Tag: poem

Writing on a Roman Wall, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham 
Writing on a Roman Wall
Personal Adds

The Eunuch Support group meets on Mondays,
where we will discuss how to sing the high notes,
and how farmers can trust us with their goats,
between the end of February, and the Vernal Equinox,
we will not discuss how the Emporer got the pox,
but we will write these things on the walls,
for all the world to see.

The Inn of the Mule-drivers,
come and damage your livers,
Happy hour is none too frequent,
if you are looking for a wench.

Meat for sale,
it will soon be off,
don’t come looking for our sympathy,
when you get a cough.

Speakers with the leaders in the town hall.
If they were of any less use,
they would be no use at all.

Wanted: Sewage worker.
If you know what the job entails,
you know why we are looking for one.

Wanted: Road Worker
Please bring you own shoes.
Must have an excellent sense of direction.

Wanted: Lion Tamer
Short term contract.
Immediate Start.

Ben Macnair

 

The Day I Cooked my Son’s Speech Therapist, by Beth McDonough


By Robert Garnham 
The Day I Cooked my Son's Speech Therapist

she arrived all kindly shiny in thunder, ahead
of his school bus return. Full of plans,
ASD-specific wisdom. He crashed in, appalled.
I no wanted to see her.
She flashed three PECS cards
at his face, intoned, in triple slow time
H   e   l  l o     K   eir
I       have     come    to     visit     you    and       your   Mum.
Put her whole fisog in his.
I no wanted to see her,
He dashed off his jacket. Ran out the back door.
She nodded towards my space.
I can help you understand how he communicates,
what he needs to let you know.
We followed him into the garden. He whizzed
for the trampoline. She chanted
from the circumference upwards. More cards.
My son turned to the fence,
bounded furiously, bounce, bounce, bounce
I no wanted to see her. Away now. Away!
Solicitously, she advised me
Sometimes he speaks very fast, and runs words
into one another, so we don't know what he says.
He turned quickly, saw her still standing, transplanted
from class to his own garden, 
then he spun away in disgust.
No wanted to see her.
Jumped on and on. Small splats of rain
did not dissuade him. I took her inside,
made coffee. Offered scones.
If we sat inside the conservatory we could
observe, as he leapt up by the lupins.
She enjoyed everything, I think. Seemed pleased to eat
that scone, as she helped me along.
My temperature rose. 
So I brought extra coffee, closed a window.
She took one more scone. I shut the door.
My son trampolined on.
Yes, she'd love another scone.
Steam rose from plants.
He pogoed on.
I'll come out whenever you want,
I'd love to help. I sealed
the last window. She lifted
her third scone as I watched
sweat drizzle on her lips.
At last I persuaded her that we must not
take more of her weighted time. 
Slowly, I sluiced her to the front door,
thanked her hugely, assured her
if we needed, we'd certainly phone.
She stilted formulaic farewells.
Away! Away! he replied.
Don't worry. We'll soon learn what he's saying.
As her car departed, my son 
came in for our usual time
of juice, maybe cake, and told me
I no wanted to see her.
We hugged. Don't worry. We won't.
Soon after, the Therapist married 
and moved to a faraway post.
I gave her a pretty coffee pot.
Considered very hot scones.

Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in many places; she reviews in DURA. Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish was published by 4Word. Recently, her site-specific poem was installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. Currently Makar of the FWS, she’s found year-round in the Firth of Tay.

 

Celebrity Stoning on Thin Ice, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham 
Celebrity Stoning on Thin Ice
 
It’s very easy to shout insults
to people that I can’t look in the eye,
to an online presence who might as well be a ghost
haunting the blue walls of a white bird
 
They call it cancelling
but it used to be called public shaming,
boycotting
bullying
 
It’s a commodity –
you give me one opinion,
I give you two fingers
and three minutes to take it back
 
or you’re retweeted as threadworms
spreading from the anus to the mouth of the internet
but who wins in the end?
Gameshows, that’s who.

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

 

I Said, Pointedly, by Phil Huffy


By Robert Garnham 
I Said, Pointedly
 
Author, watch your language,
avoid the common traps
of amateur expression
and paraphrastic lapse.
 
Banish inclinations,
when speech you recollect,
to state the speaker’s motive,
describing her affect.
 
Poet, please consider
this thought as apropos:
You’ll make your meaning clearer
with words that people know.
 
If you fancy rhyming,
its use must be astute.
Don’t make your grand allusions
a trivial pursuit.
           first published at Poetry Super Highway
 

The Passenger, by Lynn Valentine


By Robert Garnham 
The Passenger

November and everywhere turns mouse,
garden no longer good enough though
the compost heap smoulders with rot of apples.

The mice brush by inside discharging dark
pellets of shit, nips of urine, craze
of footprints. The air grows furred, weighs
heavy with whiskers, a particular brown-grey 
colour scheme, rushing of small rodents.

He is frightened to open cupboards, too scared 
to sleep, to become part of the scurry. 
He puts down poison, traps, peppermint spray, 
packed up clothes for a holiday.

The last item to sneak into his steamer trunk?
A wee sleekit beastie—mouse.


Lynn Valentine’s poetry collection, Life’s Stink and Honey, was published by Cinnamon Press in 2022 after winning their literature award. Her Scots language pamphlet, A Glimmer o Stars, was published by Hedgehog Poetry in 2021. Lynn is on Twitter @dizzylynn

 

When I Die, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham 
When I die
 
please don’t say I’ve passed away
or gone to heaven. Instead,
I’ll hope that you will simply say
I’m dead.
 
