Thank you to all who contributed to the 200+ works entered.
This free submission window ran from 1 April to 31 May 2025
Feature editor: Katherine Parsons Audio editor: Howard Timms
The prompt and guidelines for submission to this humorous feature are here.
Writers published
Allan Lake, Andrew Hoaen, Brenda Henderson, Clare Morris, Cy Forrest, Dave Wynne-Jones, David Ashbee
, David Bernard, David Niven, Diana Hills, Donna Marie Smith, Gavin Lumsden, Georgina Titmus, Jeff Phelps, Jeff Skinner, Jill Husser, John Ling, Kate Copeland, Kosar Farjoud, Lou Harris, Mary Mulholland, Michael Eyre, Michael Klimeš, Michelle Smith, Mike Everley, Moray McGowan, Nic Vine, Nigel Hastilow, Paula Montez, Peter Burrows, Peter McDade, Simon Tindale, Stafford Cross, Wendy Webb indicates an audio
Nigel Hastilow
At the Dentist’s
When your body starts heading south
And the state of your teeth leaves you down in the mouth
And the ads on the radio in the waiting room
Fill you with existential gloom,
Just remember, it’s reviving the child in you.
Young kids lose their teeth too.
They proudly display the gaps where their teeth used to be
And if it works for them, it ought to work for me.
I will try to recapture my youth,
Lost tooth by lost tooth.
Bitchin’ ’Bout the Kitchen
The banging and crashing, the drilling and sawing,
It takes a hell of a lot of ignoring.
From dawn ’til dusk the assault goes on
Made worse by the trance tracks on Radio One.
Then there’s a lull, a lapse, a long wait
As some other project’s doomed to much the same fate.
So you sit in the building site that once was your house
And grouse.
As a project it seems never-ending
The dust and the dirt are engrained
I try not to say much that’s offending
I’m calm and relaxed and restrained.
But if we come out of this alive, trust me, honey.
We won’t be paying the bastards any more money.
Nigel Hastilow recently wrote a novel called Devil Money about a man who tried to commandeer the global economy and, in the end, provoked a stock market crash. Luckily that was 300 years ago so nothing to worry about now. Also apt for a quick bit of rhyme. Journalist by trade.
Wendy Webb
Acrostic for a Bare Fool
All weathers in a moment everywhere
Perhaps we carry a bikini and a brolly
Rewilding Spring, let’s drop clothes anywhere
Inspired by bumbling birds and freedom’s folly
Leave peeled banana/brassieres and stare.
Flop around pedestrians so jolly
Ovoid zoom lens/glasses steam. Beware
Ordinary dress (to pocket lolly)
Like most strategic fig leaves, please compare
Shop for fig trees/pineapples/melons/fencing… in your trolley
Dally at the checkout, wrist-strap bare
Arrange a blind and bouquet to meet Mollie
Yet careful with ignition… if you dare.
Wendy Webb loves nature, wildlife, symmetry and form and the creative spark. Published in Reach, Sarasvati, Quantum Leap, Crystal, The Journal, The Frogmore Papers, Dreich, Leicester Literary Journal, Seventh Quarry; online in Littoral, Lothlorien, Autumn Voices, Wildfire Words, Atlantean; broadcast Poetry Place. Books: Love’s Floreloquence, and Landscapes (with David Norris-Kay).
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Loves-Floreloquence-Wendy-Ann-Webb/dp/B0C9SFNQMM/ref=sr_1_2?crid=2UMDIM5CGJAIL&keywords=Love%27s+Floreloquence%2CWendy+Ann+Webb&qid=1688758875&s=books&sprefix=love%27s+fl
Nic Vine
The Heaving Line
The boy stood on the heaving deck,
Whilst all around were heaving, yeuch!
“Tis strange” quoth he “the mess I see,
There weren’t diced carrots in our tea”.
So out he looked and breathed salt spray
Whilst all around for death did pray.
A wave much bigger than the rest
Bore down with foamy, breaking crest.
To get a mop the boy moved aft,
“This wave will clear the mess” he laughed
The wave was on the boat so quick,
He up’d and slipped upon the sick,
And slid right down and through the rail.
“Boy overboard” the helm did wail.
