Your cheery chance to spread smiles and laughter around the world until 31 May.
Writers published here as at 25 April
Click on any name to see that author’s work
Annie Ellis
, Ansuya Patel, Christine Griffin, Derek Sellen, Duncan Forbes, Eleanor Lodewijks, Frank William Finney, Howard Timms, Michael Swan, Sara Stegen, Stafford Cross, Tracy Davidson
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Wildfire is looking for light-hearted writing that makes listeners and readers smile, titter, giggle, belly laugh, cry with helpless mirth, or is black humour that makes us all think. We aim to publish writing that is strikingly original with both text and audio, preferably in the author’s voice.
Your submission can be in almost any form from a haiku of 17 syllables to a story or poem of no more than 200 words. That maximum includes the title (which your work must have).
Short works. Under one title, you can include a selection of up to 5 short works which relate to that title. Those short works may be haiku, epigrams, clerihews or any other format (except limericks*) , as long as the total including the collective title is no more than 200 words. An example of this is 5 haikus by Michael Swan
As Shakespeare said “Brevity is the soul of wit.” (Polonius in Hamlet) Later came Pam Ayres with “. . . nothing kills a comic poem more quickly than being too long.”(Up in the Attic, 2019, Ebury Press)
*Please note that WE ARE NOT ACCEPTING LIMERICKS for Practically joking, since we have a charity fundraiser competition for the best limerick in parallel with this feature.
Click here if you’re ready to submit
The choice of theme, content, whatjemacallit, or stuff is entirely up to you — as long as you “want to make the world laugh,” chuckle, guffaw, snigger, smile, or groan affectionately.
A thought to inspire your writing — the world was thought to be square, until someone discovered that laughter makes the world go round.
We call this free submission window Practically joking to encourage you to practice writing humo(u)r. Instead, you might want to write a story about a practical joke, successful or not.
Submissions People from more than 100 countries visit Wildfire. We respect them all, their well-being, beliefs, individuality, and free speech, and expect the same from other writers. We’ll evaluate your funny jewel, whether it’s a cut and polished dazzler or a rough stone with some interesting, unique lustre. So please don’t hesitate to submit.
Click here if you’re ready to submit
Guidelines
During this submission window, each writer may make one submission as a single file containing 1, 2, or 3 works, each with its own title. The file can be text, audio in the writer’s voice, or two files — one audio, one text. Each can be a story or poem of no more than 200 words. Do, please, supply a mini-bio of 60 words maximum to be published alongside your poem. If you submit only text, and it’s chosen for publication, we encourage you to submit an audio recording of your poem(s) or book a place on a Wildfire recording session. Details are at Recording your Words.
Submissions are free and must be sent by 11:59 pm on 31 May.
Submitted poems must be your own original work, in English, preferably unpublished in any form except your own website. However, you may submit previously published work, provided you own the copyright with no restriction on another online publication.
Where an original poet teams up with a translator into English, we will consider publishing the work, provided biographies of both original poet and translator are provided.
If your text and audio are published online in Wildfire words, it will be on a non-exclusive basis for at least one year. The copyright remains yours for all poems, bios, and audio recordings you submit for publication.
Submissions are free of charge both text and audio. However if you like Wildfire Words and wish to support its sustainability you are welcome to make a donation when you submit. About Us tells you about this non-profit organization and its team, providing publication opportunities for writers worldwide. Donations are voluntary and do not affect whether or not your work is chosen for publication.
Submission
Duncan Forbes
Domestic Triumph
Stung by a wasp in a slipper,
I sent myself on a quest
To find the home of the culprit
And exterminate the nest.
As for the airing cupboard,
I bought a cunning device,
An ultrasonic repellent,
Which seems to deter the mice.
We welcomed birds to our table
With succulent grains and fats
But the nuts and balls attracted
Wood mice, squirrels and rats.
I baited a rodent named Ronald,
A virile bachelor rat,
Until I found him poisoned
Outside his basement flat.
I did a good job on the cobwebs,
I wiped up the spiders’ crap
And used a duster to gather
The gossamer woven to trap.
