Saturday, 30 September 2017

Dear Lavinia

Shame on your boyfriend!
What’s a little bread knife?
And besides, what, exactly,
did you do?
He said he would tell your mother,
twist the screw,
his fingers going
like a second hand
on the skype screen
just because your habit
was becoming,
becoming,
well, habitual,
though he saw how your hands
twisted on the handle
of the knife
heard you insist you would be
careful.
What a show it must have been,
when you lifted
the laptop,
and wrapped it around his head,
the way you’ll bandage a heart, no doubt,
when you qualify as a surgeon, soon,
your degree an unblemished
badge of honour still
because the judge would not convict
such a beautiful young prodigy
from Oxford.
If only he were as humane towards
the less privileged.
So this vexing day out at court
is just a brief havoc;
it will float out of the window
like light,
light as the blond shine of your hair,
away from the prying eyes
of the university panel,
leaving your character
intact.

© Afric McGlinchey

Why the Oxford stabbing student really is too talented for jail

Afric McGlinchey won the prestigious Hennessy Poetry Award (2011). Her début collection,
The lucky star of hidden things, was published in 2012 by Salmon Poetry.

Friday, 29 September 2017

The End

Old banger, two door, fading red –
hardly the wheels of high-end crime.
Reports of a shooter.

Unmarked cars track along the M5
and when he comes off at 18
and heads off down the Portbury Hundred

the ARVs shoot past, slow down,
box him in,
causing him to stop.

The guns get out,
walk over to his window,
execute the arrest

shots fired – ten.
One way only.
The end.

© Richard Devereux

Man dead after police 'surround car and shoot into it' near Bristol

Richard Devereux belongs to Bristol Stanza. His main themes are Greece, people and politics. His collection Billtells his grandfather’s tale - Private Everyman in Greece in WW1.

Thursday, 28 September 2017

This is the brake

This is the brake, he told me.
The accelerator, here.
This stick in the middle?
We use that to change gear.
This is called the steering wheel.
You turn it left or right.
This is called a clutch, my dear,
and this turns on your lights.

He carried on mansplaining
and, at each child-simple word,
I smiled and nodded briefly
to show that I had heard.
He didn’t know I’d studied
the manuals night and day.
He didn’t know I’d sat inside
the car and learned its way.

He thought this was the first time
I’d heard of brakes and gears,
but I had dreamed that language
and practised it for years.
Not only I, but all my friends.
We’d gossiped hopefulness
and fuelled ourselves with faith
that we would drive the men to yes.

© Fran Hill

Saudi Arabia driving ban on women to be lifted

Fran Hill is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

Menstrual tax

Tax me because I'm a woman

Tax me because I bleed

Make me pay more than men

Pay for their unused seed

My life is hard enough

Without taxing my menstrual flow

A monthly period of blood

A period of mess below

Is a towel a luxury?

According to government it is

But it only affects the Her's

It don't affect the His

What happens when I have no means or cash?

To pay this unequal uneven tax

When I can't afford a tampon or pad

These are everyday facts

This is without the sadness of PMT or PMS

Man has no idea of the pain or the bloody stress

Why would you tax a woman just for being her?

How do you tax a towel that woman is forced to wear?

This taxation is way out of line, unjust and morally wrong

Its time to end this crippling tax

Menstruation's been exploited way too long!

© Robin Welsh

Labour promise free sanitary products for girls and women in bid to tackle 'period poverty'

Robin Welsh writes poems and rhymes daily about all life in general...but mainly politics, human rights and world affairs. Performing at every opportunity he can get, not yet published because of procrastination.

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

Complete Sense Here In The Playground

Here in the playground
of the special school for world diplomacy,
everybody is watching the two bullies
circling each other.
‘Mentally deranged US dotard!’
yells Kim Jong-Un at Donald Trump.
‘Madman!’
yells Donald right back.

Miracle of miracles:
suddenly, and even though
it is so brief it is all over by the time
they start their next sentences,
both of them are making
complete sense.

© David Bateman

North Korea: Trump and Kim call each other mad

David Bateman had his most recent book, Shtum: The Stutter Poems published by Iron Press, 2016. It's available from Iron Press, Amazon and elsewhere. ‘punchy poems... told with wit and invention’ – The Crack Magazine.

Monday, 25 September 2017

Forgotten Heroes

Not only those who fight and die
But those who watch a screen and sigh:
They also serve who push a switch
And leave the field with mental twitch.
The bravest feat of British arms:
To game away their moral qualms;
For, if we doubt these propositions,
What medals then for politicians?

