareness,

the on-off colours

of January light between showers.


What we offer the world

is what the world feels it can do

without. Futility,

say the cars tail-backed beyond

the railings, futility

the wind-wrecked umbrellas,


the errant golf shots

in far green spaces, the drug deals

done on side-streets,

futility the bank executives

in tinted restaurants

laughing off their latest messes.


Here, snowdrops cluster;

a scribble of moss

resembles yellow crayon-marks

where sunlight hits;

a sleeping moth, all

but etched into an old oak trunk,


gathers us together

to chaunt the idea of it as a tawny,

inverted love heart.

The park is about to be shut.

Suppose, one of us

suggests, suppose we mosey up


to the sour-puss

key-rattling park attendant posing

as Saint Peter

and smile our Mona Lisa smiles,

will he allow us

to stand just one more half-hour


in the wind and muck?

At which we all splutter into our

aqua marines, indigos,

burnt siennas, alizarin crimsons,

behind the tall,

rusty, suffering gates of Paradise.


Patrick Deeley’s awards include the 2001 Eilís Dillon Award, the 2014 Dermot Healy International Poetry Prize, and the 2019 Lawrence O’Shaughnessy Award.  Recently he has had poems published in The Rialto, The London Magazine and Staying Human, an anthology edited by Neil Astley.  His seventh collection with Dedalus Press, ‘The End of the World’, was shortlisted for the 2020 Farmgate National Poetry Award.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Three Poems by Daniel Ryan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Haircuts and House Parties


Newscasters and politicians

looking dapper on the telly.


The neighbours in Flat 54

giving it welly.


Me on my tod

writing shit poetry.


Vaccinated


The poet couldn’t find anything

to rhyme with Astra Zeneca,

so he watched the North London

Derby instead.


Should Gareth Bale Cut His Hair?


I don’t care.


Daniel Ryan has come out of poetic retirement, but when his poetry gets rejected, he’ll probably go back in.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Jan, Jen or Jean, by Thomas McColl

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













JAN, JEN OR JEAN


I hadn’t seen her in years.

Her name was Jan, Jen or Jean,

I couldn’t remember which.


My face lit up like a fruit machine

when she caught my glance

as we passed each other on Southwark Bridge.


“Hi, Tom,” she said,

and as if she’d pressed PLAY,

I felt compelled to take the chance.


The names began to spin inside my head –

Jan, Jen, Jean.

I pressed STOP too quickly –

I had little choice –

and settled on Jean.

“Hi, Jean,” I said.


We passed.

I pressed COLLECT,

and got a sick feeling in my gut,

as the name Jan,

for first prize,

flashed before my eyes.


Thomas McColl lives in London. He’s had poems published in magazines such as Envoi, Iota, Prole and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and has had two collections of poetry published: ‘Being With Me Will Help You Learn’ (Listen Softly London Press, 2016) and ‘Grenade Genie’ (Fly on the Wall Press, 2020). 




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Yes, But He Lives in the Philippines, by Thom Boulton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Yes, But He Lives in the Philippines


She said,

“And Bob’s your uncle!”

and he replied (as always)

“Yes, but he lives in the Philippines.”


And when,

the penny dropped down

they said, “and Bob’s your uncle!”


“Yes, but he lives in the Philippines.”


The words

greeted by a frown

traced down the shadow of

their nose, out the open mouth, making


the most

perfect question mark.

Bob’s dead now. So, when they say

“And Bob’s your uncle!” and he replies


he adds,

“Though he is dead now.”


He can

still remember Bob’s

body sliding out the boot

of the car, folded neatly in an

envelope.


The Elysium Fields

are located at the back of Plymouth Athenaeum.


Come Sail Away by Styx plays on loop.


He went there after Bob died

just to check his moustache was dead too.


Asked each pyschopomp

if they knew where the pot

for Bob’s wake was,

they nodded towards the casino

filled with ethereal funeral directors,


gave him directions


“Take a left.”


“Mind the ending.”


“And, Bob’s your uncle!” They said.


“Yes,” he began, “But…”


“Not anymore.” They said.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Two Limericks from Mark Totterdell

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Anaconda


I once had a pet anaconda,

Of which I could not have been fonder,

Though it caused some alarm

And significant harm

By its strong inclination to wander.