With engine on and foresail furled,
The heavers all forgot they’d hurled.
With harness ready to deploy
They surged upwind towards the boy
“Just throw a bleeping line” Boy cried,
Or else, he saw, they’d sail on by,
And then he climbed it oh so fast
And tumbled back on board at last
Once more upon the heaving deck,
A little pale and very wet,
Boy said “this lesson has ensured
Of sea-sickness you’re surely cured!”
The crew gave up a ragged cheer,
T’was true, for him they’d lost their fear.
“So now” he cried “you mustn’t stop,
Quick, clean the mess with this here mop.”
Nic Vine has recently turned to writing short form fiction, poetry and plays. His modest success so far – published by Arachne Press, Happy London Press, Impress Books – is accompanied by much learning through workshops and practice. Having moved from London to Plymouth, his influences are the confluence of countryside, city and sea.
On The Shelf
Just because my tin is bent
and my label’s ripped and torn
I’m shoved between rows of peas
and I’m feeling quite forlorn.
Please don’t leave me on the shelf
although I look quite battered
pick me up and dust me down
treat me as if I mattered.
Won’t someone please take me home
away from this lonely store
you’ll find I’m really nice inside
and my content you’ll adore.
Mike Everley has been writing for many years and had fiction and poetry published in numerous publications, including: Anglo Welsh Review, Cambrensis, New Welsh Review, Poetry Wales, Outposts, Cardiff Poet, Undiscovered Poet, Entheoscope, Poetry News (Poetry Society), Lothlorien Online Poetry Journal, 5-7-5 Haiku Online Journal, The Bamboo Hut, Dark Poets Club, Green Ink Poetry, Coop, The Nature Of Our Times, The Closed Eye, 101 Words, Cranked Anvil, Voice Club, Train Of Thought, These Pages Sing, Jerry Jazz Musician, The Seventh Quarry, and Acumen. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement.
Moray McGowan
Why must it always be tomato soup?
At PTA tombolas, I grind my molars:
Amidst thickening thickets of losing tickets,
I try harder, ever harder,
Then win stale crisps from someone’s larder,
While that hipster-bearded bore with the flashy 4X4
With a single draw lands two weeks in Guadaloupe.
At the o-so-cosmopolitan School do, I win a plastic kazoo
While the rest scoop handstitched Yubkas, Dirndls, Jupes.
Now again defeated I watch the prizes depleted…
But wait! I dropped a ticket…I stoop,
And let out a winner’s whoop;
Then my shoulders droop, deflated:
It’s the same damn can I donated –
Sometimes I think I’m a few chickens short of a coop.
Ulysses? Who needs all that traipsing around?
You can keep your Mayfairs and Manhattans
Your Cape Towns and your Sydneys
I’d rather stay in her room
With Molly Bloom
While Leopold grills his kidneys.
Moray McGowan, born into a Scottish-Irish family in London, grew up in Norwich, studied in Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Hamburg, wrapped chocolate, harvested fruit, dug trenches, delivered letters, packed vinyl into freightliners and baked boiler insulation before teaching English and German for forty years at universities in Germany, England, Scotland and Ireland. He now lives in Somerset (UK) and Berlin.
Donna Marie Smith
Signs and Symbols
Comma had come to a full stop,
While equal had to dash,
Semi colon had a question,
Why was he above the forward slash.
Greater than and less than,
Wondered if they would ever be,
A number bigger than the rest,
Like the lemniscate infinity.
Asterisk wanted to be a star,
Rather than an after though, omission,
Equal was feeling rather underscore,
At the bottom of addition.
At has lost his handle,
Percent formed a divide,
Open and closed bracket,
Wanted to stay by one another’s side.
Exclamation was shocked at hashtag,
As he categorised and grouped them all,
Tittle sat above the letters,
To make them all feel small.
Dollar wanted to switch with pound,
Ampersand wanted to be just and.
Crossbar sat across the letters,
As if that what had been planned.
Carat has vanished with absolute,
Where they should have been inserted,
Nothing ever absolute,
The probability now both deserted.
Percentage was only at three quarters,
Minus has reduced.
Decimal was at his end,
Nothing more now to compute.
See Me Later
I often jmuble up my letters,
I often get words rong.
