Thursday, 28 November 2013

'Greed is good'

'Greed is good,' says Boris,
'Greed will make us great.
Greed it is that oils the wheels
and steers our ship of state;
and greed it is inspires us
to do what must be done
to dispossess the workers
for the sake of Number One.
Greed is the light that warms our days
and keeps us from the dark;
our Saviour, our Redeemer, too;
Greed is our fire, and we but sparks.'

Now no one's greatly shocked
to hear that this is BJ's creed:
the sanctity of profit,
the heresy of need;
yet, surely, it should worry us
that not one voice has said: 'Hold on,
The whole idea is flawed, old boy.
It is, quite simply, wrong.'

Abigail Wyatt

Abigail writes poetry and short fiction and tries to live in hope. Sometimes, as this morning, words fail her.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

before they abolished the rope

we were told a twelve dollar mail order rifle
ended a nation of innocence...and all that
we learned

© Philip Johnson
3-D printer Gun
Philip Johnson's poems have previously appeared in: Poetry 24, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Emergency Verse and The Robin Hood Book.

Tuesday, 26 November 2013

Civil War and Syria

A bloody devastation-
caused by external jealousy and enmity,
maybe, somehow endurable
but Mother Syria is speechless to console
herself and  to compensate her losses  
as the destruction is caused only by
the jealousy and enmity
among  her own children.
Self-devastated now Syria is,
experiencing quite helplessly
the colossal ambition of dogmatic characters
to attain the status of supremacy -
piling the dead rivals into a stack
to reach the level of abundance
throwing millions of lives at risk
and thus bring about a dreadful
consequence---a civil war.
Mother Syria realises the consequence,
and flies weeping from east to west
and north to south to save her children.
Alas! She cries out seeing one lac of dead bodies
scattered here and there half merged in blood
and 9.3 million children are still in danger-
escaping to save their lives
to the neighbouring countries---
Lebanon, Jordon, Turk, Iraq and Egypt.
Oh dear offspring of Noah-
the devotees of universal mankind,
come out of Ark, observe and realise
the pain that Mother Syria suffers from,
listen carefully to the whispering prayer
that she leaves in the air
and follow the white cloud
that comes from the sky of Syria carrying
the written message of her importunity.
Let us pray for Mother Syria
and reunification of her children and
above all, a peaceful treaty among the warrior
to bring about the end of the civil-war.

© P.K.Deb

P.K.Deb has had poems published in many journals and online and is an Associate Professor in Economics. 

Monday, 25 November 2013

The Hair of the Dog

In the land of the clog,
Amsterdam’s hot shots
have got a new idea
for cleaning the streets:
employ a few sots
and reward their labour
with the hair of the dog.
Five cans of beer,
8 euros and a lunch
plus a pouch of tobacco
are attractive to blokes
who can pack a punch.
It keeps them busy
and Oosterpark clear.

It sounds a good deal
yet some are uneasy
and fear that drink
adds fuel to the fire.
But others think
that the objectors
suffer from zeal.

At least if they sup,
a spokesman said,
they won’t binge.
Moreover it’s good
for them to be active
and be encouraged
to pull their socks up.

© Luigi Pagano 2013

Alcoholics paid in BEER to clean the streets

Sunday, 24 November 2013

Sunday Review

As I write this, news is coming out, slower than molasses, of the deal that has been reached with Iran. This highlights the "interesting" times that we live in and makes us scratch our heads that we had a day with no submissions. Abi's poetry bears made another appearance which seems to have had the right effect. Write on fellow poets!
Abi's poem "Goodbye Western Black Rhino" was Monday's poem. We are all belittled when we allow this sort of thing to happen. New Zealand lost a unique type of Teal duck the week before so this very fine, sad poem had a double piquancy for me.
There are some very evocative lines in it e.g.
"You must take your leave:
your lumbering ghost slips
into the puzzle that is history."
 Janeta Hevizi's poem "Tender Care" was Tuesday's poem. It dealt with a subject that is going to become more and more of an issue as the population ages. There is some justified anger just under the surface of this very good  poem which makes a plea for humane treatment of old folks.  
 "Now a frail, lonely person doesn’t ask for much out of life
Some necessary caring
Normal respect
To be treated with dignity".
Luigi Pagano has a winning way with words and showed that off in Wednesday's poem "An Invitation to the Palace"   which neatly skewered the poetry soiree thrown by Buckingham Palace recently. It is nicely summed up by the final stanza
Her views on the monarchy
is what got her barred
but the Palace hoisted
its own petard.