Stegosaurus


We take care with our pet stegosaurus,

Lest the spikes at its rear end should gore us,

As with one mighty flail

Of its big spiky tail

It could render us horribly porous.


Mark Totterdell’s poems have appeared widely in magazines and have occasionally won prizes. His collections are This Patter of Traces (Oversteps Books, 2014) and Mapping (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2018).




					


		
	




			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What Can You Do?, by John Murphy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What Can You Do?


You know what it’s like

when you open a can of beans

and empty them into a bowl

and you look in the can

and there’s 4 or 5 beans

that resolutely refuse to move?

So you hit the bottom of the can

to shift those beans but they have

only moved halfway down the can?

So you have to get a spoon

to get them out. and it’s a clean spoon.

F***ing hell, you have to get a CLEAN

spoon to shift those f****ers into the bowl.

More bloody work for me washing cutlery,

which, by the way, I F****ing hate.

Modern life. What can you do?


You know what it’s like

when you start to nod off

when reading a book and you lose

your place in the book because

you dropped it? And you snap awake

and wonder what the F***k, where am I?

And then you try to get back into the book

but you don’t remember the last 20 pages you read?

Modern life. What can you do?


You know what it’s like

when wrapping a parcel

you can’t get the edge

of the sellotape, because

you can’t see it on the tape spool

and you have to feel around the spool

to feel the edge? And then you spend

F***ing ages trying to get your nail

under the edge do you can peel off a strip?

And when you do peel it back you reach

for the scissors and the tape drops back

on to the F***ing spool? And then you finally

get to cut a strip but it folds back on itself?

And when you want to wrap a parcel you peel off

four or five strips and stick them to a table top

and one by one they curl under and stick

so you have to peel them off and they get all twisted

and stick to themselves? Modern life. What can you do?


John Murphy is a retired lecturer and musician. He has been published in many journals and magazines over the years and is the editor of the online magazine The Lake. He published a book in 2009, The Thing Is…




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What Can You Do?, by John Murphy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What Can You Do?


You know what it’s like

when you open a can of beans

and empty them into a bowl

and you look in the can

and there’s 4 or 5 beans

that resolutely refuse to move?

So you hit the bottom of the can

to shift those beans but they have

only moved halfway down the can?

So you have to get a spoon

to get them out. and it’s a clean spoon.

F***ing hell, you have to get a CLEAN

spoon to shift those f****ers into the bowl.

More bloody work for me washing cutlery,

which, by the way, I F****ing hate.

Modern life. What can you do?


You know what it’s like

when you start to nod off

when reading a book and you lose

your place in the book because

you dropped it? And you snap awake

and wonder what the F***k, where am I?

And then you try to get back into the book

but you don’t remember the last 20 pages you read?

Modern life. What can you do?


You know what it’s like

when wrapping a parcel

you can’t get the edge

of the sellotape, because

you can’t see it on the tape spool

and you have to feel around the spool

to feel the edge? And then you spend

F***ing ages trying to get your nail

under the edge do you can peel off a strip?

And when you do peel it back you reach

for the scissors and the tape drops back

on to the F***ing spool? And then you finally

get to cut a strip but it folds back on itself?

And when you want to wrap a parcel you peel off

four or five strips and stick them to a table top

and one by one they curl under and stick

so you have to peel them off and they get all twisted

and stick to themselves? Modern life. What can you do?


John Murphy is a retired lecturer and musician. He has been published in many journals and magazines over the years and is the editor of the online magazine The Lake. He published a book in 2009, The Thing Is…




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
What Can You Do?, by John Murphy

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













What Can You Do?


You know what it’s like

when you open a can of beans

and empty them into a bowl

and you look in the can

and there’s 4 or 5 beans

that resolutely refuse to move?

So you hit the bottom of the can

to shift those beans but they have

only moved halfway down the can?

So you have to get a spoon

to get them out. and it’s a clean spoon.

F***ing hell, you have to get a CLEAN

spoon to shift those f****ers into the bowl.

More bloody work for me washing cutlery,

which, by the way, I F****ing hate.

Modern life. What can you do?