The woodlice remain a problem
Because they like damp and dark
And the dry-lined walls of our dwelling
Are a natural woodlouse park.
I remind myself of my virtues
When I try to go to sleep
But the dreams I have disturb me
Like snakes in a compost heap.
Euphemisms
I thought I would never say ‘toilet’
Because it was so non-U.
I thought I would always call it
The lavatory or the loo
But now without batting an eyelid
I ask for the toilet too.
Some things just can’t be avoided
And voiding the bowels are two.
Add to Basket
What shall I call it,
This volume or tome?
Places and Platitudes,
Away and At Home?
Terse Verses & Curses?
Beasts and Beatitudes?
Attics and Attitudes?
Stuck for a title
That’s ripe for recital,
I’m lexicon-cruising
From aardvark to zoo.
Thank God I’m not choosing
A pseudonym too.
Duncan Forbes is a British poet published by Faber, Secker and Enitharmon, who produced a Selected Poems (2009), drawn from five previous collections. He has won a Gregory Award, Stephen Spender Prizes, Hawthornden Award and TLS/Blackwells prize. For his most recent collections, Human Time (2020) and Under the Sun (2024), see www.duncanforbes.com
Sara Stegen
Can I decorate you?
Can I decorate you?
We Dutch say this when
we make a move
on someone we kinda like.
Will you stand
before me
while I decorate you?
My tall evergreen tree.
Can I decorate you?
Then you can decorate me.
Greenwashing
A waterpark for cars.
The street is soaking wet
water blankets the sides.
Come on, who will
make the biggest splash.
Soak the trees and grass.
Is this greenwashing?
Automatic
I miss driving stick.
Driving is so boring now,
no clutching, breaking
or accelerating.
Less steering with lane assist.
Automatic everything.
The automatic switches
the gears off in my brain.
Are humans meant to be
automatic too.
Sara Stegen is a Dutch poet and non-fiction author who writes about land, family, nature, and neurodivergence. Home is a boulder-clay ridge in the northern Netherlands where her bike shed contains 8 bicycles and where she is working on a memoir about apples and autism and her first poetry collection.
Ansuya Patel
President’s Hair
I wake before he does. I must! Power doesn’t tousle —it’s engineered.
They line up instruments like a ceremonial ritual— boar bristle hairbrushes, gold-lacquered spray, the fine-toothed comb for precision work. I take the mist, the lift, the careful sculpting. No crunch. No residue. Only command. I am expected to endure—twelve hours under sun, scrutiny, and suspicion—and still hold a lead.
How long did Jesus spend on his hair?
I check the mirror: not a strand astray. History will remember… the hair that became president. No floppy fringe under pressure. Sweaty scalp? I don’t sweat—I shine.
Did you see his handshake? Sun hit my crown—looked like a divine endorsement. Frankly, I outshone the King. The Queen’s bouffant? Respectfully… outdated.
By noon, cameras circling—I gleam. Every angle rehearsed. Beneath it all? Pressure. Polls. And… an itch. Minor scandal—handled with a discreet comb. Even the green lacewings like to hitch a ride in my coiffure.
Then comes the wind. They call it many things. I call it opposition. I pivot, flex, recover. I have survived worse than air.
At night I collapse over white pillows dreaming victory.
Ansuya Patel’s work has appeared in Allegro, Broken Spine, Crowstep, Drawn to the Light, Gypsophila, Last Stanza, Rattle, Renard and elsewhere. Her poems have been short listed for the Alpine, Aurora and the Bridport poetry prize. She was a joint winner of the Geoff Steven’s memorial poetry prize in 2024. Her debut poetry collection Wolves At My Door was recently published by Indigo Dreams Publishing. https://indigodreamspublishing.com/ansuya-patel
Frank William Finney
Ben Franklin
(Voiced by Howard Timms)
You were more on the mark
with the ladies in France, if we
can believe what historians say.
And what about William, your only son?
There were rumblings and rumours.
Scandalous secrets.
The schoolbooks leave out
your ‘Advice to a Young Man
on the Choice of a Mistress’:
to prefer an old hen to a pullet
or chick.