© Philip Challinor

UK drone pilots to get medals for killing from 2,000 miles outside the combat zone

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Sunday, 24 September 2017

Sound of Hope

bodies
wrapped in sheets
are carried out
one by one
through the night

people are weeping
shouting
calling for help
a criss-cross of cries
hundreds clamour
in a hubbub of crowds

suddenly
a man raises his arm
his hand a silent command

all fall quiet

silence runs in the roads
all you can hear is hope

breath held
in voiceless prayer

they watch
wait
dumb
unmoving

concrete debris piled
buildings tight layered
block on block
floor on floor

someone is hitting a wall
deep down there

knock knock knock

hush hush hush

knock knock knock

hush hush hush

and a fireman whispers

Viva! Viva! Viva!
Alive! Alive! Alive!

© Jackie Biggs

Mexico earthquake: Death toll rises as search for survivors goes on

Jackie Biggs has had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies, both print and online. Her first collection is The Spaces in Between (2015). She blogs at: The Spaces in Between. Twitter: @JackieNews

Saturday, 23 September 2017

Autumn Equinox

The sky above my house is blue,

Timeless, dateless blue that

Beckons, urges, demands

Me to surrender.



I stare above the walls,

The gates with rust encroaching,

The pots of hard-pressed flowers,

To blue sucking me upward.



Thin clouds stretch and bask

In sun-sent rays and daytime

Sky smiles like a lover

Knowing beyond lie mysteries of stars.



I am there. The earth’s truest

Beauty is above the earth,

Calling me upward on this

Rare day of balance, calling me



Up to the infinity of blue.

No earthquake, no tempest,

No hatred, no cancer, no pain.

My spirit soars, is free.

© Charlie Lambert

Say goodbye to summer as sun passes over equator marking first day of autumn

Charlie Lambert is a former journalist and sports broadcaster who turned to a different form of media in 2016 when he started writing poetry. He lives in Liverpool.

Friday, 22 September 2017

The Origins of Fuzzy Logic

i.m. Lotfi Zadeh 1921-2017



When she called to cancel

dinner, she offered

no excuse, said that

something had come up,

a phrase that got me

thinking

about the elasticity of truth.



I called her back,

hung up

before she answered,

knowing

that a missed call

can create a fresh truth,

one that begs

to be uncovered.

© Maurice Devitt

Remembering Lotfi Zadeh, the Inventor of Fuzzy Logic

Maurice Devitt was runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, he has had poems published in Ireland, England, Scotland, the US, Mexico, Romania, India and Australia, runs the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site and is a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.

Thursday, 21 September 2017

Dicing With Death

The act of a Russian has now come to light:
he was on duty in nineteen-eighty-three
monitoring early signs of a nuclear attack.
He took a decision that proved to be right
but what he did might have meant the sack.
Incoming missiles from the US. were spotted
by faulty computers but it was a false alarm.
Stanislav took a gamble and kept shtumm
thus saving the world from terrible harm.
If he had been wrong, an enormous blast
would have happened a few minutes later
and a global conflict would’ve happened fast.
We should praise this man who saved the day
and who sadly passed away last May.

© Luigi Pagano

Stanislav Petrov, who averted possible nuclear war, dies at 77

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Secret North Korean Poet

I wear the title of my poem.
Official Haircut 17.
From the Official Haircut List.
I chose 17 at random.
And not because I like the style.

I use the Jasmine nom-de plume.
It throws the SD off my scent.
They’re still looking for a woman.
It doesn’t stop me making stink.
When I discuss our Nation’s shit.

Conductor on a People’s Bus.
I stare into the peoples’ eyes.
And see what’s really going on.
I like the rhythm of stop-start.
The none of this – too much of that.




Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Maria

“The most beautiful sound I ever heard:
Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria . . . “


I wonder how many will sing this refrain

as the storm reaches the Lesser Antilles.

Expected to become a major hurricane

with strong winds and torrential rain

this Maria follows in Irma’s footsteps

to cause havoc to the Leeward Islands

and any place which stands in its path.

Are these disturbances caused by us

or are they the result of a divine wrath?

We should at least be seen to discuss

the possibility that it is global warming

the real reason for this wild weather

because the victims of such disasters

are, we see, at the end of their tether.

© Luigi Pagano


Luigi has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines,UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.