Thursday's poem was Philip Johnson's "christmas seems a crime to celebrate this year" which was a small sharp stiletto of a poem which asks the pertinent question
'why can't the all just bugger off
to the bank "

I hope you all have a good week and that the muse pays a visit. Better that than Abi's bears, know what I mean?

Friday, 22 November 2013

Abi's bears have heard that 'Poetry24' needs submissions.

Thursday, 21 November 2013

christmas seems a crime to celebrate this year

seems a crime to celebrate
this year

with so many in a struggle

MPs having to choose between the second home
or power for the pigpen

bloody servants ruin all the fun always

why can't the all just bugger off
to the bank

mumsie n' poppa?

© Philip Johnson
  Millionaire Tory MP has admitted claiming expenses for electricity used to run the stables on his private estate.

Philip Johnson's poems have previously appeared in: Poetry 24, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Emergency Verse and The Robin Hood Book.

Wednesday, 20 November 2013

An Invite to the Palace

They are changing their image
at Buckingham palace
but whatever one thinks
it is without malice.

They are allowing poets
on their hallowed grounds,
with a posse of photographers
and loads of newshounds.

They’ve sent invitations
to a selected few
and one of the chosen
is aged ninety-two.

They will listen to bards
at Buckingham Palace
but one absentee
is poor little Alice.

A poet of distinction,
she likes to perform
but, being a rebel,
she won’t reform.
Her views on the monarchy
is what got her barred
but the Palace hoisted
its own petard.

© Luigi Pagano 2013

A poetry invite to the palace: are you on the list?

Click to see Luigi's author's page on Amazon.

Tuesday, 19 November 2013

Tender Care

So they’re farming out community care
Tendering elders’ needs to an economically viable flare
Selling out to ‘so-called’ efficiency
A guise
No time wasting
Just monetary proficiency
But will the service be better
Than the shoddiness that’s gone before
Decades of shamefulness
Our vulnerable, ill and elderly have had to endure
Careless individuals
With too much control
And power
Over unseen lives
And so many mistakes
And so many lies to cover up the wrongs
The closing of ranks
Things go unreported
For too long
And for some it was too late
Now a frail, lonely person doesn’t ask for much out of life
Some necessary caring
Normal respect
To be treated with dignity
And listened to
So let’s hope this tendering leads to something more tender
Let’s hope good transparent practice
Is high up on the agenda.

 © Janeta Hevizi

Jani / Janeta is a former primary school teacher. She also spent two years training as an NHS nurse. She is the author of 3 children's books set in Cornwall entitled: SHANTI THE WANDERING DOG OF SENNEN & THE LAND'S END; MIGRANTS & PASTIES; and co-author of THE TRUE STORY OF BILBO THE SURF LIFEGUARD DOG. Janeta's hobby is writing, and her ambition is to complete other writing projects, including more children's books set in Cornwall, a novel, and stage plays. She is available to do author talks and school visits. Janeta lives in far west Cornwall, but was born in London and lived for many years in Bath.

Monday, 18 November 2013

'Goodbye, Western Black Rhino'

Long, useless years
you struggled on, wavered
on the edge of extinction.
Few noticed and fewer cared;
but now your time has come.
You must take your leave:
your lumbering ghost slips
into the puzzle that is history.
Let some new age ask
of your enigmatic bones:
How did it turn out thus?