In the Teachers’ lounge
at the Scholar’s Symposium,
Señor de Miranda shivers
and closes the book.
“That Franklin,” he mutters,
“can go fly a kite”.
Domestic Distancing
(Voiced by Howard Timms)
She keeps
the old queen
crowned in a quilt.
He sleeps
in the spare room
under a kilt.
Both, so far,
get on with life.
He’s still her husband.
She’s still his wife.
He seldom visits
at night anymore.
Neither seems bothered.
Both of them snore.
Ein Kleiner Zauber
(Berlin, circa 1986)
(Voiced by Howard Timms)
On a twilight jaunt
before the wall came down,
we were standing
by the river.
It was bitter cold that winter night,
but that’s not what made us shiver:
Two rabbits romping in the snow
worked like a magic spell.
A trick that made us reappear
in a room at the Hop-on Hotel.
Frank William Finney is a retired university lecturer from Massachusetts. His poetry has recently appeared in Dog Named Dog Press, Literary Cocktail Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Poetry Habitat, Rawhead Review, and Suburban Witchcraft. Find him at frank.william.finney.net
Eleanor Lodewijks
Cake I Will Resist
It calls to me, it really does
Gleaming chocolate‑brown, it sends a buzz
Whispers my name
A sweet little claim
It drains what’s left of my self‑control
To keep me from diving straight for the bowl
Yet it looks so lonely,
It stares at me — I’m too bony
Am I really cruel enough
To let this precious cake go untouched?
The bakery’s creation, moulding in my bin —
A quiet disservice, surely not a win.
But no, oh it’s so sugar-dense
Treats like these keep the doctors employed, hence
“I’m not eating cake today!” I yell, fists tight
But through my pallet, I feel a fight
The cake just shrugs and replies,
In that sugary disguise
“I’ve turned your promise into frosting,
Now eat your words — no more defrosting.”
Oh, the agony — that burst of sweetness,
The joy I’m missing, where’s my completeness?
Spirits, help me turn away;
Deprive me of this cake, don’t let me stay
But the icing’s gone runny,
It really isn’t funny.
Perhaps the cake is crying —
I’m cruel; the cake is dying
I caused its downfall, after all.
I take a slice… not really small.
Heated Feathers
It parades the room with ample pride,
Not a hint of grace to coincide.
It springs at every biscuit tossed,
Then claims the treat, forget the cost.
Yes, regardless of our cranky scowls,
It smirks and scoffs the whole thing down.
One bite and it’s all spick-spang gone,
That’s what it does from dusk to dawn.
Eat, steal, smirk, repeat,
That cheeky little piece of meat.
I wonder about the juicy taste,
That pigeon would make a fantastic baste.
Eleanor Lodewijks is a school student who is beginning to write poetry. She loves to read, play sports and debate. Eleanor also likes to keep up-to-date with current events & is interested in politics.
Annie Ellis
Time to Go
Where are you going?
You can’t go in the ladies
they don’t have urinals.
You’ll be chased out in seconds.
Where are you going?
You can’t go in the men’s either.
Yes, I know you’re a man
but with long fluttering eye lashes
blue eye shadow
a beautiful blonde wig
a strapless ball gown
men are looking at you
as if you were Marilyn Monroe.
I know you want to go
after drinking all that beer.
You’ll have to go in the bushes on the way home
and no
I won’t hold up your petticoats.
Howard Timms
The King plays poker with peace at stake
He has a classic poker face
but always reveals his cards
too soon because he guesses
the other players have none.
When Israel dealt a game
the King played with Iran
and thought he held all the cards
but was trumped by the Strait of Hormuz.
Christine Griffin
The Yellow Striped Bikini
When summer comes to our town, folk all come out of doors.
The women stand there nattering, abandoning their chores.
The kids play out with ropes and balls; they love a game of cricket.
The fielders stand on garden walls and the lamppost is the wicket.
Our hero Stan from thirty-two has pigeons out the back.
He whistles as he mucks them out in their tumbledown old shack.
Next door to Stan lives Mavis Duke, a lass by no means teeny.