You know what it’s like

when you start to nod off

when reading a book and you lose

your place in the book because

you dropped it? And you snap awake

and wonder what the F***k, where am I?

And then you try to get back into the book

but you don’t remember the last 20 pages you read?

Modern life. What can you do?


You know what it’s like

when wrapping a parcel

you can’t get the edge

of the sellotape, because

you can’t see it on the tape spool

and you have to feel around the spool

to feel the edge? And then you spend

F***ing ages trying to get your nail

under the edge do you can peel off a strip?

And when you do peel it back you reach

for the scissors and the tape drops back

on to the F***ing spool? And then you finally

get to cut a strip but it folds back on itself?

And when you want to wrap a parcel you peel off

four or five strips and stick them to a table top

and one by one they curl under and stick

so you have to peel them off and they get all twisted

and stick to themselves? Modern life. What can you do?


John Murphy is a retired lecturer and musician. He has been published in many journals and magazines over the years and is the editor of the online magazine The Lake. He published a book in 2009, The Thing Is…




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Neighbourhood Watch, by Maurice Devitt

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Neighbourhood Watch


When she woke he was gone,

the scent of him still dawdling

on the stairs, phone

and wedding-ring abandoned

on the console table in the hall.


After three weeks, she packed

his clothes into a suitcase

and left it in the porch.

In the morning it had vanished

except for the shoes he never liked,

perched squarely on the step.


A woman down the road,

dowdy and disinterested

since her last romance,

has been spotted wearing lipstick

to the bin and the milkman

has remarked, in the form

of an open question,

how she’d increased her order

from one bottle to two.




Winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competition in 2015, he published his debut collection, ‘Growing Up in Colour’, with Doire Press in 2018.


His poems have been nominated for Pushcart, Forward and Best of the Net prizes and his Pushcart-nominated poem, ‘The Lion Tamer Dreams of Office Work’, was the title poem of an anthology published by Hibernian Writers in 2015. He is curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Boring, by Carl Burkitt

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













BORING


10 minutes into wandering

through an M&S petrol station

I realised I’d forgotten my headphones


and the podcast I thought was boring

was in fact two middle aged men behind me

chatting about A roads.


Carl Burkitt likes to tell tales. He tells long tales, short tales, silly tales, sad tales and likes to tell them online, behind a mic, in books, in schools or on the sofa with his young family in London. Read more at www.carltellstales.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
How to Read at an Open Mic, by Susan Jordan

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













How to read at an open mic


When it’s your turn to read

make quite sure you’re still muted.

People like to watch you mouthing.


Spend most of your time

shuffling through your papers, saying,

‘I’m sure I’ve got it somewhere.’


Give a long, rambling introduction

about how your father used to go fishing

only this poem isn’t about that.


Keep your head down over your copy

or hunch up, squinting at your phone.

At all costs avoid facing the camera.


Ideally, print your poems

on the back of private documents

and hold them up in front of your face –


bills and bank statements are ideal.

That way you’ll keep the audience’s interest

and get lots of comments in the chat.


Read in a poetry voice that goes up

wherever you’d expect it to go down.

Draw out the last syllable of each line.


If you read a second poem,

say, ‘I’ve only just written this

and haven’t managed to revise it yet.’


Before you finish, do apologise –

if you haven’t done so already –

for not having written your poems better.


Sit staring vacantly afterwards

so people don’t know if you’re done

then forget to mute your coughs and slurps of tea.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
4 By Bloody 4’s, by Lisa Lopresti

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













4 By Bloody 4’s


Huge SUV, 4 by bloody 4,

Parked right outside my front door.


In narrow Edwardian city streets,

Those 4 X 4’s like to retreat.


I can admire the metallic paint,

That the late evening sun warmly glints.


But there is no light streaming through,

My tall beckoning windows as it ought to do!


The pollution that these vehicles exhale,

Dust’s lungs and glass in dirty veils.


My city is not 4 X 4’s natural habitat,

Country lanes and tracks is where that’s at.


But what about the snow!

4 by four drivers want to know.


Well in our cities, those 2 days a year,

Mean you should stay at home and drink beer.