Western Black Rhino, it is not your fault.
Whole herds have gone before you:
among them Glyptodon, Diplodocus,
Mammuthus primigenius,
Megaloceros giganteus,
and horned Triceratops;
Iguanodon and Ankylosaurus;
Brontosaur, the so-called 'thunder lizard';
Tyrannosaurus, Allosaurus,
winged and clawed,

No, the fault is not yours.
The world is shrinking.
There is no room left for greatness.
Greed and folly diminish us all
and may 'do' for us, too, in the end.
So Western Black Rhino,
sleep on in peace.
I pray your ‘Good Mother’
find and keep you.
Your tread may no longer
cause the earth to quake
and the grasslands
will tremble no more.

© Abigail Wyatt

Abigail Wyatt is a not-for-profit poet. One reason is that she firmly believes it is the job of the poet to make her/his at least a little bit uncomfortable. The other reason is that, since the age of thirteen, she has had trouble keeping quiet about injustice. It hasn't always made for a simple life.

Sunday, 17 November 2013

Sunday Review

This week, we began the week with Philip Johnson's 'illustrious', a caustic comment on the recent story in which Owen Paterson advised water company bosses to convert “unexpectedly high profits” into “tangible benefits for customers”. 

Then, on Tuesday, Jane Slavin gave us the delightful 'bomb hoax bridegroom' in which she asks what exactly it was that the prevented the unfortunate forgetful groom from keeping his appointment with his would-be bride.  

On Wednesday, Pippa Sherman's  'The Gate Crasher of the Queen Charlotte's Ball' was playful but pithy with her lively depiction of a gatecrasher at the debutantes' ball while, on Thursday, it the turn of Luigi Pagano and 'Rocket Science', a piece which, perhaps, calls into questions the motives behind and the morality of India's rocket to Mars.

Finally, on Friday, we concluded with David Mellor and 'Modern Tart' which brings into powerful focus the lunatic obscenity of the notion that any piece of 'art' can merit the $105 million price tag now associated with Andy Warhol's 'Silver Car Crash (Double Disaster)'.

On that note, I have nothing more to say. Hang on in there.

Abigail Wyatt

Friday, 15 November 2013

'Modern Tart'

Hang up that picture
Piece of
You’ll probably frame that too.

“Look this is one of his earlier works,
It‘s thick and long expressing life’s movement “

Verbal diarrhoea
“Let’s bid for that too”

“Don’t you want to send some money to the Philippines?”
“Oh do they do art too?”
No they’re clinging onto bare life
“Oh well go and take a picture of that
And I will bid for that too”

Hang up “that” picture
Piece of
“You will frame that “
©  David R, Mellor

Andy Warhol auction record shattered

David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

Thursday, 14 November 2013

Rocket Science

Who says that we are poor,
that our people find it hard
to keep the wolf from the door?
Doesn’t sending a rocket
to the distant Red Planet
show that we have a big pocket?
Some critics say the launch
could not have been made
if it wasn’t for the assistance
of overseas aid.
They doubt the wisdom
of the relevant authorities
in spending large sums
and question priorities.
Meanwhile the sale
of mementos of Gandhi
is a welcome distraction
and it is very handy.
© Luigi Pagano 2013

Wednesday, 13 November 2013

The Gatecrasher of the Queen Charlotte's Ball

Are my earrings there

are my boobs still in

is my hair just right

do I look too thin

will they notice me

with my long blonde hair

at this pukka,

elite social affair.


Will they know I'm a fake

will they know that I'm broke

I've only come here to pull a rich bloke;

I can't take a 'selfie'

my phone is just crap

and my high heeled shoes

are only from Gap.

I've learnt the names Dior, Armani,

Fendi, Prada & Versace,

and don't forget my Burberry bag

(they'll never know I've stitched the tag).

But, the more I watch ...I'll be okay,

no one will notice anyway,

for their own face, is all they see

in this make believe high society.

©Pippa Sherman

A group of modern debutantes gathered in London on Saturday

Pippa Sherman loves writing in different styles, but loves nothing more than a good excuse to write humour or an occasional rant or two (in the nicest possible way of course).