Sometimes mis the odd leter out,
Or put plurals where they don’t belongs.
May have a s pace where it shouldn’t be,
A full stop in. the wrong place
Too many, commas, in a line,
Put WRONG words in UPPER CASE.
I put you and me together,
When it should be you and I.
Forget to put a question mark?
After when, where, who, and why.
Using i.e for example,
When it should be e dot g.
Perhaps I should have gone to college,
Studied English at degree.
So, don’t berate me if me wrds arent write,
If my grandma’s not up to par.
No “see me later” on my work,
Let me have that one gold star.
A Bad Spell of Wehthuh
A bad spell of wehthuh is approaching,
Drai with suhnee spells at first.
Turning cileeuh later,
With a heavy downpaw burst.
Reign expected in the evening,
Which may turn into hail.
With a little bit of thuhnduh,
Now blowing in a gail.
The early missed and faug lifts,
Clowdy, chillie, breez.
Patchy rayn pushing in,
Bringing forth a freez.
Reducing to a drizl,
Moderate to light.
A kowld wind from the West,
Lasting through the Knight.
The son may try to push on through,
You could witness a small raynbow.
Yes, a bad spell of wehthuh is approaching,
There could even be some sno.
Donna Marie Smith is a British poet residing in Oldham, Greater Manchester, England. She is a published author with her own Anthology Marmalade Hue published in May 2024. She has over fifty poems published in various anthologies including Wildfire Words, Wheelsong, Invisible poets and Buzzin Bards. Her poems range from quirky light-hearted observational pieces to deeper heartfelt poems.
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61551765666639
Peter McDade
Einstein
We need to talk about Einstein,
The so-called famous scientist
The patent late developer.
We need to point out
Where Einstein went amiss.
He’s wrong about quite a few things.
In a way it’s nothing special;
His interesting mistakes
Are open to correction
If people would only hear me
When I talk about the internal dimensions
Of the Great Pyramid at Giza
Interpolated into his work.
Just a bit of tweaking,
That’s all that Albert’s universe lacks.
Curse the Royal Society
For the so-called Advancement
Of Knowledge. I write to them weekly.
They never write back.
Wormhole to my Genius
You know those moments
When THE isn’t right
Yet A isn’t right
And BUT isn’t right
Yet AND isn’t right?
Where IF isn’t right
Yet WHETHER is wrong…
What if all those moments were
THE WORMHOLE TO MY GENIUS?
Peter McDade has been working on Maths poems.
David Ashbee
Meeting Sir Gavin and his friend
Hiya Gav. Congrats on your knighthood.
Read it in The Castle Times.
Long time no see.
You said you’d be away a while.
Up North for a dare.
I remember thinking
Funny time to go up there.
Coldest winter ever.
Is that second pint for me ?
Oh, sorry, for your friend.
Didn’t see him there behind you
Though crikey he’s tall enough.
Pleased to meet you mate.
Huge mitts, and
What a grip !
I like your jacket.
Lovely shade of green.
Reminds me of that chap on the sweetcorn tins.
David Ashbee has been writing poetry and living in Gloucestershire most of his life.
He has ha d 3 collections selected by publishers, the latest still available being Poems from the Mind Shop (Dempsey and Windle). He adjudicated last year’s GWN poetry competition at the Cheltenham Literature Festival.
Paula Montez
No Can Do
That battered tin is still on the shelf
Under yet one more layer of dust.
That dent must surely have oxidised
And tainted the contents with rust.
The label has long since disappeared,
And I’m no fortune-teller
To guess what’s in that tarnished tin,
Is it salmon or salmonella,
Or beans, or merely has-beens?
Once opened, then it’s too late –
Exposed to the air and expectant
Of filling an empty plate.
So all things considered, I’ll pass –
Too many defects to risk it.
Besides, I’ve spied on the shelf below,
An unopened packet of biscuits.
Wearing Thin…..
The bass singer burst into song,
But somehow it sounded quite wrong.
He sang falsetto highs
With tears in his eyes –
He was wearing a very tight thong.
Wedding Extravaganza
You did say for our wedding, “We’ll have anything you choose”
So, it’s the cliff at Beachy Head with panoramic views.