You might say that I lived life well,
there were some ups and downs. I tried
to do my best, had fun with family and friends
but in the end, I died.
 
Please don’t suggest I’m somewhere in the sky
looking down on kith and kin. I’m sure
you wouldn’t really like that! Just accept
that I am here no more.
 
I hope that you remember me sometimes,
think of me kindly, memories don’t spoil.
But please don’t use some flowery euphemistic words —
I really have not stepped off  this mortal coil.

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 by Dreich, Yaffle and others.

 

Frustrations in the Office, by Sarah James


By Robert Garnham 
Frustrations in the Office

i) Behind the blinds 

The office chair has an angle 
on everything. Going nowhere itself, 
it still feels it’s earned a higher position,
would floor all competition. 

Despite purpose-moulded plastic 
and a firm spine, it has learned 
to turn its back on others’ pressure,
cushions itself against stress.

It refuses to carry excess weight, 
won’t budge when asked to do more
than simple tasks, barely conceals 
its steel tones and hard edges.

But, once the blinds are closed
and the night watchman passed,
it spins round and round on the spot, 
imagines taking charge, and stock.

Instead of stationery, new wheels.
Oil, polish and, with the whole office
waiting on its orders, hope even 
of finding a desk that’s a perfect match.
 

ii) Non-PC Ideas

This desk is tired of feeling used,
fed up of ending up pushed
into a corner or back against the wall.
 
It’s had enough of being treated
as part of the furniture, overlooked
by all or constantly dumped on:

PCs, screens and mice; piles
of paper and files; coffee mugs,
dirty stains and laptops; boxes,

and more boxes. Five years too 
working with the same chair,
and, when their legs brush, no sign
 
that it could share the desk’s rush 
of anticipation, that hint of a shiver of 
a tingle of electricity, static or not, 

which lets ungrounded hopes thrive.
One day the chair will notice it – 
the battered desk wishes silently…

but remains stuck there ignored.

Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. For her, good laughter is a medicine, sometimes even a path towards positive change. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.

 

Cabot Cove, by Jorge Leiva


By Robert Garnham 
Cabot Cove
 
I always wanted to be
Angela Lansbury
on Murder, she wrote.
Writing novels of mystery
in Cabot Cove.
 
During a book presentation
or visiting old friends,
when least expected,
someone will possibly die.
This is the life I’d like.
 
Police inspectors would hate me,
I will resolve what they can’t.
Getting ideas for new books
is enough reward.
 
The author of the crime
is always who you’d least suspect.
If this is something you don’t believe,
you could try asking her late husband.

Jorge Leiva is from South Spain and lived in Ireland for over eight years. Some of his work has appeared in A New Ulster, Skylight 47 Magazine, The Galway Advertiser, Drawn to the light press, Headstuff.org, Dodging the Rain, 2 Meter Review, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis and The Waxed Lemon. In 2019 he was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competition.

 

Lockdown Adventurers, by Heather Wastie


By Robert Garnham 
Lockdown adventurers

8 people over ninety
falling from playground equipment 
60 encounters
with venomous spiders

5,600 amateur builders 
coming into contact
with electric hand tools 
2,700 with hammer or saw

349 tussling
with lawnmowers 
2,243 with hot drinks, 
food, fats, cooking oils

Though many found comfort 
adopting pets,
7,386 bitten, or struck,
by dogs

Ninety-year-old woman 
bitten, or struck,
by crocodile
or alligator

Despite more time at home, 
number struck by lightning 
up
from 3 to 18

Adventurers
The tip of the iceberg

Found poem, written January 2021 using words from article: Covid: Thousands needed hospital treatment after lockdown DIY https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-59854919

Former Worcestershire Poet Laureate Heather Wastie was born in Cradley Heath and now lives near Kidderminster. She has performed extensively across the UK and published eight poetry collections. On Twitter and Instagram she is @heatherwastie. Her Facebook group is Wastie’s Space, and her websitewww.WastiesSpace.co.uk is embarrassingly out of date.



 

					


		
	




			
				


		

			

		

		

			
Ageing Process, by Jane Shaer

							

					
 By Robert Garnham				

					


		

			

Have you ever looked in the mirror to reflect 
Your age
And noticed that cellulite and wrinkles have taken centre stage?
It's then you wonder to yourself
How old should I be?
What sort of a body is this to be given me?

Have you noticed the hair upon your head Is starting to thin out
When the roots underneath are turning White and suddenly beginning to sprout?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
Am I really OK?
Why not have a wig when prematurely grey?

Have you ever been to the dentist and while
Lying in the chair
He's fitting you with a crown 
And you gaze up his nose in despair?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
This guy's a nice enough chap.
But I only wish he'd finish off
Bridging that gap.

Have you ever been to the doctor to get a Jab for the flu
And asked him time and time again
Can I make love to you?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
If my senility's on par.
Why not have a man aswell 
When I have a crush on my car?

Have you ever had a Garam or Tika Masala
From an Indian takeaway 
Not realising the affects it has on you
For many a day?
It's then you wonder to yourself 
If this stuff is going to keep on passing Through.
How much longer must I spend VINDALOO?