Lisa Lopresti (she/her)is a poet from the statue toppling City of Bristol. She has been broadcast on BBC Radio Bristol and published in magazines and anthologies. Lisa performs in spoken word events and has found this both terrifying and exhilarating. She likes to convey poems to portray, this life.

https://lisa-lopresti-poetry.webnode.com/




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Cocks, by Mohammad Zahid

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Cocks


Things were never easy

nor were they hard

The conflict was an unending one

with seven blind men groping the elephant

rightly at all wrong places.

For the onlookers it was a comic show

For the blind men a harsh reality.


The hens kept clucking

Perhaps giggling at the eternal dilemma

Humans faced while deducing

the evolutionary equations

about who came first,

the clucking hens

or their encapsulated embryos.


The poor cocks were left unattended

Till they ran unbridled

like their human homonyms.

They too sometimes became easy

and sometimes hard.


Mohammad Zahid is a poet and translator from Kashmir, India. His maiden poetry collection The Pheromone Trailbagged the Best Book Award from the Academy of Art Culture and Languages, Jammu &Kashmir in 2015.


His poetry has appeared in many Indian and international journals. He is a translation editor for Kashmiri Language at Muse India and Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts.




					


		
	




			
				


		

		

			
Double Negative Party, by Melanie Branton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Double Negative Party


There ain’t no party like a double negative party,

ain’t nothing better you can get.

You think that sounds exciting?

Well, you ain’t heard nothing yet!


There ain’t no party like a double negative party.

Nothing never felt so great!

Don’t never start till midnight

and don’t never end till really late.


You’ve heard that they’re “bad grammar”?

You’ve heard they “don’t make sense”?

You’ve heard they are “confusing”,

sound “uncouth” or “cause offence”?


The French use double negatives!

The Polish use them, too!

There ain’t no foreign language

that supports that snobbish view!


They were used by William Shakespeare

and Chaucer! Goodness sakes!

Ain’t no-one gonna tell me

Will and Geoffrey made mistakes!


There ain’t no party like a double negative party –

the guest list’s full of stars!

Ain’t no-one who is no-one

would give that bash a pass.


There ain’t no party like a double negative party –

Not nowhere in no nation.

No-one don’t want nothing else –

just an invitation.


Melanie Branton is a spoken word artist from North Somerset who is totally obsessed with cats, linguistics, Vikings and vegetables. Her published collections are Can You See Where I’m Coming From? (Burning Eye, 2018) and My Cloth-Eared Heart (Oversteps, 2017) melaniebranton.wordpress.com




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Marc Maron, by Tina Sederholm

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Marc Maron


They say never meet your heroes,

but after a gig that

I had just commented

was breathtakingly crafted

and delivered with an ease I long for,

we passed the stage door

as Marc Maron walked out.


Thank goodness I needed to use

the ladies’ after the show

and that the queue

had been the exact length required

to facilitate this moment

is not what I said

as I shook Marc Maron’s hand.


But what I enjoyed most

was the way Marc Maron didn’t wait

for Neil to approach

but stepped towards him,

hand outstretched,


thus ending a seventeen-year loop

of disappointment, caused

by an underwhelming chance

encounter with Philip Glass.


Tina Sederholm is a performance poet and theatre-maker. Described as ‘Completely spellbinding’ ***** (Edfringe Review), she has created and extensively toured four solo shows, including six runs at the Edinburgh Fringe. This poem comes from her latest collection, This Is Not Therapy, published July 2021 by Burning Eye.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Quark, by Trisha Broomfield

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Quark


Mum is on a diet, is always on a diet

today’s wonder ingredient, low calorie Quark.

‘Come on,’ she says,

wicker shopper over one arm,

‘we’re going down to Budgen’s.’

I pull on my boots


we reach the chill counter

via the Walnut Whips, Mum searches,

cream cheese with or without chives

cottage cheese, with or without most things,

Lancashire, Wensleydale, Cheddar

Edam and Gouda, no Quark


Toby, who went my school, stands

dreamily replenishing stocks of hazelnut yoghurt,

Mum approaches, ‘Quark?’

Toby, nonplussed, bends his six foot frame, silently,

Mum, thinking him hard of hearing, repeats

at volume, ‘Quark! Quark!’