Monday, 18 September 2017

Evacuating Hereford

From Fir Tree Lane junction and the Straight Mile
Near where World War Two hand grenades were found,
They shut roads and placed a cordon around
So they could make things safe army style;
People were moved out of homes for a while
Taking all their pets, every cat and hound;
As warning cones were put down on the ground,
A real nuisance there was hardly a smile.

‘I can’t get my workforce in’ said one man
The cross owner of business premises,
But Margaret who’d lived there since forty one
Said ‘I’m not moving out at my expense,
If you’d been here in the war you’d not run
Or be frightened by this kind of nonsense!’

© David Subacchi

Hereford industrial estate evacuated after 'grenade' blast

David lives in Wales where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has five published collections of poetry.
He writes in English, Welsh and Italian.

Sunday, 17 September 2017

1960s Immigrant to Boston

I. First


Off the boat.

Real houses made of wood.

Four feet of snow.

This is U.S. winter?


Need to use the John?

What to answer?

(My brother John just dropped me off.)

Five dollars a week to clean, cook,

babysit three kids.

Use only back door.


Part-time cashier at A&P.

Two large nickels equal one very small dime.

Oh you have an English accent.

Work to lose it.


Women on the T dress-up

thick make-up

poofy hair

but sneakers not shoes.

Also poor?



II. College First Months


No money, no car

can’t drive anyway

also on wrong side.


Irish and blacks run from police.

Yemenis run from their land

hide face in college coffee shops.


Beatles blare on the street.

Pro tennis at Longwood Cricket Club.

Jamaica Pond near Pill Hill.


Bailey’s ice cream, chocolate sauce.

Fenway path, keep going past Sears…


Ahhh, the Red Sox.

© Lavinia Kumar

Why the American ‘Dreamers’ programme needs to be saved

Lavinia Kumar’s new poetry book, The Celtic Fisherman’s Wife: A Druid Life, is on Amazon (US & UK). Her website is laviniakumar.org

Saturday, 16 September 2017

Leaving Ireland for England, 1950s

Mother was taking us to where

she usually was.


People threw up.

Irish sea rough,

night dark ­­– hard

to know how to escape

mess on the deck

vile smells

crashing noise

confusion.


We, ten and eight,

knew rocky beaches,

the Sugar Loaf,

rides on donkey and cart,

boarding school.

We were leaving –

boat then train,

more trains.


In the end

not coming back.

© Lavinia Kumar

UK Home Office 'cannot be trusted', say EU citizens' rights groups

Lavinia Kumar’s new poetry book, The Celtic Fisherman’s Wife: A Druid Life, is on Amazon (US & UK). Her website is laviniakumar.org

Friday, 15 September 2017

Insult

I’m not, admittedly, the world’s most handsome
of lizards, so my mirror tells me daily.
I’ve never been approached to be a model -
not that I’m overweight, just – over-scaly.
My eyes are on the sides which makes things awkward
when chatting up a female in a bar.
She’s never sure I’m paying her attention
while all the other girls around her are.
Despite all this, however, it’s an insult
to read the news today. Well, what a shock!
However could a lizard be mistaken
for a smelly, crusty, old discarded sock?
My eyes – they may not do me any favours,
But they should have gone – that family – to Specsavers.

© Fran Hill


Fran is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.

Thursday, 14 September 2017

to put a cap on austerity

man enters bank then raises gun
to encourage a withdrawal
gets fifteen years
without remission

man enters Parliament and orders cops
to deliver electric shock stunning cosh
nips off to Panama to make a secret deposit
ends in the Lords nicking more each day
for life

The Nasty Party
learning nothing
all the while

this that and the other prey into their cell phones
way beyond Henry The Eighth floor
Grenfell Tower

sprinkle of teardrops not enough

© Philip Johnson


Philip's work includes hard copy published by: Poetry Now, Anchor Poets, North West Disabled Writers Group, Das Alchemy, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Mid Cheshire Writers Group, Cheshire Carers Centre Newsletter, National Assc for Colitis & Crohn's Disease newsletters, local, regional and a national newspaper.

