Category: Prose poem

Flies, by Neil Windsor


By Robert Garnham 
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

 

Waiting, by Patricia Phillips-Batoma


By Robert Garnham 
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.

 

Not an Epic, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham 
Not an Epic

With my attention span,
I don’t write long poems 
hanging off the ends of sentences 
veering into the weather forecast

scattered wordy periods.

I chance the occasional romance
with assonance but like snow in May, 
it bewilders me so I let it melt

away. I’ve always felt
I am four stanzas average,
five and I risk an accidental plummet 
into my shopping list. Boy with a mullet

on Shop Street, don’t go bringing 
back hairstyles that should only ever 
be fish...pie mix, juice, not from

Terri Metcalfe has been published in Abridged, A New Ulster, Green Ink Poetry, Spilling Cocoa and Skylight 47. She was shortlisted for the Open Window 2023 mentorship programme and will be a featured reader at the 20th anniversary of Over The Edge Literary Events held in Galway this January.

 

The Lighthouse Keeper, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham 
Mr Jones, the Lighthouse Keeper,
had an ever increasing collection of masks,
finding them on Amazon,
going for a song on Ebay,
fading celebrities,
an Amazonian Warrior,
Donald Trump, the colour of desperation,
everyday waiting for the knock.
The Postman whistling his happy little tune,
handing over the packages,
waiting for the signatures,
the always offered cup of tea,
wanting to get away from the hundreds of faces,
with no eyes.
 
Mr Jones liked the silence,
time to himself,
with no disturbance,
no company.
So, when the four kids,
the two attractive ones,
the two unattractive ones,
and their Great Dane with his
liking for eight foot tall sandwiches,
called in, after being stranded
it all got a bit too much.
 
Mr Jones, tried on his masks,
finding the one with best fit,
and the worst intentions,
and scared the kids,
and that pesky, overweight dog right off,
but he forgot about the body in his back-yard,
the diamonds under the patio,
the blood on the roof,
from the previous tenants,
and the Police came and arrested him,
put him away for years.
No lawyer would take the case,
of a Lighthouse Keeper,
hiding behind someone else’s
plastic face.

 

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.

 

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.

 

Silent Order, by Joe Naughton


By Robert Garnham

Joe Naughton lives in Galway has been writing poetry since 2017 which 

derives mainly from memoir and topical issues. 

He attends “Over the Edge” writing workshops with Kevin Higgins in Galway. 

He has had poems published in Vox Galvia section of “Galway Advertiser” 

and is a regular reader on online open mic platforms.

 

I Thought I Would Be Invisible, by Karol Nielsen


By Robert Garnham 
I Thought I Would Be Invisible

I was at the pharmacy and I buzzed the clerk to unlock the vitamins case. I asked him for the Centrum Silver. “But that’s for women over 50!” I said, “I’m old enough.” “You don’t look it,” he said. The extra padding in my cheeks from Covid weight probably makes me look younger. I still get hit on even with my extra pounds. A cool dude downtown kept repeating, “I’m trying to get your attention!” A man in my uptown neighborhood stopped me to ask for directions and then he said, “Can I ask you out for a drink?” My downstairs neighbor who is subletting from coop owners stopped me on the street and asked me to have coffee with him. The next day when I came back with coffee after six am he opened his door without a shirt on. He was so disappointed I already had coffee. I thought that I would be invisible by now. It would be nice sometimes.

Karol Nielsen is the author of two memoirs and two poetry chapbooks. Her full-length collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her poem, “This New Manhattan,” was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.

 

Worms, by Sarah Dale


By Robert Garnham 
Worms
…are hermaphrodites, and much addicted
to venery, and consequently very prolific.
 
History of Selborne   Gilbert White
 
Be as jealous as you like,
worms have it both ways
without shame, or guilt –
check them out,
any warm damp night
going at it hammer and tongs
all over your garden.
 
Do old worms complain
about the morals of the young?
You bet they don’t –
there’s no age of consent
if you’re a worm,
no tabloid worms digging dirt,
bugging other worms’ phones.
 
Every single worm is busy
having as much sex
with as many other worms
as he/she/they can possibly reach
and making as many new worms
as he/she/they can manage –
good news for gardeners.

After a misspent youth in libraries and museums, and some time in between, Sarah has finally achieved her dream job in Lichfield working for the Samuel Johnson Birthplace Museum (and book shop). She writes for fun and enjoys swimming.

 

The I.T. Guy, by Sarah James


By Robert Garnham 
The I.T. Guy

Wired, he talks high speed
in a language beyond us,
our faces blank screens.

He e-valuates our systems 
with zip and drive,
recommends new leads.

He keeps our firm’s site
secure; but can’t help close
frozen windows.
 
His fast processing
mega memory leaves us lost
for Word’s.
 
His virus checks clear,
we return to work
with our hacking coughs.

And yes, when we call
to request more back-up,
sometimes he bytes.

Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. Good laughter is a medicine she’s not always found easy to come by. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.