She loves to lie out in the sun in a yellow striped bikini.
Now Stan has found that if he climbs the fence that stands between, he
can see sweet Mavis lying there in her yellow striped bikini.
but lovely Mavis is no fool, she’s clocked Stan, and she’s seen he
could make her wildest dreams come true in her yellow striped bikini.
One day he’s in his pigeon loft when he hears a mighty scream, he
leaps the fence. ‘Oh Stan,’ she says. ‘Clasp’s bust on my bikini!’
The rest is legend, so they say; when they wed he scrubbed up clean. He
dressed in his best, a smart string vest. She wore her striped bikini.
Hall of Mirrors
I’m standing here, lugubrious, skinny, squat,
grotesque, a bug-eyed, grisly, wriggling worm,
and one thing’s certain, glamorous I’m not.
My boobs are huge, my bum’s a shrunken dot.
These multiples of figures make me squirm.
I’m standing here lugubrious, skinny, squat.
My ears stick out, my face would stop a clock,
my straight hair frizzes like a granny’s perm
and one thing’s certain, glamorous I’m not.
And this godawful, rumpled, ugly frock
does nothing for my wrinkly, sagging arms.
I’m standing here lugubrious, skinny, squat,
contorting like I’ve swallowed bleach or hemlock.
My middle bulges like a sack of tapeworms
and one thing’s certain, glamorous I’m not.
Show me the exit please, I’ve lost the plot.
Let me be tall and pretty, slim and firm.
I’m standing here, lugubrious, skinny, squat.
and one thing’s certain, glamorous I’m not!
Christine Griffin is published both nationally and internationally including in Acumen, Wildfire Words, The Dawntreader and Graffiti magazine amongst others. She has performed her work many times in the Gloucestershire Writers’ Network event at the Cheltenham Literature Festival and recently she performed a selection of her work at the 2026 Cheltenham Poetry Festival.
Michael Swan
How to Write a poem
I think I’ve cracked it.
It’s quite simple.
Get some words
and some metre.
Move the words around
till they fit the metre.
If that’s tricky
drop the metre.
And if that still doesn’t work,
change the words.
But do put in some words.
You don’t want to get into that
experimental modern stuff,
do you?
Abridged Classics for Busy Readers
The Iliad
They all said the war
would be over by Christmas.
Well, they blew that one.
The Odyssey
Sorry I’m late, Pen,
we got blown a bit off course.
Who are all these guys?
Beowulf
Monsters are trouble,
but not as much trouble as
their bloody mothers.
Paradise Lost
Snake gets booted out,
fills us up with left-wing crap,
we get booted out.
Hamlet
This guy mopes about,
does a bit of this and that,
then gets himself killed.
Finding Myself
A wise man once said
the secret of happiness
is to find yourself.
Well, I thought,
worth a try,
let’s go and have a look.
And blow me,
not half an hour down the road
I spotted myself
just outside that new takeaway.
But when I got there,
just a shadow
disappearing round the corner.
Then nothing to be seen
for a bit.
Fair enough,
I thought,
stands to reason,
could be a long job.
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
So I carried on out of town.
And I started getting glimpses:
my head bobbing up and down
behind hedges.
Only for seconds,
but encouraging.
And then
halfway up Juniper Hill
there I was
sitting in a tree
throwing conkers at myself and giggling.
I have to say
that did get me wondering.
And when I got to the Lamb and Flag,
it turned out
I’d had the Traveller’s Lunch,
and left myself a bill for sixteen quid.
Well,
existential quests are OK
but there are limits.
No point being a damn fool about it.
I went back home
and got on with the decorating.
Michael Swan works in Applied Linguistics. He has been writing and translating poetry for many years, in the hope that this will help him to understand our confusing world. No luck so far.
Tracy Davidson
Natural Woman
No Botox, boob jobs, bum lifts here,
just wrinkles, droops, and wobbly glutes.
Natural ageing’s nowt to fear,
no Botox, boob jobs, bum lifts here.
Though mirrors may not bring much cheer,
I’m what I am, and grey hair suits.