Electronic Formats: Write Away, Caught In The Net, The Red Pencil, and The Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Caught In The Net

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

Conductors of the sun

First, the moon left   sunlight encroached on night

Second, the waves stopped   entire oceans at rest 

Third, the wind died   no rustling of leaves

Fourth, the stars were smogged out   the galaxy map erased

Fifth, the birds stopped chirping   winged creatures fell from the sky

Sixth, the people kept doing people things   as all other life forms withered away

And on the seventh day   the Mother cried

© Sarah Bigham

In a changing Arctic, a lone Coast Guard icebreaker maneuvers through ice and geopolitics

Sarah lives in Maryland with her kind chemist wife, their three independent cats, and an unwieldy herb garden. Find her at www.sgbigham.com

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

The Turkey Vultures

…like a group of balding monks gathered in prayer
Peter Dunne

Nothing pious about the vulture
at the roadside where I stopped my car
to watch its wrinkled red head pluck
at bloody guts. It eyed me and hissed,
then dragged its meal behind a bush.
Wasted effort—I’m not fond of gopher.

Observe a vulture’s six-foot wingspread
riding the thermals, but consider
fifteen shaggy mounds roosting high
every night in the maples.
I have eight children, Maggie said.
Those birds better keep their distance.

© Nancy Scott

Turkey Vultures, the Underrated Locals

Nancy is author of nine books of poetry. Many of her poems deal with social justice issues.
She resides in New Jersey, USA, www.nancyscott.net

Monday, 11 September 2017

No Arborist

They are planting young trees in the park.
They are not a few but many these trees, being
different in colour and kind and, since I am no arborist,
their names are beyond my poor knowing.

They are spaced apart to grow into shade
where presently the sun burns the grass,
those places where the earth now splits in fissures
and the slithering earthworm shrivels.

And each tender sapling has its own plastic sleeve
like a parent to protect and support it;
though the wind may blow still and dogs may come
and, at night, eager creatures with sharp teeth.

And it is right not to question or quibble over this
but to invest in the green shoots to come.
Only small patience and the gardener's good care,
a little sunshine and sweet rain are needed.

We are wise in such things. We tend to our trees.
Our parks, our gardens, our civic spaces, all these enrich us.
Our children, though, we do not nurture well.
How then shall they flourish and grow tall?

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

David Cameron’s legacy is soaring child poverty – with worse to come

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley (formerly Wyatt) writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance. She is presently involved in a project that aims to brighten up the town with street art and poetry. In this she will be assisted by artist, Stella Rose Benson and fellow Penzance poet, Gray Lightfoot.

Sunday, 10 September 2017

Sunday 'Shorts'

A typical Tinder date

"Our date at Nandos went so well, why don't you come back to mine"?
"A scientology doc awaiting and a lovely bottle of wine"
She maybe the special one, the one I've been waiting for all my life
Maybe the one that will eventually become my wife
An hour into our evening and all is going great
Then she tells me she needs the loo, "I think it's something I ate"
Off she went to the toilet to do a number two
But she encountered a problem with a floating poo
"I've made a slight error I feel a bit of a fool"
"I tried throwing out the window a rogue floating stool"
But the turd didn't go it landed between panes
And it all went wrong when we tried to retrieve these remains
She said "As I'm a gymnast I'll reach and grab the crap"
We managed to get the poo out, the window now became her trap
15 minutes upside-down, I panicked and rang the fire brigade
They came within minutes and released her from this charade
I appreciate a toilet more than ever before, it was an important poo
I now raise money for 3rd world countries to have access to a flushing loo
I also learnt a few things from this Tinder date
1stly she's not the one for me
2ndly a diet of low fibre high fat will create a floater
3rdly Don't throw excrement out of windows.

© Robin Welsh

The Story Of A Woman Stuck Upside-Down In A Window Which Has Taken Over The Internet

Robin writes poems and rhymes daily about all life in general...but mainly politics, human rights and world affairs. Performing at every opportunity he can get, not yet published because of procrastination.


Python Round the Bend

All animal lovers down in Southend
Began to gasp with shock and amazement
At what seemed a hoax or entertainment
When a python emerged from round the bend.
But on lifting the seat not to offend
A snake is not part of the arrangement
Stubborn disbelief causing resentment
For the young boy involved did not pretend.

Still the snake catcher arrived most promptly
To confirm the facts from expert training;
Travelling upwards from the sewer below
A harmless serpent most definitely
In search of freedom after escaping,
Scaring a lad who just wanted to go.

© David Subacchi

Python found lurking in bathroom toilet in Southend

David lives in Wales where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has five published collections of poetry.
He writes in English, Welsh and Italian.

Saturday, 9 September 2017

National Disgrace

Don’t worry about

Cutting corners. We’re Brits,

It’s what we do.


Fill in a form,

No problem, we’ll simply

Wave it through.


Details? They’re like

Taxes, for fools,

Not me and you.


