Category: Parody

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.