Her mouth lost for words

she searches for gestures to express her need

I backtrack to Walnut Whips,

Toby’s eyes glossily imply that nothing in his brief training

has equipped him to deal with a woman

who thinks she is a duck.


Trisha has had three pamphlets published by Dempsey and Windle. She is a regular contributor to Surrey Libraries Poetry Blog and has a regular poetry spot on her local radio. Humour escapes from her work regardless of any constraints applied. https://www.facebook.com/Trisha-Broomfield-Poetry-2340859049276291




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Mourning what he lost, by Rodney Wood

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













MOURNING WHAT HE LOST


Steve found it boring caressing his hair each morning

because his hair was arrogant, luxuriant and elegant.

He never thought one day he’d need a transplant

for the 2 foot Mohican attached to his cranium.


Hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,

bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).


He poured cereal into a bowl then found he had no milk.

His blessed day had shattered, gone belly up, shattered

and his hair had fallen out. He could no longer caress,

flout, shout or watch sprout from his cranium


hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,

bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).


All his hair had vanished but one remained and thrived

and each morning he combed, shampooed and conditioned,

trimmed, pinned and gelled that strand so it lay flat on his head.

Then he lost that single hair as it departed his cranium.


A single hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,

bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).


What should Steve do with it? Have it displayed or framed,

dipped in formaldehyde, electroplated or suffer immersion

in alcohol? Steve must let everyone know a 2 foot Mohican

once flourished on his now empty cranium.


That hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,

bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).


Rodney Wood lives in Farnborough, co-host the monthly Write Out Loud (Woking) and is widely published.




					


		
	




			
				


		

		

			
Lockdown Haircut, by Mogs

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Lockdown Haircut

(Printed in Write Out Loud charity anthology ‘Beyond The Storm’ – Poems From The Covid 19 Era.)


She says I need my haircut,

I look like a mad professor,

She’s gonna drag me into town

Leave me there with her hairdresser.

I remind her there’s a ‘Lockdown’,

Every hair salon is closed.

And while she ponders what to do

My hair just quietly grows.


Yes, she says I need my haircut,

Every minute, it gets longer,

Well, perhaps i’m like that Samson bloke,

While it grows, I’m getting stronger.

I know it’s not been touched for months,

But I just could not care less,

I can’t go out, so no one can see

That my Barnet is a mess.


Still, she says I need my haircut,

As she ties me to a chair,

Grabs the wallpaper scissors

and starts hacking at my hair.

She ignores my screams when snipping blades

Give my ear a painful prod,

It seems she honed her hair cutting skills

From watching Sweeney Todd.


So, I no longer need my hair cut,

At my feet, in clumps, it’s scattered,

She’s hacked and slashed, I’ve lost an ear

And my poor nerves are bloody shattered.

This Lockdown just brings misery

And it seems there’s no relief,

Because now she’s found some pliers

And is eyeing up my teeth!




Mogs (aka John Morris) has written poetry since the late 1970’s. He retired from an IT career in 2003 because of failing eyesight. He regularly performs at open mic events.


Books published 


‘Poems Your Parents Won’t Like’ – for ‘children’ aged upto 100.


‘Griff’ – children’s novel.






					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Poem by Jonathan Humphrey

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













The Puissant Penguin of Portsmouth

Partaking of pork, and port, and peas

Roguishly reclining in his sedan chair

Entirely at his ease


Said unto his bearers:

‘What days, what times are these

When an avuncular avine such as myself

Can be so perfectly pleased?


Here am I in my sedan chair

Borne by such stout young men

And hither and yon you take me

Bound by my every whim


The people of Portsmouth they give me,

Cheered by my sleek black form,

Port and pork and prunes and pies

And all other good things under the sky


For such is the birdish beauty

Of my flippers and claws and beak,

That all those who see me realise

Unknowing, it is I they seek


And knowing they bow down before me

Knowing they bend the knee

My beauty; it overwhelms them

They shall have no God but me


And thus here I am reclining

Borne by such bold lads as these

And thus do I partake of pork and port

Entirely at my ease.’




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
How to have the perfect wardrobe, by Heather Moulson

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













How to have the perfect Wardrobe


Let the party dress, stiff with deodorant

marks, stay on that wire hanger

to remind you of its glory days,

and that it will never fit you again.