My dress is long and billowing, all in white of course,
And like a gallant knight, you’ll be waiting on a horse.
I want our wacky guests to be wearing feathered hats,
And down the path before me there’ll be tumbling acrobats.
To entertain the children, we’ll have roundabouts and swings,
And I’ll have a golden eagle to swoop in with the rings.
The music – a live singer, and I’ve hired a microlight.
He’ll be hovering above us as he’s jammin’ “Reggae Night”.
Yeah, the one by Jimmy Cliff, you know..our favourite song!
Whaddya mean a risk assessment, what could possibly go wrong?!
Paula Montez lives in Swansea where she enjoys being part of the poetry scene and is a member of Swansea & District Writers’ Circle. Samples of her poetry can be seen on Instagram at @paula_montez_poetry. Her books are available on Amazon, and her poems are included in various anthologies.
John Ling
Alpha betters
One day S said to E
I do believe we
are the bedrock of civilisation.
If they ever should try
to exclude us, then, why,
the world would collapse in vexation.
Then E said to S
a definitive yes.
You and I we are quite indispensable.
My affect on hard vowels
brings relief to the bowels.
To omit me would be indefensible.
Then S he replied
We are always relied
on to clarify communication.
My use of the plurals
from urban to rurals
makes sense and avoids obfuscation.
They continued this way
for a year and a day
despite much alphabetical laughter.
They appointed themselves
The Lords of the Shelves,
past present and all hereinafter.
Genius felinius
Most of the time
she cannot be seenius
but sleeps in the greenhouse
her fur she’ll be preenius.
Or when she gets hungry
on my window she’ll leanius,
keeps opening her jaws
to make me feel meanius.
So I must let her in,
eats a lot, but stays leanius.
Sits on my laptop and
fucks up the screenius.
Her selfish behaviour
is utterly heinious.
Got life worked out right –
that damn cat’s a genius.
Get the custard rheady
When the late snow lies thick as curses
I am rheady, waiting in the warm dark.
As the last drops dribble down your drains,
and the soil lies flat and flubbered,
look closely, there they are,
my little rhed nipples, nippling up at you,
breaking the crhust, rheaching up
to the rheluctant light. I am the first,
the rhisk taker, the young rhookie,
rheading the weather rheport,
rhelaying the news to my
rhestless rhoots. Rhude and rhuthless,
they unrholl me, thrust me up
into the cold air, rhegardless.
All of us, all of a sudden,
our little curly colony, uncurling,
unfurling, rhippling and rhadiating,
fighting for the light, rhed and rhaw,
grheen and grhaceless, in two weeks,
full in yer face, first spawn of sprhing.
I am no fool, I will not crhumble.
Desist from rhesisting, I will rheproduce
and rheproduce, rhipen your appetite,
rhot your teeth, rhuin your palate,
and give you the rhuns. Here I am,
rhich rhipe and rhandy, rhampant
rhambunctious rhaw and rhaging,
your ever rheady, irrhesistible frhiend,
rhiotous rhumtumptious Rhubarb!
John Ling’s writing includes “Alice the healer” (poem) 2010 Authorhouse; People Pie (poems) 2023 Conrad Press: Mrs Loud and Mrs Quiet (short stories) 2022 Conrad Press; Paper aeroplane man 2018 Olympia http://www.johneling.co.uk
Dave Wynne-Jones
London Bound
On the long drive we talked of how
dumb Smart Motorways have turned out,
the deaths caused gaining a cheap extra lane,
allowing drivers a choice of which to hog,
the cameras out of action or
pointing into fields.
At least the Congestion Zone lived up to its name,
SATNAV struggling with unregistered
roadworks, lane and even road closures.
Traffic lights changed and changed again
with no effect on traffic flow before
an interlude where just one car
might make it through a junction,
inching over speed bumps as scooters squeeze
through gaps while cyclists duck or shimmy past
wing mirrors almost interlocked.
Recognising the name of the street we want
printed white on the black tarmac ahead,
lifted my mood. Half an hour later,
after a circuit of ever-narrower streets,
some “pedestrianised,” not as you’d notice,
down wind-tunnel canyons between high-rise,
blocked by white vans with hazards flashing,
I see that name again on a street corner.