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

Bomb hoax bridegroom

Barristers in gowns stood where bridesmaids should have been.
No priest here, but a judge presiding over a ceremony
where they swore to tell the truth, the whole truth,
Not a promise for richer or for poorer.

Was it the seating arrangements?
Or the matching chair-covers, with burgundy ribbons,
Or those wretched sugar -almond favours, that no-one eats,
Or the fear, fear, fear of failure and ordinariness?

Was it the slow, seeping away of that sweet girl who said ‘yes’
into an obsessive princess,
dancing a trance of tasteful torture?
Was that what made his memory wither?

The must-haves, the pre-nuptial pamper, the weekends with the girls, the menu taster, the invitations, 
the place settings, the notes, the in-laws, the out-laws for the far away table, the dress,
the undress, the bib, the tucker, the speech,  the hair, the hen, the stag, the hangover.
The money. 

When all he wanted was to put a ring on her finger.
And be with her.
To be with her.
And breathe. 

© Jane Slavin 

 Jane Slavin reads, rants and writes - and is performing at Forked - Plymouth’s Apples and Snakes event on 21 November – yikes!

Monday, 11 November 2013


I want you to consider the low waged when devising tomorrow's bill
said the pm

they ponder the situation in the boardrooms

one CEO says he won't take his bonus today
as we are all in this together

later the postman we hear is to come with a box
offering opportunity to fold ourselves and climb in
winter the storm in a warmer climate

we must affix the appropriate postage

© Philip Johnson

  Water Cos. urged to convert “unexpectedly high profits” into “tangible benefits for customers”

Philip's work has previously appeared in: Poetry 24, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Emergency Verse and The Robin Hood Book.

Sunday, 10 November 2013

Sunday Review

David Mellor's poem "Dressed like Miley Cyrus,Pouting like Rihanna" started the week off in uncompromising form with a look at the way society, in general, and some men, in particular, treat yong women. We still have a way to go, people. It has been particularly evident in NZ , this week.
On Tuesday we welcomed P.K.Deb to Poetry24 with the poem "A Slap---The Slavery System"  which was an eye opening view into a world many of us are unfamiliar with. There is hope in this poem and it is well worth the reading.
Luigi Pagano contributed "Sauce for the Goose " on Wednesday that looked at the NSA bugging story and compared it to when the Eastern European states did it and how it was decried then. That was different, obviously *rolls eyes*.
Carolyn Cornthwaite's poem "Wasted" brought to light a story which I was unaware of , yet felt as though I had heard it 100 times before. The first world using the rest of the world as a rubbish dump. Carolyn wrote that the poems physical structure is very carefully worked out and it is great to see a poem constructed for visual effect. We can't always get Blogger to publish them but we will try.
The Friday poem was "Escape" by Raquel d'Andel about some gender mixing and the forces that do not want it to happen. It's a good exercise to turn things on their head every now and again in poetry.
I hope you had a better week than New Zealand where we have been confronted by rape culture in society and in the media and a better week than Abi who is unwell. Please send some warm thoughts her way. Keep sending in the poems and be kind to each other.

Friday, 8 November 2013


She wanted an escape
from living inside a bag
with a pillbox for postage and speech

So she drank a potion
rubbed herself in testosterone lotion
and bum fluff grew within a week

She fell in love with the caresses of air
and warm strokes of sunshine upon her hair
and dared to belly wobble up the street

see her button blinking
as she walks through winking
at smoky beards in coffee houses

Men came from far and wide
hiding their fascination
for the curvaceous curls of
the hairy orator

Her greatest fear was being
caught in the act, living a
life of fun outside the sack, 
always on the run, with its
contents open.

