Bryan Franco is from Brunswick, Maine, USA. He is published in the US, Australia, England, Ireland, and Scotland, has featured for poetry events in the US, Canada, England, Ireland, and Scotland; hosts Café Generalissimo Open Mic; his book Everything I Think Is All In My Mindwas published in 2021.
ADJUSTING ATTITUDE AT HIGH ALTITUDE
My flight instructions are arrived;
My centimetred oblong allowance
Measured, sorted and obeyed;
My zippered kit of pastes, gels, lubes,
Creams, liquids, ready to inspect.
I know they'll nick my water off me
And, of course, bombs, and all components of bombs,
Are disqualified. But what's this?
An interesting list of new prohibitives:
'Knuckle-dusters, clubs, coshes, rice-flails,
Num-chucks, kubotans and kabusaunts.'
The dictionary is defining kubotans and kabusaunts
As 'Instruments of attitude adjustment'.
So assuming confiscation protocol is in its place,
We shall be flying safe. The pilot will eat his ready-meal
At high altitude with his attitude firmly not-adjusted
Holding steady to his pre-determined course
And we shall all be peaceable, intact, secure, serene and well
Immune from num-chucks and their clubbing cousins
Till we land.
Clive Donovan is a Totnes poet, widely published in magazines and with a first collection, The Taste of Glass, published by Cinnamon Press. At open mics he likes to see people laugh and cry at the same time.
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
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 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.
If I were interested in the history of the wireless
I’d make the effort to visit the Orkney Wireless Museum.
I’d marvel at the early crystal sets and cats’ whiskers
and admire the styling of the radios from the 1930s.
I’d applaud the early ones made from Bakelite
and laugh aloud at the novelty transistor radios
saved for posterity from the 1960s.
If I were interested, I’d look in awe
at the WW2 radio-in-a-suitcase and the one
from the cockpit of a Spitfire aeroplane.
Oh, I love the radio, I listen almost every day,
BBC’s radio 4 is my very favourite station.
But I honestly can’t say I’ve ever have the yen,
when visiting Kirkwall to see the sights
or go Tesco and and the butchers shop,
to spend any time at all in the OWM.
Tonnie Richmond has, since she retired from working in Local Government, spent her time either doing archeology in Orkney or writing poems. As the digging gets harder, she finds writing a slightly easier choice. She has had several poems published and is currently working on a collection of poems about Orkney.
Paperboy
I loved you so much, paperboy
You filled me with such a joy
doing your newspaper insertion
Then Sandra Goode gave you the eye
And on your bike, you passed me by
Now I read the online version
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
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.
Get Outlook for iOS
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
