Category: poetry

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.

 

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.


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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

 

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.

 

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.