Rachael Clyne‘s work has appeared in Prole, The Interpreter’s House, Tears in the Fence. Anthologies: The Very Best of 52, Book of Love and Loss, Poems for a Liminal Age. Her prizewinning collection, Singing at the Bone Tree, concerns our longing for the wild . She also enjoys humour.
(with apologies to Lewis Carroll and Old Father William)
Said the doctor:
My goodness. My gracious! That boil is so big,
It’s almost as large as your head!
Pray allow me to poke it with needle or pin,
If it grows any more, you’ll be dead.
Said the patient:
I beg you, dear doctor, put your needle away,
For I’m rather attached to this boil.
It may look unsightly but the pain goes away,
When I wrap it in cling film and foil.
Said the doctor:
My god, man. Dear heavens! Now what do I see?
There’s a ferret asleep in your ear.
He’s flat on his back in a puddle of wine,
And he’s clutching a bottle of beer.
Said the patient:
Yes that’s Barney, my ferret. He’s a wonderful friend.
We party each night and play chess.
He drinks wine when he loses and beer when he wins,
So by morning he looks quite a mess.
Said the doctor:
I can hardly believe it, but my stethoscope swears,
That you appear to have developed five hearts.
Is this true? Is this possible? Pray tell me, dear boy,
From where did you get these spare parts?
Said the patient:
Dear doctor, I thank you, but I really must go.
I have been poked and been prodded enough.
My sides are quite raw from your medical check.
You have been most incredibly rough.
Said the doctor:
I’m sorry. Forgive me! Oh, please do not go!
Your body is still quite the mystery.
Pray, stay. I’ll be gentle. Let me examine you more.
We can make medical history!
Said the patient:
No.
Mark Farley is a writer, web developer and occasional opera singer. He was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. He now lives in Swindon, UK.
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Brexit stage right, pursued by a bear
I’m getting out
Of getting out;
There’s no doubt
It will be a rout
So I’m getting out of
Dodge.
Everyone’s now obfuscating;
Boris, Mike and Nige are waiting
For
Our plan.
Who’s got it?
Messages on big red buses
Now elicit oaths and cusses—
All the world expecting something
From the hollow soundbites of the
Bullingdons; oh, Bullingdon,
What have your ox-brained old boys done?
I’m getting out of Dodge—
Going down the lodge—
I’ve got more things to
Go and bodge
I’m getting out of
Dodge.
Everyone’s confabulating;
Merkel, Jean and Nic are waiting
For
Our man.
Who’ll cop it?
Promises of wads of Rheingold,
Pups and PPI were missold—
All the world expecting something
From the nibelung ‘un of the
Camerons; oh, Cameron,
You’ve gone and göt a dämmerung.
I’m getting out of Dodge—
Off to make a splodge—
The caput apri
Mocks my todge
I’m getting out of
Dodge.
Right.
David O’Neill is a frustrated mathematician who has journeyed through a predominantly life-science-based medical landscape for most of his mortgage-paying professional life, eventually finding salvation in the Open University, too close to the end for practical application but sufficiently early for peace of mind and poetic inspiration.
Overawed by circumstance
(sounding brass and angels)
I missed three cymbal clashes.
No one was more surprised
than me when Miss Madden
promoted me from triangles.
Cymbals are a crucial element
in this performance, she said,
I’m going to trust you
to get it right, on the night.
I loved Miss Madden
for choosing me.
It seems that failing to strike
a note at all is worse than
striking the wrong one.
Nowadays I think it was more
the cymbolic representation
of one hand clapping.
Marilyn Francis lives, works, and writes poems near Radstock in the wild south-west of England. She has had one collection of poems, “red silk slippers”, published by Circaidy Gregory Press. She also has some other poems out and about in the world, though she has even more lazing in her notebooks.
Cottage where you can raise the roof
lop off chunks, spread doorsteps
with dollops of butter
and home made strawberry jam
yet sip tea in bone china
with an apostle spoon on the side.
Best slit the baton along its length
and stuff it – avec du jambon,
du fromage, de la salade –
et du plonk, bien sûr,
quaffed with gesticulation,
shrugs, lower lip extension,
and a petit soupçon of disdain
at not having made
the rank of baguette.
Bof.
Or pick up a bloomer,
the brash Brit baglady
of Carry On Kneading,
the baker’s chortle
at a hint of knickers.
Ace with kippers.