Parked up, we join pedestrians hurrying past
or waiting at a kerb for the Green Man
despite unmoving traffic at the lights.
A chance for coffee at inflated prices,
served in diminutive cardboard cups!
Food would be nice but combing the area
finds only fine dining or nothing doing.
Our business done, tired, we turn in early,
rising to find the Breakfast Club is closed
until two hours after breakfast time
in this, a centre of civilisation.
Automated Voices
Recordings keep us on the line, instruct
How to record messages so that
Someone sometime may get back to us.
Chatbots lead us into vicious circles
programmed to deter clients from trying
to get some sense from another human being.
Travelling, we’re told to “Mind the gap!”
“Tap on, tap off!” “Next stop will be ……”
with regular updates from stop to stop.
In supermarkets’ self-checkouts
Repeatedly chivvy us to scan
More items or to pay up quickly.
Satnav Sally sounds irritable when
We fail to follow her directions or
“Make a U-turn” fast enough for her.
Siri, Alexa, Cortana, eavesdropping
from our phones, make unhelpful suggestions
chipping in with what we know already.
And so, so many being women’s voices,
they simply had to invent “Mansplaining.”
Keffiyeh
Laughing she said,
“You must be a poet
Because you have a scarf!”
“It’s not a scarf.
It’s a political statement,”
I replied.
Dave Wynne-Jones left teaching, gained an MA in creative writing at MMU, then wrote articles for outdoor magazines and organised expeditions for mountaineers. He’s published two books of mountaineering non-fiction and two poetry pamphlets. His poems have appeared in nine anthologies and magazines including Orbis, PN Review, Dark Mountain, Dreamcatcher, Dawntreader and ezines Morphrog and Ink Sweat & Tears.
Kate Copeland
Nope, not in a million
years will you see me on
spinning teacups, the up-
down machines won’t win
me in — no need to be old
boots edgy. Shooting I will
pull off never, hostile I am
to sounds of bang, and bad-
taste tunes. A bright green
frog. Just scoop that for your
sis, cost you only 20 quid,
basically. Machines cheat,
play you, and still you stand
queue, pressed against pluche
animals, toffee apple hands
plucking cheap paper tokens.
Wait, toffee — sweeet ! I cry,
mile-minutes: one bright pink
sugar spider. Now. Face smack
down fairy candy floss, I mind
no price, just want heaven
wrecking teeth, spinning me
to sleep on cotton clouds
high. (Wait, really, eight fifty?)
Man, Lady Luck!
Dutch in Spain (1970s)
Every Summer: same mountain, the view
of sea, and cousins and me, up pool floats,
pedalling boats.
SPF zero, cheese spread kaiser rolls, 9 am
means coconut beach. Happy-go-holiday,
cervezas at noon, as one cousin aims for
midday minigolf, hot, grand, and my dad says
yes, sweat running. His car rounds summits,
engine switched off. No alarm back then.
Chips-mayo, same table, fat chance having
us on olive oil. Flamenco skirts rustle aloud,
we clap out of step, shame never.
Summer means souveniring: my name on a
bull-banner, lace for nan. Dutch trading in
Spanish waves.
Did we ever visit a Dali museum?
Eggs with Carlijn
So, when people ask what I embarked while New
Yorking, I share the obvious cars, bars and a play.
As for the ones who want a picture: in 14R of Big
Apple building, Carlijn and I sit, just Dutchies fun-
philosophising, underwear and world leaders, the
mix-match of lingos; not really indifferent to views
of high-risings, yet, lowlanders need no breakfast,
bar small strawberries from the balcony. We sit and
share, compare skins at the approach of age, praise
stripped lady-photos on her walls. She hangs comfy
on the preloved sofa we carried up together, charity
on skateboards. Hudson lights or Governors’ island-
art aside, yes: this is a year of yes, I’ll wear a Good
-will dress to the midtown dance. So, when people
peruse what to like about New York, I sell a singing
down this side of Fifth, a cramming of couch down
elevator 4, and, Carlijn and I, eating 3 eggs each,
boiled (cooked we say). First, we tick-crack shells,
true to her dad’s jest, the sort of egging I half-get,
yet, a joy to join and lark away, a joy to friend a
woman who sees comfort in compliments. Hope
and droom, she says, and things like: so is how
we want it. Ja, the years of yes.
Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. She is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review & runs linguistic-poetry workshops for the International Women’s Writing Guild. Find her poems @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ plus TER, WildfireWords, Gleam, Hedgehog Press [a.o.]. Kate was born in harbour-city, and adores housesitting in the world.
Diana Hills
Letter from a friendly slug
Dear Poet,
Why won’t you be my friend?
I’m just a proud, hungry slug,
much smarter than your ordinary bug,
watch me waving my merry dance,
over your floor I slide and prance,
your left-over chips were oh so tasty
I’m an eco slug so I left no wasty.
Why won’t you be my friend?
I’m just a slimy, peaceful slug,
all I want is a nice big hug,
I do love your garden pots
especially petunias left to rot,
and now the weather’s juicy and sticky,
I’ll slide through your door to have a quickie.
So why won’t you be my friend?
I’m such a kind and handsome slug,
unlike your other garden thugs.
I’m so proud to be trans,
because I’ve made lots of plans,
to join my mates on your nice clean floor,
and I’ll help with your waste,
so you won’t be disgraced,
so dear poet, please be my friend,
please do.
Love from your friendly slug.
Diana Hills started to write poetry relatively late in life. She enjoys performing at open mics and spoken word – feeling lucky to have opportunities near home.
Brenda Henderson
Potty Generation: We’ll do old age differently
Well, now
we’re the better side of seventy,
purple hats to the fore
well-practiced for our old age –
ready to spit, swear or laugh
at those who put us down..
Hard to think
we were once potty-trained:
‘Sent to pot’ at an early age,
defecation noted at every stage.
‘Routine’ was the great God
sent to try us.
Four hourly feeds,
whole bodies crying pain,
totally in vain.
‘Mustn’t let baby rule’.
Break their wills
well before school!
If she cries leave her in bed,
never mind if her face goes red.
Now who would think that that was us?
The sixties ‘swingers now seventy plus?
Realising we can still grow and change
Let go, feel joy and be more truly us.
The Remains of the Day
Riding shotgun, yellow jackets blazing,
the dustmen arrive in town.
Stepping off the footplate,
they hold up the traffic,
as they hoist aboard ‘gold’ mined
from carbon footprints…
nuggets of shiny ore or glass,
aluminium, over-bought,
over-wrought, non-perishable
processed food; cat-poo, nappies,
hygienic wipes and cotton buds.
Clearing the dross from wants not needs,
our heroes ride off into the setting sun.
Brenda Henderson ( dog ikon) has written a novel, short stories, scripts, poems – far too many of them (she writes) still sitting on her computer instead of being shared.
Simon Tindale
What News Pussycat?
Walter says his wife is being unfair.
Sheila says that Walter is a liar.
Justin says his parents just don’t care.
Sophie says her sex is so on fire.
Walter says, ‘She fancies younger guys.’
Sheila says, ‘He’s such a selfish sod!’
Justin wants ‘To cut parental ties.’
Sophie wants ‘To have it off with Todd.’
Walter says that Sheila flirts with Todd.
Sheila says she could have married Pat.
Justin says the family’s effing odd!
Sophie hopes that Todd will like her cat.
Humans tell me things they really shouldn’t.
Flattering though it is, I wish they wouldn’t.
Less People
On Radio 4 this morning
a financial expert said,
‘There’s been a major acquisition
by The Rupert Murdoch News Corpse.’
Which proves numeracy is thriving
and literacy is dead.
It’s Just Not Cricket
Out in the middle
of Boundary Mill,
old women shop,
men sit still,
keeping well away
from the socks and pants,
having little time
for the song and dance.
They want to get home,
put the test match on.
One more wicket,
over and done.
All too much
for one squeaky bum
who’s been caught short
with a case of the runs.
Simon Tindale was born in Sunderland, sold songs in South London and found poetry in West Yorkshire. He likes people who put others first and dislikes those who talk about themselves in the third person. These poems are fictitious and bear no resemblance to actual poems whether living or dead. He hopes you like them.