If you must have a cashmere piece – essentially an

overpriced cardi – then avoid hot washes at all costs.

In fact, avoid wearing it altogether.

They only look good on retired movie stars.


A classic trench coat, too warm yet not

warm enough, will look good with anything –

assuming you actually put it on.


Invest in a well-cut pair of trousers –

not those elasticated things you’re wearing now,

so you can look as bland and invisible as possible.


Stick that flowered Laura Ashley dress on eBay,

because those days have truly gone,

and you’ll need more room for that beige collection.


Have a quick guilty look at those patent leather loafers –

bought only because you could.

Followed by a swift glance at your Mother’s old

Jumpers, as you visualise her sitting there knitting.

Then slam the door quickly. And get yourself up Primark!


Heather Moulson has been performing poetry since 2016.  She has featured extensively in London, and Surrey. Heather’s first pamphlet Bunty, I miss you was published in 2019.  Her work is mainly hankering for a certain era, and lifestyle tips.  Heather lives in Twickenham with a stroppy black cat.  




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Long Johns, by Jamie H. Scrutton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Long Johns


He has such a sensuous appearance,

Still, after 20 years of being wed,

But when he wears his long johns,

I ban him from the bed!


They are such a repulsive garment,

They are such a ghastly sight,

They don’t particularly arouse me,

They give me such a fright!


Oh, fancy seeing your husband,

With his wobbly, knobbly knees,

His thighs and shins the size of twigs,

Oh no thank you please!


He has his champion features,

It’s his legs that I cannot bear,

I would rather see him in his tighty-whities,

And thermal underwear!


My personal inner thoughts of him in them,

Are completely obtruse,

With him lying next to me in bed wearing the long johns,

I strictly refuse!


It prevents him from the bitter winter, I shall give him that,

But the material is frantically coarse,

He needs to burn the long johns,

Otherwise I am filing for a divorce!




Jamie H Scrutton is a Yorkshire based Artist specializing in Performance Poetry and Animation. His material is often witty with a spec of seriousness. He performs and showcases his work widely around the UK. 






Youtube – Jamie Harry Scrutton





					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Long Johns, by Jamie H. Scrutton

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Long Johns


He has such a sensuous appearance,

Still, after 20 years of being wed,

But when he wears his long johns,

I ban him from the bed!


They are such a repulsive garment,

They are such a ghastly sight,

They don’t particularly arouse me,

They give me such a fright!


Oh, fancy seeing your husband,

With his wobbly, knobbly knees,

His thighs and shins the size of twigs,

Oh no thank you please!


He has his champion features,

It’s his legs that I cannot bear,

I would rather see him in his tighty-whities,

And thermal underwear!


My personal inner thoughts of him in them,

Are completely obtruse,

With him lying next to me in bed wearing the long johns,

I strictly refuse!


It prevents him from the bitter winter, I shall give him that,

But the material is frantically coarse,

He needs to burn the long johns,

Otherwise I am filing for a divorce!




Jamie H Scrutton is a Yorkshire based Artist specializing in Performance Poetry and Animation. His material is often witty with a spec of seriousness. He performs and showcases his work widely around the UK. 






Youtube – Jamie Harry Scrutton





					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
I will survive, by Dora Wright

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













First I was afraid I was petrified

I felt your neck to feel a pulse

I thought you’d died

then I spent so many nights

just sitting by your bed

as I watched you

being intravenously fed

so now come on, open your eyes

when you do you’re going to get

a really big surprise

I’ve got the minister here

to marry us today

I really need to be your wife

before you pass away

so come on open your eyes

just nod your head to say I do

before you die

I want to be your wife

I want your money too

so nod your head to tell

the minister you do

I’ll kiss you on the lips

I’ll whisper I love you

and when I’m standing

by your grave

I’ll shed a tear or two

I will survive

Well I’ll survive you.

And when I’m finished grieving

they’ll be no more making do

I’ll spend your money wisely

I’ll never waste a dime

I intend for it to last me

a very long time.


Dora is a member of several writing groups, has been published in anthologies and newspaper and magazine. Dora lives near Loch Lomond.