No Botox, boob jobs, bum lifts here,
just wrinkles, droops, and wobbly glutes.
Bad Form
It’s not good form to fight the Pope,
nor pose as Jesus. Silly dope!
Mini Me, Not
spoonfuls of sugar
may help with my medicines…
but not with my waist!
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Modern Haiku, Femku, The Binnacle, Black Hare Press, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.
Derek Sellen
The Lugubrious Gardener
I have an aged gardener,
he likes to meditate on dying;
‘All things decay and fall to dust,’
says Bill while deeply sighing.
His body’s slowed from all his toil,
to pull a weed takes Bill an hour –
but it only takes a moment
for his boot to crush a flower.
Bill’s secateurs are rusty,
they show no mercy for the bud,
he mows the lawn and doesn’t stop
until it’s Flanders mud.
He talks of plants as if they’re folk,
“I don’t like ’im,” he’ll say
and though you love the scent and colour,
that ’im will go one day.
I looked out once and saw old Bill
lean on his fork in fading light;
‘all things must pass,’ he seemed to say,
‘into the dark eternal night.’
He tells me of his aches and pains,
then says with grinning gloom:
for a chap like you who’s used his mind,
dementia is your doom.
I have an aged gardener,
he likes to meditate on dying;
he’s not yet sent me to the grave,
but not for want of trying.
Derek Sellen lives in Canterbury and has written poetry over many years. His third collection, The Night Bus, will be published in Autumn 2026 by Cinnamon Press. He has won Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year twice and O’Bheal Five Words (Cork) three times. His poetry is often inspired by art but on this occasion by a real-life lugubrious gardener.
Stafford Cross
Octopus arms
At school, my childhood sweetheart
Possessed so many charms
She boasted to her teenage friends
That I, had Octopus Arms,
You know, the sort that slyly slides
Towards its destination.
When pushed away, one more arrives
From the opposite direction.
But how on earth she knew that
I cannot rightly say.
I truly can’t recall a time,
She pushed my arm away.
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken Sailor?
Sober him up quickly.
Afore he starts singing sea shanties
Sober him up, before he sings shanties
Sober him up, before he sings shanties
Sober him up, before he sings shanties
Early in the morning.
Aaagh!
Too late.
Too Late, Let’s just leave him.
Too Late, Let’s just leave him
Too Late, Let’s just leave him
Oh, No. Not you as well.
Virtual Quest
Jonathan adjusted his VR headset,
Preparing for the final thirteenth stage.
He reviewed his progress.
He’d beaten the Warrior Monks.
And taken three Vows from them.
He used SILENCE to sneak past the Demi-God Priapus,
Thereby gaining “Freedom of the Priapic State. “
He achieved POVERTY, bribing the handmaiden
To obtain the “Key to the Princess’s Boudoir “
He would enjoy breaking the third later.
The motto over the Grimm door read.
A Beauty that never Sleeps lies within.
Satisfy her Deepest Desire,
Mind your P’s and Cues
Choose Wisely
He entered.
The Princess, Deshabillé,
Fretfully fidgeting in search of sleep,
Flashed fleeting glimpses of forbidden flesh,
An Impudent Imp appeared on his left shoulder, lecherously leering.
An Impotent Angel, on his right, averted his gaze.
Jonathan knew his Fairy Stories.
Discounting the “Canopy Over the Bed”, and the “Can O’ Pee” under it.
He carefully extracted the Pea from under the Thirteenth Mattress.
The Princess sighed in ecstasy.
“Will this be your lucky night or mine? “ she murmured
I’m so comfortable I just want to sleep for a hundred years.
Kiss me Good (K)night.
And tell me your name.
JONATHAN!!
Get off that computer.
You’ve got exams tomorrow.
Stafford Cross mis-spent his youth at the same school (Burford Grammar) as John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, who sparked an early interest in Poetry.
He graduated in Chemistry before discovering Real Ale, Computers, Folk Singing and Lady Morris Dancers. In retirement, Stafford won the Inaugural KEP Limerick competition at Wildfire Words, where more of his poetry and short stories may be found.