Gavin Lumsden
Libera me: a new voice speaks
Picked from the choir to sing
a baritone solo in Faure’s Requiem,
you quail in the practice room,
anxious your voice is too small for the part,
barking pretend mirth and scorn
like a pirate to big yourself up,
feet apart, chest out,
splaying roots of a mountain oak,
or, when allied with the power I shall bring,
Atlas booming above the world.
‘Hah! Hah! Ha, ha, ha! Ha!’
How brave to follow your teacher’s instruction,
put three fingers in the mouth
over the pupa of your tongue,
enlarging the throat to create an opening
through which I, your hidden genie, will soon escape.
This warm-up excites me: an intake of breath
stores air behind stomach and spine
for the high-altitude ascent;
your mind, now an eagle, circles the French peaks,
its haughty view over the top notes
shortens odds against us falling flat.
Mouth closed, you hum, emphasising the ‘M’,
then ’Aaaaaah!’, the gate opens, tonsils swing,
an explosion releases me from the chains of inhibition,
bounding upwards, a St Bernard to the rescue
whose resonant bellow
amplified by your skull,
bulges walls and windows,
leaves you gasping at the risk of avalanche,
as your conductor sits up with his Valhalla voice
to lead a double act, fake laughing,
‘Hah! Hah! Ha, ha, ha! Ha!’
A few piano chords march us to the wall of death:
‘quando caeli movendi sunt et terra’!
Fearless, we swoop up and over the summits,
an earth-quaking, rock-splitting performance.
In the hushed aftermath of a vast snowfall,
you tip-toe on shining fields,
hands on hips, grinning at your bravura.
I bow, applaud for an encore,
vow never to return to my silent cage of ice.
Gavin Lumsden is a member of the Muswell Hill Chorus in London. He has had poems published in Cake, Wildfire Words and On Hunger, a Poetrygram anthology. https://bsky.app/profile/ghlumsden.bsky.social
Michelle Smith
Lounge Act
Yesterday
I fell in love
with a dog
wearing
a flat cap.
A school hat,
an ivy cap,
a derby hat,
not a baker boy
but a flat cap.
Brian Johnson style.
It’s an odd combo
canine and flat cap
like the flat cap itself
popular but polarising
almost a paradox.
He could’ve pulled off
a backwards baseball cap,
a snapback
or a beanie hat
but he chose a flat cap.
I take my hat off to him.
God’s Secretary
And how would you like to die?
He says,
straightening his gold dust tie.
There’s quite a few on the waiting list,
so I’d put your name down now.
Aching to be
It should be Friday
valiant and grandiose
But it’s only Thursday
abrasive and morose
Let’s run away
Up the motorway
And kiss under the Angel of the North.
Michelle Smith teaches English in South Yorkshire, where she finds endless inspiration for my wide-ranging poetry. Her verse delves into the intricacies of daily life, human nature, and the unexpected moments that shape our world.
Jeff Phelps
Charmed
To his true love he gave a bangle
on which some silver charms might dangle
and on it clipped a smiling mouse,
a scotty dog, a tiny house.
Later it was a lucky dice
to mark their win at Bingo, twice.
She returned from holiday, freshly kissed
with a Cornish piskie on her wrist.
Next it was Venus or some other planet
that said ‘I love you’ when she span it.
For her birthday: a book with real pages
and a heart inscribed with both their ages.
A sleeping child, a silver Chevvy.
How had it ever got this heavy?
She smiled and gamely clasped it on
though frankly now it weighed a ton.
At Christmas came the final straw:
a chunk of quartz from a Baltic shore.
On Valentine’s Day alas – distraught.
She ditched him and the charms he’d bought.
Now to the pub new friends invite her.
She walks there free – and so much lighter.
Jeff Phelps has been widely published with two poetry collections from Offa’s Press and two novels published by Tindal Street Press. He is co-editor of The Poetry of Shropshire and was recently a ‘poet on loan’ in West Midlands libraries. His poems have been described as ‘a quiet blessing in a noisy world.’
Jeff lives in Melksham, Wiltshire. www.jeffphelps.co.uk
Lou Harris
Chilli O Chilli
Chilli O Chilli
Flakey assassin of my tastebuds
To know is to feel
Ultimate burn
For which end will it be?