Don’t worry about

Cutting corners. We’re Brits,

It’s what we do.


Titanic looked fantastic,

Cost a vast amount.

Too bad that no-one noticed

Sub-standard lifeboat count.


The Coal Board said don’t worry,

Don’t listen to the man

Who says the tip’s unstable, too

Close to Aberfan.


We’ll have a game of football,

Get the Scousers to attend.

Win, lose or draw they’ll be just fine

On Leppings Lane End.


Don’t worry about

Cutting corners. We’re Brits,

It’s what we do.


Don’t look across the city,

I wouldn’t if I were you.

That tower block is ghastly,

Burned out, it spoils the view.

They say some people saved some cash

And nodded fire tests through,

But the truth old boy is that we’re Brits,


And this is what we do.


© Charlie Lambert

Grenfell Tower: 'Twenty suicide attempts' since fire

Charlie Lambert is a former journalist and sports broadcaster who turned to a different form of media in 2016 when he started writing poetry. He lives in Liverpool. Click HERE out more about Charlie.

Friday, 8 September 2017

Irma la Douce

In my younger days the name Irma la Douce
was synonymous with sweetness and light.
She was a frolicsome but likeable tart
but though full of mischief and naughtiness
she was never as wicked or as troublesome
as the eponymous counterpart of today.
This Irma is neither sweet nor amenable,
but a vicious hurricane which destroys
anything and anyone who stands in her way.
Torrential rain and wind leave a lethal trail
and more extreme weather will follow.
While some climate change deniers will say
that they sympathise and share our sorrow
they are not the ones who are left to wail.

© Luigi Pagano

Hurricane Irma's trail of havoc in Sint-Maarten

Luigi Pagano has published three collections of poems: ‘Idle Thoughts’, ’Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. His work has been featured in ABCTales’ magazines, UKAuthors’ anthologies, Poetry24 and several other publications.
http://gigipagano.wixsite.com/mysite

Thursday, 7 September 2017

Whiskey History

Where the tour ends;
all go to taste the gold distilled;
a dim and humid
shade for a slave
to brew inferno and blaze
sleeps and stays awake.
We know. We know nothing.

I imagine my father’s
grandfather’s father had
a lily white moustache,
gnarled hands, burnt when
his moonshine maker
struck a sober conversation
about his wife - a slave’s slave.

Where my imagination leaves
an arctic trail in a moist hole
a pair of eyes burn,
grass looks like the one
moving across the meadow,
and from a busted still
the steam of moon mash
seeks for an ancient thirst.

© Kushal Poddar

The lost story of Nearest Green, the slave who taught Jack Daniel how to make whiskey

Kushal Poddar is editor of the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’ He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia), “Scratches Within (Florida, USA)” and “Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems(co-authored)”

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

13 years asleep

Asleep, but still conscious
Aware of all around me
I'm not dead
I'm still here
I know you're here too
I can hear you
I can feel you
You don't know I know
You don't care for me
13 years as a ghost
Most wish I was dead
I do too sometimes
I cant take anymore
I don't want abuse
I want to wake
No more nightmare
No more sleep
No more torture of TV
No more scalding food
Treat me as a human
Treat me with respect
I respect you
I know I will awake
I will awake
I will be me again
You just watch...

© Robin Welsh

MAN WAS TRAPPED INSIDE HIS OWN BODY FOR 13 YEARS

Robin writes poems and rhymes daily about all life in general...but mainly politics, human rights and world affairs. Performing at every opportunity he can get, not yet published because of procrastination.

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

A Dreamer’s Questions

Did we have a right to dream these dreams
about living in this dreamed-up musical line,
“Home of the free…and land of the brave?”

Frankly, I think DACA is a harsh acronym,
But the word “Dreamers” says it all, and gently.
So now, gracious extension, perhaps 6 months
to stew in the chemical and bacterial Harvey waters
before we get the boot? What good is that?

More: What good is it to dream if there is no dream?
And when we wake up, the dream was simply an illusion,
Jeff Sessions—that you could take away?
Your purity is showing, Oh! And so beholden
to brutal Daddy Trump, and yes, I’ve read about the Hessians;
just want to say that all of these acronym promises are tainted,
and yet I want to stay—awake—and be free.

© Kay Weeks

Trump Seriously Considering Ending DACA, With 6-Month Delay

Kay Weeks, retired from DOI, NPS (national historic preservation) lives in Ellicott City, Maryland. She writes and paints and loves the ocean, rivers, and yesterday’s sunrise.