(Previously published at Your One Phone Call)
Sharon Larkin‘s poems have been published online (Clear Poetry, The Stare’s Nest), in magazines (Prole, Obsessed with Pipework) and in anthologies (Cinnamon Press, Indigo Dreams}. She has been chair of Cheltenham Poetry Society (2011 – 2015) and has an MA in Creative Writing.
I’ve seen him half a dozen times
that man with the – you know – the
what-do-you-call-it sweater. The one
who – didn’t he? – lived with… Jean?
I always thought he should have been
a Peter, or was it James? He’s got
that kind of face. Or he could be
a William, except he isn’t, he’s a—
You must know who I mean. He eats
spelt bread, rides horses, meditates
all hours of the day and night.
Doesn’t he? Or am I thinking of—?
No, that wasn’t him. That was
—oh, the other one, the bloke
you always said looked like
a sort of weasel. That moustache.
Got it. It wasn’t that one at all.
The man I meant has holes
all over his socks and writes
haiku, won’t wear polyester.
Ah, wait… that rings a bell. Surely
you knew him too. You did?
You never see him now. You thought
at least I might remember that.
Susan Jordan has always written prose but until recently wrote poetry only from time to time. Inspired by 52, Jo Bell’s wonderful online group, she started writing a lot more poems. Her poems have appeared in print and online magazines including Prole, Obsessed with Pipework, Snakeskin and Ink, Sweat & Tears.
The night was liquid,
a sultry, heady brew
when we unlocked the music,
cool plains of sax
and smoky coils
of rhythm from an old guitar,
no rush when the song,
smooth as a dark river,
smooched the air.
Out across gold water
cruised by moon
and the whisky glow
of the promenade lights,
it streamed like sparks,
grazing sea now and then,
laidback, sighing.
From somewhere
the hurdy gurdy gabble
of a fairground organ
waddled into the night,
bumped into our busking,
made us turn up the volume
until an irate romeo chased us –
coitus interruptus –
sax and sex one summer night
on Broadstairs beach.
Lesley Quayle is a widely published poet and a folk/blues singer currently living in deepest, darkest rural Dorset.
‘Way up above the chimney tops’
Way up above the chimney tops
High up in the smokeless zone
Old age punks sip snakebite tops
And Johnny Rotten’s on the throne
Way up above the chimney tops
High up in the nuclear sky
Mary Poppins has been grounded
Her umbrella just won’t fly
Way up above the chimney tops
Kansas merged with Kettering
Despite the helpful signs
In iridescent lettering
Way up above the chimney tops
David Bowie took a day trip to the sun
Then fell to earth again
Sensing life had just begun
Way up above the chimney tops
High up in the smokeless zone
We look down on a world we didn’t make
But still can call our own
Also known as Auntie Pus (The Punk Balladeer), Julian Isaacs first sold his poetry in the corridors of Kensington Market in the early 1970s. Currently, he has just graduated in an English BA from the University of Exeter, has recently had poems published in the Plymouth Herald, and has published his dissertation sequence of poems inspired by the Great American Songbook: The Breathless Thrush of Unevensong in chapbook form.
My body wilts despite the good I did–
The Brussels sprouts and suchlike I took in.
Now bunioned bones bring anguish to my feet,
Yet old appendix scar still looks quite neat.
My hip holds out now that it has a pin
And gallstones gleam within their clear glass jar.
Son phones, “Hi Ma, just wondering where you are,
The weather’s cold don’t stay outside too long.”
They fret, I know my irritation’s wrong–
Unanswered phone calls set them in a spin.
Exciting moments now a dwindling few,
Forgetfulness exhausts the will to live.
I smirk sardonically, my mood is blue,
As addled brain now morphs, becomes a sieve.
Betty Taylor confesses to habitual scribbling. She is a founder member of her local writers’ group encouraging aspiring writers for 30-plus years. As her dotage looms she is aware that no six-figure publishing offer is coming her way, therefore a daily blog bears the brunt of her drivel. She edits her writers’ group website and messes about on her beloved laptop to fill her days.
Dogs smile but fish
are serious.
Without a doubt,
sober are trout.
The gar, smelt, and crappie
thrive yet are not happy.
Glum are the salmon,
and carp tend to harp.
Piscatory life
is not without strife.
Cold and wet, stuck in schools,
baited hooks catch the fools.
Sad is the fish who
struggles with issues.
I wonder if
fish wish.
(Previously published in Thema)
Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Confingo, The A3 Review, bottle rockets, and other publications.
