Category: Free verse

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.

 

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.

 

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/

 

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/