Tag: love

A Mossy Rock in the Forest, by Robert Garnham


By Robert Garnham 
There's a mossy rock in the forest
A place I always like to go
A mossy rock in the woods
I go there when I'm feeling low.

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And it's hard and it makes me forget
I sit on the rock in the woods
If it’s damp it’ll make my bum wet

There's a mossy rock in the forest
Surrounded by foliage and leaves
And big arse rhododendrons
It's a place that puts me at my ease

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And the ground it's wet and spongy
And there's mushrooms sprouting up
And other types of fungi

There's a mossy rock in the forest
Its ok I suppose it could be worse
There are badgers and squirrels in the forest
That's it now I'm done with this verse

And I sit on rock in the moss
I only like to sit here a whiles 
And the rock is not exactly comfy
You wouldn't want to sit here with piles

There's a mossy rock in the forest
the branches here are terribly scratchy
I try to watch some porn on my phone
But the WiFi signal here is patchy.

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And I sit on the rock in the moss
And I sit on the rock in the moss
And then my mind wanders off.

Robert Garnham has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. He has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. His website is https://professorofwhimsy.com/

 

The Cannibal who Came to Tea, by Arran Potts


By Robert Garnham 
The Cannibal Who Came to Tea
 
Hello I see you made it then?
I’m not too hard to find.
Between your teeth? Aperitif
Small pieces of my mind.
 
This spoon is finest silver
So you can gouge and pry;
I’ll never see, your love for me
As I give you the eye.
 
I’ll lend an ear, poke out my tongue,
If you can fit it in.
Then I propose, you pick my nose;
My gravy on your chin.
 
No-one knows that we are here,
I’m glad that we’re alone.
No need to cook, I’ll let you suck
The marrow from my bone.
 
Pull me apart, eat out my heart
Slurp up my blood and bowels.
I’m such a giver, please take my liver
Mop up my mess with towels.
 
Make some bacon from my back
Carve into my cheek;
Have a nibble, on my nipple
Chew me till I'm weak.
 
Now take my hand, you’re nearly done,
I see you have the guts.
It doesn’t hurt, and for dessert
I’ll let you eat my nuts.

Arran has friends who are poets and fancies a little bit of the glory and adulation they receive. He’ll also settle for someone saying, ‘That’s ok.’ He’s a husband, father and teacher.

 

Confessions of a Teenage Cigarette Smoker, by Sheila Jacob


By Robert Garnham

Confessions Of A Teenage Cigarette Smoker

Woodbines were my first: the cheapest, the commonest. Whose Dad hadn’t angled one in his mouth, picked flecks of tobacco off his tongue as he stooped on the front path, mended the puncture on his pushbike? Angela, my classmate, nicked some from her brother, invited me to her house in the school holidays. My throat raged. I dripped ash, burned a hole in my favourite dress. Never again, I vowed. Mum and Dad hadn’t suspected, knew I always rode home on the top deck of the bus where passengers flipped open packets of Players, Senior Service, Park Drive, swathed everyone in smoke. Four years later, in the Kardomah, New Street, I took drags of Silk Cut between sips of percolated coffee, shared steamy Sixth Form chat about D.H.Lawrence and The Rainbow. I made new friends at college. We pooled our Embassy Regal coupons, saved up for a hair dryer. I sampled Disque Bleu with my French pal Cathie, pretended I enjoyed the acrid taste, the dizzying after-kick. If I closed my eyes, I drifted on a pungent haze to Paris, the Metro, the pages of a Francoise Sagan novel. In my final year, I met a boy who loved me, bought me Lindt chocolate bars and shots of vodka and lime. My heart thumped when he placed two Dunhills between his lips, lit both cigarettes and handed one to me.

Sheila Jacob lives in N. E. Wales with her husband. Born and raised in Birmingham. she finds her Brummie ancestry a source of inspiration. She’s had poems published in many U.K magazines and webzines, is working on her first pamphlet and hoping life begins at seventy-one.

 

An Archaeology Student Thinks about Sex in Maes Howe Chambered Tomb, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham 
An Archaeology Student Thinks about Sex in Maes Howe Chambered Tomb

She’s aware that Gavin’s staring at her bum 
as she bends double, clambers along
the long dark passageway into the tomb. 
The others follow, cluster round, eager to learn.

Her lecturer begins his talk; all about midwinter 
when this tomb aligns with the setting sun.
He offers theories - 
about it being a humongous womb,
the sun-god penetrating the long stone vagina,
rays striking the back wall, impregnating Mother Earth,
ensuring fertility and good harvests in the year to come.

As theories go, it’s pretty good. 
Gavin’s standing close, she feels his body heat
in this claustrophobic chamber.
All this talk of penetration, sexual congress overwhelms;
her nipples tingle. She moves, imperceptibly,
leans in towards him. Feels his breath upon her neck.

————————-

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.
 

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.
 

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

 

15 Love, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham 
15 Love

Tennis is a game,
where they talk about love,
but spare none for the ball.
The thwack of the racket,
played politely by vicars,
with more than the scriptures
on their minds.

We are left out for the dog,
when our playing days
are little remembered.
We are mouldering,
greener than jealousy.
Chewed up,
spat out,
over the line,
under the net,
one last game,
for old time's sake.

 

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.