Monday, 4 September 2017

UXB Frankfurt

Over seventy two years I lay
Buried where you dropped me
With a defective fuse,
Until builders came
To uncover my fragility;
A familiar occurrence
In this land of hidden memories
Still claiming the lives
Of those who risk all
To prevent destruction.

Tomorrow they will move people
From dwellings, the opera house
And even a bank where gold
Reserves are stored
Hoping to make me safe;
Then slowly people will return
To continue living
On this violated soil
That conceals so many
Not yet ready to return
To the old stability.

David lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry: First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016) as well as a collection in Welsh: Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2016).

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Sunday 'Shorts'

Letter to My Cousins

Dear Munchkins, just to keep you posted.
I wore #Target, #Walmart, and #Payless today.
I went on a shopping spree at Acme, got there
in our ten-year-old Chevy with “Keep Ohio Lovely”
and smiling emoji stickers on the rear bumper.
Spent $21.15 on Cheerios, skim milk and two-for-one
packs of chicken parts and ground beef.
In the check-out line ahead of me, a platinum blonde
bragged to her iPhone how she’d been cast
as a African princess. Aw shucks the scene got cut.
Hey, we spent two glorious weeks in August
traveling from Canton to Little Rock
in our new reconditioned RV. Love, Loretta Sue

© Nancy Scott

Louise Linton: What to know about Steve Mnuchin's wife

Nancy is author of nine books of poetry. Many of her poems deal with social justice issues.
She resides in New Jersey, USA, www.nancyscott.net


So Donald Said to Harvey…

“Well, you have may limited rotating concentric powers—so sad—
but, please get this, Mr. Rabbit, I am King through election,
and that gives me the sole power to forgive a man
who wasn’t guilty in the first place because we need to get
rid of those people who aren’t white and with us…
to enhance my standing with others who love me, and make them happy!”

© Kay Weeks

Hurricane Harvey Makes Landfall Near Corpus Christi, Tex.

Trump Pardons Joe Arpaio, Who Became Face of Crackdown on Illegal Immigration

Kay Weeks is a retired historic preservation professional who lives in Oella, Ellicott City, Maryland— she paints and writes and shares.


even more fun if

even more fun if, in the future, these abused youngsters
send old Tory money grubbers down t' pit with only a candle for light and a plastic hat to keep em from harm should the scraping o' the shit shovel bring th' whole cavern crashing
upon em . . .

© Philip Johnson

Tory peer says Brexit is good because young people will be able to work longer hours

Philip's work includes hard copy published by: Poetry Now, Anchor Poets, North West Disabled Writers Group, Das Alchemy, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Mid Cheshire Writers Group, Cheshire Carers Centre Newsletter, National Assc for Colitis & Crohn's Disease newsletters, local, regional and a national newspaper.


Electronic Formats: Write Away, Caught In The Net, The Red Pencil, and The Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Caught In The Net

Saturday, 2 September 2017

The Arctic

we stand with our slips
of pink paper
waving at civil servants
little chitties
heavy on their tilt
and scupper not skating
lines of us
trembling like a taut wire
hit by a big stick —
we have walked for miles
in muffled silence
our grief insular
we listen
to the din of a planet
booming
through its blow hole
we listen
to stunned storms
rain-pelted doors
that flew back at us;

we listen
to jeering townsman
spiked tenants
home owners and keepers
the cram of lorries
delivering the lost
to canvassed shelters
and it needs scarcely
to be said
that we listened
to the crack in the ice —
something came up
dark as a whale’s eye
striking us senseless
and with one vast gulp
a mouth of water
swallowed us whole.

© Anne Marie Butler

Inside One of Houston’s Improvised Shelters

Annie is a published poet and landscape artist. She lives in a rural village of west Wales. She has a passion for language, her descriptive skills bring economy and colour.

Friday, 1 September 2017

Inspiration

I watched him as he huff-puffed past my window

those first few days when on his new regime

and watched again when he returned, now slower.

I reckoned that by Tuesday he’d give in.

But day by day he passed my window faster,

his face set in a grimace that said 'More'

as though he knew to give up was no option.

He’d seen a sign – the type you don’t ignore.

As weeks went by, he huff-puffed less, walked stronger,

his new legs striding through the morning light,

his body firming up as his resolve did - 

a future that had gone to seed, in sight.

            I watched him as I too had much to lose

            and tugged on my neglected walking shoes.

© Fran Hill

'A pedometer saved my life': How I became fit in my 60s

Fran is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.