Cousin Ken, by Hilary Willmott


By Robert Garnham
 
Cousin Ken

Cousin Ken from Cockermouth Cumbria
Has a wholesome rhythm to it.
Cuz-in-Ken-from-Cock-er-mouth-Cum-bri-a.
I loved him living there.
When friends asked after my cousin Ken
I would say ‘Oh, Cousin Ken?  He’s well, still living in
Cockermouth, Cumbria.’
And then he called with his new address 
making him cousin Ken from Romney Marsh, Kent.
I’ll never forgive him for this.

Hilary lives in Bristol close to the River Avon. She resides there with her partner and three dogs. Has been previously published by Templar Press, Bristol Poetrycan, Leaf, Velvet, Obsessed with Pipework, Exeter Broadsheet and Mr Garnham. Still planning to submit enough poems for a collection and still finding excuses not to send them off.

Submit (to poetry magazines) by Brian Kelly


By Robert Garnham
 
Submit (to poetry magazines)

It’s easier to submit under the covers 
Hands shaking a hasty rhythm
Ankles trembling as you click send 
Convulsions into the pocketed atmosphere. 
Beware the patient person
Who lies eye wide in front of lined white sheets
Empty minds bleached between verges and soft margins, 
Where thoughts are an unmanned flock of birds
From hedgerow
Over hedgerow
To hedgerow....
I clip a wing on the drive there,
Ten percent over the legal speed limit
Leaves no discretion on five-foot-wide tarmac.
How insane am I? I wonder
Undiagnosed, I respond.
Stopping, I swing the door open
Step back from the vehicle
And pick up the bird, a crow.
Bringing it home smiling
I nail it to my refrigerator.
Good, another poem.

Brian Kelly is a bean from the west of Ireland who has recently given up his dreams and aspirations in the pursuit of poetry. What were once late night drunken chicken scratchings, etched onto any surface with something preferably sharp, are slowly evolving into bipedal beings traversing dry poetic lands.

George Actually, by Ros Woolner


By Robert Garnham
 
George actually

King George (the First – though actually, they didn’t call him that 
till George the Second’s time, by when, of course, our George was dead)
came in fact from Hanover in Germany, which means
his name’s not George at all, but Georg. 

This George (or Georg), followed Anne – though actually, they changed
the rules to stop Anne’s Catholic relatives becoming kings
and queens, so really there were several other cousins closer
to the throne when George pushed in. 

Well anyway, Anne died and he was crowned – though actually,
it took six weeks (no telephones to break the news, no cars
or trains or planes, and when he reached the sea he had to wait
for winds and ships so he could sail). 

Despite not speaking English well, George ruled for thirteen years –
with ministers to help him, naturally. In any case,
in Europe in those days, the language of diplomacy
was French. Not English. Actually.

Ros Woolner lives in Wolverhampton. Her poems have appeared in anthologies and journals, including Magma, The Cannon’s Mouth, The Interpreter’s House and Under the Radar, and she won the Guernsey International Poetry Competition in 2021. Her pamphlet On the Wing is available from Offa’s Press. www.roswoolner.co.uk

Cliche, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham
 
Cliché

I could throw caution to the wind,
put all my eggs in one basket,
be a beacon for change
and give absolutely no fucks,
because at a certain age
it’s important to choose a cliché.
I could carry my pre-middle age
in a wicker basket,
amongst Gitanes and cognac,
and a Bichon Frise
I’d swim in the sea wearing only
a paisley headscarf
and oversized sunglasses.
I could develop a passion for plastic appendages
remoulding myself as “Polly Murs”,
rename the kids “Tupperware” and “Teflon”
influence the influencers
and become a cartoon of my former self.
I could grow my facial hair
into a handlebar moustache,
disappear from the internet
join MI5
and tell everyone
I’m now a European truck driver.
I could sell raffle tickets for a kidney,
host bingo for a pint of blood
defraud my siblings into handing
over mum’s Jacobean furniture collection
and leaving them dad’s Elvis memorabilia.
I could take up marathon running
but only on days with a c in them,
run for council
but only for a party with a heart in them,
adopt stray dogs
but only ones with a bit of feline in them.
Then again,
you can’t teach a young leopard new stripes
and a cat doesn’t change its tricks.