©Raquel d"Andel

Raquel  explains: Idea of poem relates to a reversal of witness wanting to undress, escape bag (Naqab) and live life as a man.
Don't know if this will be appropriate- ie politically correct - but when I read each story I flipped it around in my head- a reversal analogy I guess which challenges taboos about gender and individual freedom.
Raquel d'Andel  is proud of 3 things- bringing up 4 relatively sane children (even if their mother isn't !) in a flat in South East London. Riding and surviving on a beautiful sky blue bike. Working for one of the best public library authorities in London. As for my writing- I am always hopeful. Raquel's website is

Thursday, 7 November 2013


I thought I wanted
that new fridge, washer, drier, dishwasher –
devouring department stores on
wet, winter weekends – enthralled
by chrome, push button, A+++ rated efficiency
(to save our planet)
                                                Some say beauty is in the eye of the beholder
                                                I say it’s here, now –
                                                greens, blues, an autumn leaf
                                                curling in the glow of a setting sun.
                                                Hues of umber, scents of bark,
                                                soft footfalls in pristine
kitchens – steel, gleaming –
discard the old
(three years at least).
I thought I wanted
that new TV, the latest Mac,
wireless keyboard to travers
                                                continents, myriad lands
                                                mountains, meadows, glaciers
                                                sands, where
time –
dripping, ebbing,
breathing toxic
waste and
Dumping cathode-ray
tubes on precious soils
                                                children scavenge,
                                                nails to bone
                                                work the lands
of Western Waste –
precious commodities
for our planet’s

©Carolyn Cornthwaite    

Carolyn is a writer in mind, body and soul. She does other things to pay the bills. She blogs (sometimes) and moves ever closer to her life in France.

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Sauce for the Goose

We are all agreed in saying
that we should be free to talk
but when it comes to listening
it’s something at which we balk.
If someone bad-mouthed us,
“You talking to me?”, we’d ask.
And if anyone bugs our phone
we shall have to take them to task.
“You listening to me?”, we’d say,
“It shows that you have no trust.”
In demanding a humble apology
the request should be quite robust.
Some will recall the bygone days
when the boot was on the other foot
and the Stasi was eagerly all ears.
Did they think that that was a hoot?

© Luigi Pagano 2013

Tuesday, 5 November 2013

A Slap----The Slavery System

On 18th October, 2013---
the tears of the headlines of news-papers
submerged the hearts of the sensitive readers
and they were ashamed of the news ---
‘’The existence of 36 million slaves in the world’’
who earn and feed the shameless resourceful.
It was a slap on the pride of the babbling world-
claiming as modern, scientific and up-to-date,
climbing up almost near to heaven-
leaving behind the barbaric stains of centuries.
‘’Hunt or be hunted’’ was immersed
in the deep of dark history,
‘’Live and let live’’ is chorused to worship humanity,
blissful  we are to live a life and save a life,
moderate too to apply the virtues simultaneously
to the botanical and zoological welfare
and sincere to the messages of the divine messengers.

Nevertheless, something wrong in the air,
a sympathetic heart can realise the hidden weeping
that reverberates in the air and the sky
in the gap of tumultuous enjoyments.
Self-criticisers came forward and excavated  
the universal body of mankind
and uncovered millions of hidden weeping faces,
empty hands and bare bodies full of black spots and stains,
recognised they were as slaves.

A heart-quake is felt by the humanitarians
and demolition of skyscrapers of civilisation is witnessed,
caused by greed and cruelty to obtain something more-
a common ornament of uncivilised society of black history,
still embellishes some blood- sucking demons and Draculas.

Hark, the humanitarians!
Let our invidiousness be elapsed
in recognising the bloodsuckers,
our honesty, sympathy, kindness and benevolence
be stood against them with a collaboration of God’s grace,
a new sunshine of freedom be illuminated
the future of the captive slaves forever,
and our civilisation  be decorated with the glittering
smiles of the slaves -rescued and rehabilitated .
©P.K. Deb
Inspired by the news- published by prominent Indian news papers in October 2013

Pijush Kanti Deb is an Associate Professor in Economics. Poems published by international magazine Tajmahal Review and Camelsaloon online. Five poems accepted by for serial online publication and one poem accepted by Diversion Press. One haiku published by Gean tree haiku journal, three more accepted by Down in the dirt 1 and Dead snake magazines 2. Another Haiku  published by My word wizard online. Five poems published by Poetic monthly magazine.Another poem accepted by LSS

After I published the initial submission, the poet requested that we replace it with a later draft. HM.