					


		
	




			
				


			
				


			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ending up a vegetable, by Ray Pool

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













ENDING UP A VEGETABLE


Russell Sprout was rather stout

As wide as he was tall,

His appearance was hysterical

Verging on the spherical

Exactly like a ball.


As marmite’s not to everyone’s taste

While others seem to love it,

Russell drew a parallel

With some put off by a rotting smell

While others rose above it.


In one thing he was much admired

And worthy of a mention,

His green credentials were intact

An essential way of life in fact

And worthy of attention.


He never thought to change his name

Thinking that his shape was good,

While some it’s said look like their dog

He was a blend of toad and frog

Trying to be Robin Hood.

Let’s take leave of Russell Sprout

A tale as wide as tall,

It had its moments magical

But also some more tragical

It’s poetry after all.




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Banana Pooh!, by Andy Brown

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Banana Pooh!

Should you decide to ever quietly walk and to never ever absolutely not talk

whenever you go to the bustling zoo that means you won’t slip on Banana Pooh

because you may not actually even know bananas have ears that expand and grow

that hear you’re about to eat them whole it goes slap bang into the banana soul

but should they ever knowingly hear then you will trigger all that banana fear

and what will happen is what we would do and bananas feel they have to also pooh

and if you look and note their little ruse of how they camouflage and easily bruise

beware of that little bit on the end that you just can’t help but to bend

and remove before it goes into your mouth and then what happens, it all goes south!


It’s not just the bananas that generate that mess, sometimes it is more but often it is less,

tends to be the ones that consume it the most, the proper primates, the living and the ghost

of zoos gone by with Scrooge’s revenge, from ancient times and new-Stonehenge

the tales have come from down the years of how humans conquer banana fears

and give them to the monkeys and the apes watching all their frenetic merry japes

their swinging and climbing, laughing glee, but then they stare, and sit upon the tree

and let it out with messy, meticulous aim competing with each other for Olympic fame

of splattering and spluttering and splashing, of beating, hitting and crescendo crashing

as we look at them swing and do their tricks they communicate with each other, call us dicks

and know they have always been here first and always know what species is the worst

as they watch us eat their staple food, moon us, laugh and generally be rude.


If chancing to unzip that yellow fruit don’t think to wear a high-heel boot

forever be aware of whatever shoe is worn to venture to your local zoo

because it’s so definitely so, so true you could slip or slide on banana pooh!

Perhaps you need legs like storks or need to balance on prong-like forks

if you would ever venture to that zoo where you could slip on banana pooh!


So should you ever again go to your local zoo and perhaps never have seen banana pooh

just get your camera, aim and click, stand back and watch their evil trick

see them act as if on Shakespearian stage unleashing fiery, ferocious Gorilla rage

as needless, unthinking reflective glare makes many a normal calm primate swear

then beware, see how they run, they rushed to get that infernal, flashing camera crushed

thinking if they could get you in their paws they would scratch you with serrated claws

and then they would definitely sit upon you deliberately despatching bombing banana pooh

with gorilla smiles, chewing, looking serene claiming innocence as if have never been!

Please keep your senses fully tuned or you could easily find a wound

but should you ever damage leg or arm your reckless nonsense led to harm

because didn’t heed all sound advice you deserve your limbs cut, sliced or diced!




					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Purple? Purple?, by Simon Williams

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			



 













Purple? Purple?


When I am an old man

I shall wear a hi-viz teal hoodie

with a cerise one in reserve

and cord trousers that aren’t black, brown or Navy

and Gore-Tex hiking boots when I’m asked out for tea.

I shall gorge on giant Toblerone –

we’ll need to move near an airport –

Tempura prawns, Tiramisu

and other delicacies beginning with T.

I shall eat them all with my fingers.

No Tofu.


I shall ride a Tango unicycle, read reviews

in Unicycle Plus of the 10 best unicycling helmets

and pick one made from repurposed oil tank baffles

or genetically enlarged walnut shells.


I shall demand real cocoa when others order coffee

and lace it with Jack Daniels from a hip flask.

I’ll take copies of the Daily Mail

and throw them on the floor in Smiths.


Since old is still 10 years away,

as it has always been, I have time to develop this further.

Purple isn’t where I’m going.