Forever Changed, by Susan Coyle


By Robert Garnham
 
I can’t tell you anything about
the moment time stood still
as your world rearranged itself
feeling your heart silently crack
this fracture will mend
only those who really know you see the scars
you have the gift to conjure memories
hear a voice who scolds you for being sad
as refracted light on glistening tears sparkle 
to know an unconditional love until the last breath
I am not exempt from the conclusion of this world
grief is a multitasking emotion
being happy and sad in the same moment
not something you fully know
until it's your front row at the funeral
there, long after the last sympathy card,
it becomes part of you

Susan Coyle is based in Galway and has been writing poetry since 2019.

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

She has had poems published in North West Words, Pendemic.ie and Vox Galvia section of “Galway Advertiser”

Camp Shangri-La by Arran Potts


By Robert Garnham
 
Camp Shangri-La

He stopped for a quickie one night in her tent,
Made love to an egg-timer till he was spent,
The sand had run out, he came and then went;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

She lowered his zip and was so full of hope,
But all he could manage were fumbles and gropes,
So Val took the lead and showed Guy the ropes;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

They’ve put up two tents but they’re on the same pitch,
Four of them starkers, not wearing a stitch,
They’d do half an hour then partners would switch;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Tommy was fuming and she was to blame,
Cos everyone here in the camp knew his name,
Last night Sue had screamed it out loud when she came;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

At sixty she knows how to tease and to coax,
She pulled off his trousers with two short, sweet strokes,
Just as she’d done, with dozens of blokes;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Ronnie and Eileen at home in a yurt,
Strong green oak decking to cover the dirt,
But plenty of cushions in case they get hurt;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Sally McNally the Shangri-La vamp,
Looking for strapping young men round the camp,
She only needs someone to sleep in the damp; 
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Just rooves of soft fabric as somewhere to sleep,
The campsite is hidden, the price not to steep,
Those zips, flaps and awnings have secrets to keep;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Arran Potts is from Wolverhampton, UK. He has recently taken up poetry as a hobby to rekindle a love for writing; and is finding Jo Bell’s ‘52 Poems’ book really useful. He is supported by family and friends. He is hindered by his job.

Moving Day by Leah Keane


By Robert Garnham
 
Moving Day
 
Every day is moving day in Galway,
but it may not always be a physical thing.
 
You see, we don't live, we simply nest in fear
that the landlord might suddenly decide to "renovate" again
with as much notice as a suicide bombing,
only for you to see that same room advertised one month later
at double the cost and a new door handle.
 
It's hard to feel like a person in this city
when you've spent so long being treated like cattle.
 
Once in a mouldy blue moon, they'll come along
to "inspect" the holding and appear outraged
by the number of glass bottles in the hall
or an old scrape on the kitchen wall,
all the while ignoring the leak in your bedroom ceiling
or the dishwasher that's been broken for a hundred thousand years
at the cost of innumerable cracked and brittle hands.
 
But the worst part about moving day
is that you know who's truly behind it all.
 
You see their ugly faces on TV
making speeches in the Dáil.
They pretend to know what it's like,
and some of them even have the nerve to believe it
while owning multiple holiday homes
which they leave vacant for the majority of the year.
 
Affordable means nothing when the scale slides
forever in their favour. They won't listen to us.
 
We're too young to know anything,
but should be fit enough to put up with everything.
 
It's getting old now, Michéal.
I would like a toupeéd lapdance for my trouble.
I would like you to feel ashamed
because the rental market is an awful lot like the top of your skull.
Unfortunate and bald.

Leah Keane is from Castlerea, County Roscommon, Ireland. She graduated with a BA in English, German and Creative Writing from NUI Galway in 2018, and is currently working as an English language teacher. Her work has previously been published in Poetry Ireland Review, ROPES, Green Carnations and The Stony Thursday Book among others.

Oscar and Silicon Valley, by Anne Irwin


By Robert Garnham
 
Oscar and Silicon Valley

Zen-like on the car roof,
Oscar inhales the autumn air 
absorbing the warmth of the metal 
into his marmalade body.

Languishing in his sleekness, 
pristine as Silicon Valley,
he preens himself, one eye
on the chaffinch in the rowan.

Empathic as the Valley,
with its modern sensibilities,
egg freezers for the nubile,
fuzz-ball, beanbags, mindfulness spaces 
for its twelve-hour-day workaholics 
with no time for slackers,
he emanates serenity
while his internal algorithms calculate 
the trajectory of his leap
from roof to branch.