Monday, 4 November 2013

Dressed like Miley Cyrus pouting like Rihanna

Dressed like Miley Cyrus pouting like Rihanna

But barely 13 …

The car door opens to something  obscene

And as is it rambles on for “their” special one

Drinks and candy pass their way

He says she’s beautiful and he’s sure his friends will also think that way

Dressed like Miley Cyrus pouting like Rihanna

But barely thirteen…

She’s left …

like a broken doll

Stripped …

of her childhood

©David Mellor
Miley Cyrus video criticised

David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

Sunday, 3 November 2013

Sunday Review

We began the week a little short of submissions here at 'Poetry24' which circumstance gave me the perfect opportunity to pen and publish  'A Peasant's Revolt' a short piece in in support of Russell Brand who, in the aftermath of his television interview with Jeremy Paxman, seems to have become the celebrity equivalent of a red grouse on the dawn of the Glorious Twelfth. People have been waiting in line to take pot shots at Mr Brand and most of them have had something to say about his inability to offer a viable alternative as though this automatically debars him from commenting on the very obvious injustices that characterise the status quo. I am afraid I don't agree with this viewpoint. I disagree on the grounds that Mr Brand, who was not offering himself up as a political leader, had no need to come up with a viable alternative and state it in a brief TV interview. Rather, it seems to me that what he set out to do - and what he achieved with admirable passion and conviction - was to give expression to the very real anger felt by those at the bottom of the social pile, many of them vilified and demonised by this government. On this subject, then, I make no apology. Nuff said.

On Tuesday we published 'Violin' by David Subacchi, a response to the sale by auction of the Titanic violin, an instrument that was 'Too sad to be endured' and was therefore 'condemned / To decades of silence / In a dusty attic'. Like many others, I have a fascination for all the thousands of human stories that surround this catastrophe; and, indeed, my grandmother had a cousin who went down with the ship; so, for me, David's poem was especially plaintive and haunting. I found it suggestive of the dying notes 'Abide With Me', a hymn which I cannot hear without an accompanying shiver. 

There were nothing at all to put up on Wednesday so The Bears put out a special plea for submissions and were rewarded by Philip Johnson's 'Tears at the Chapel Royal' .  Philip is a regular here at Poetry24 and, quite apart from being grateful for his prompt response, I have to say that I love the sparse simplicity of these lines: 'in a box / the forgotten heir / winters / without light'. Thank you, Philip. You're a star.

On Thursday, it was back to me.  I put up 'dangerous truth' because I felt it was immensely important that this story, about 'the Kabul women's poetry club' did not pass unnoticed.  On Friday, though, it was the turn of Darrell Petska with 'Zombie Antidote', a piece which besides being delightfully appropriate to the season, is also intensely thought-provoking. My favourite line?  It has to be 'imaginative minds repel zombie teeth'.

Well, that's it from me. Hamish will be back with you next Sunday. Please keep those submissions coming in and please tell your friends. Much as we love our regulars, we welcome new contributors. :-)
Abi Wyatt

Friday, 1 November 2013

Zombie Antidote

Down our streets shuffle and moan
the zombie horde, off to work
or a mass feeding—nothing better to do
than crave living flesh. They've invaded
supermarkets and malls, even our pubs!
Sounds of their banquetings linger into night.

The police can't stem the slobbering mob.
The military succumbed to them long ago.
The average citizen is left to cower indoors.

News has been grim, yet gone unreported is
not a poet has been bitten—as if
imaginative minds repel zombie teeth.
How ironic, except to poets themselves, that
poetry, rather than barricades and brain shots,
might be an answer to this plodding scourge.

What works for poets must work for others:
cultivated widely, surely creative minds will
finally leave zombies with nothing to chew.
(As for the unemployed zombie population,
there'll come an ingenious solution, say,
first-line defense against beefy extraterrestrials?)

© Darrell Petska

Darrell retired recently after more than 30 years as an editor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His poetry appears in a variety of online and print publications.
Why are zombies so popular?