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
Category: Pastiche
When I Die, by Tonnie Richmond
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.