With a twitch of his tail
a narrowing of eye, he springs
and the chaffinch shrieks its dying call.

Anne Irwin’s poetry is inspired by the glory of the universe seen in the microcosm of everyday life, and her ever-increasing family. She has three sons, seven grandchildren and two great grandchildren. Her poems have been published in many literary journals including Poetry Ireland Review, Irish Left Review, High Window,

Epic Puma Fresh for Alpha Men not Boys, by Mandy Beattie


By Robert Garnham
 
All new Puma Fresh is 100% epic
skin-silky anti-sweat pore blocking  
pick-me-up roll up roll up spray under 
 
those hairy oxters have the time 
of your life sniffing our solvents can’t kill 
but spurt away 15 inches in staccato 
 
bursts in breezy rooms shut 
your eyes in open doors outdoors 
windows spray pecs cracks cheeks 
 
for we don’t cause rashes itches so 
it won’t matter if skin is broken 
but our butane propane won’t 
 
blow up your chances 
because we odour bust for 72 hours 
but even in heat waves cool 
 
your Puma jets in fridge-freezers 
no need to strike a match 
when kissing companions will be 
 
swooning with naked 
flames before you combust 
in grapefruit tropical pineapple twist 
 
in cool fresh air that stuns senses 
with our pro scent technology your future 
smells amazing and we give fashion 
 
tips dating advice so our men don’t do 
dorky, geeky we’re more Mr Muscle and you’ll be 
smelling bomb.com because your future smells 
 
amazing with our high definition odour 
busting technology Puma will help you 
with your Tinder 
 
and Bumble bios but because you wear 
our 48 hours high-definition 
fragrance you’ll be confident iconic Puma
 
gives you all the tools 
when opportunity knocks and women 
will swoon girls will want a sniff 
 
sniff sniff pick me up 
from your local shop we’ve cornered 
the market we’ll keep you going all night 
 
all day long our fragrance is 100% epic 
protection at your fingertips Puma doesn’t do 
greenwashing because 
 
our cans are infinitely 
recyclable we can go again and again Puma’s
raising our A game because 
 
there is no Planet B and our bottles 
are 100% recyclable plastic in 3 years 
we’re aiming to include more recycled 
 
stuff we’re well on our way we contain 
ground-breaking detectable black technology 
to help with recyclability
 
boom
our proud parents Unilever supports 
some UN goals tackles 
global climate protects trees sustainable 
 
agriculture focused food security because we use 
tobacco amber oud wood vanilla 
and our latest Puma is Dark Temptation 
 
aftershave smooth on after switch
of your blade we help you use 
less water less energy through lower 
 
eco impact we cause 
a stink to tackle climate change 
we talk to politicians 
 

Biography:

Mandy Beattie frequently loses herself in poetry & imaginings. Pen, paper & words without borders are some of her favourite things. She has been published in Journals such as: Poets Republic, Dreich, Wordpeace, Spilling Cocoa, Last Stanza, Lothlorien Poetry. Poets Choice in Marble Broadsheet. Shortlisted, Black Box Poetry Competition.

Mindfulness + Beauty, by Heather Nelson


By Robert Garnham
 
Mindfulness + Beauty

It’s the second Monday after I quit-
five years is epic, I can rest for a bit. Indulgences are strategic when shown the exit, I’ll get no sympathy if I wear a target.
On the morning of my pedi,
I can’t find my glasses, can’t seem to get ready
I take a Xanax, try to keep my gaze steady
get behind the wheel, text goodbye to the family. At the Beauty Spa I extend my swollen foot
to the technician who kneels at her habitual spot. She’s tired and practical, I’m deep in thought- my relaxation imperative seems overwrought.
I leave with toes the color of wine
not blissed out or bitter, I’ll settle for fine.

Heather Nelson has been a student of poetry since college, where she developed her thesis project under the guidance of CD Wright and Peter Gizzi at Brown University in 1991. She returned to writing in 2011 and has since been published in Ekphrastic Review, Lily Poetry Review, Free State Review, Spoon River Review and others. She currently leads a local free-write, runs writing workshops for high school students and hosts a book group in Cambridge, Mass. She has been active in the Boston area literary scene since she began writing, and has taught classes at Grub Street, planned events for Litcrawl, organized author talks and other activities. Heather has a manuscript of poetry titled “Motherland” out looking for a home and continues to write, and is already thinking about her next book of poetry!