A tip tongue or back throat?
The destroyer of worlds
Not for long
But long enough
“Milk Saviour???” you cry
Too late
Buckle up….
Avocado Window
Small, seemingly insignificant passage of time.
Easily overlooked in this busy world
Where nutty green flesh softens
Moulds beneath, between your fingertips
Like soft gooey playdough
Through a tight heart-shaped plastic fixture
Tortoise-shell exterior flexes and cracks
Struggling to keep the ovally egg shape
Some even seeps through, like a warning sign.
“But its 4pm!”
Forget about the time!
You must have this now
This perfectly ripe avo
Precious minutes are taken up
With uncertainty
“But I’m not hungry yet!
Let’s leave it til later”
You return it to the fridge
A risky move
By the time your stomach starts to rumble
That perfect green gold has started to age
A brown layer forms on the ever-crumbling surface within
Spreads like disease under the crust
Unseen, stakes are high
Trickery at play
Is immeasurable
But you think you’re still good
For another couple of hours
You fool.
Lou Harris is a freelance poet, camera technician and motorbike rider. Writing poetry since 2017, due to some brilliantly located notebooks containing some old prose which, luckily, was dated.
Continued writing Haiku in lockdown v1.0 and the tens became hundreds. She began merging a few together, creating longer poems and expanded into free-form writing.
Poetry: @theprancingmenace Life: @lou_harris23
Michael Eyre
Line Your Ducks Up
I love to listen out at work,
for trite cliches that truly irk.
A hunt for management lingo.
It’s what I call ‘bullshit bingo’.
There’s: ‘go after low-hanging fruit’,
‘top-down’, ‘strategy execute’,
‘see if it flies’, ‘find the worst-case’,
‘take it offline’, and ‘let’s touch base’.
‘Be agile’, ‘I’ll pencil you in’,
‘showstopper’, ‘go for the win-win’,
and ‘kick the tin can down the road’.
Aargh, no more, my head will explode!
This game is fun, do have a go.
First line your ducks up in a row.
Next, make it your avowed intent –
to give 110%!
Then proclaim ‘It is what it is!’ –
you’ll soon become a bingo whizz.
Just ‘think outside the box’, you’ll find,
it gets you through the daily grind.
The Master of Understatement
Tell him he’s got two hours to live,
the Master of Understatement,
and he’ll say, in an offhand way,
“That’s rather inconvenient!”
His number’s up, he’s had his chips.
That’s the way those cookies crumble.
“Worse things happen at sea,” he says,
“Chin up, I can’t really grumble!”
He’d hoped for a better result,
thought it was only a tickle.
“It’s gone a tad pear-shaped,” he states,
“I’m in a bit of a pickle.”
The wind has gone out of his sails.
One step forward, two in reverse.
A spanner’s been throw in the works.
“Hey ho,” he sighs, “it could be worse!”
No matter how sticky things get,
or how severe the assessment,
he has the stiffest upper lip:
the Master of Understatement.
Ode To My Underachieving Workmate
It’s hard to explain, where do I begin?
When dropped off at school…he forgot to go in.
He makes the simple look hard to master.
He’s chased by Wisdom…just he’s much faster.
The daft suggestions he always voices
make me keep questioning my life choices.
Impossible to underestimate,
such ineptitude I can’t overstate.
He might comprehend the pros and the cons,
if I had the time…and enough crayons.
Should we both agree (and those odds are long)
you can guarantee that we’d both be wrong.
One thing he’s good at…there’s full agreement
…he’s champion of underachievement.
Michael Eyre lives near Preston, England with his wife and Siberian cat. After retiring he discovered a passion for poetry and is fond of writing amusing poems that entertain. Highly Commended Charm Poetry Competition 2025; Shortlisted Mist & Mountain International Poetry Prize 2024-25; Published and featured author March 2025 in Thorn & Bloom international literary magazine. Instagram: @eyre.mike TikTok: mikeeyre825
Cy Forrest
On a lost boot, found again
Against the odds, I rescue footwear
dragged down by a woodland
stream in early spring in spate —
swept away and lost for good.
I run, hop barefoot, catch it up.
It circles in a whirlpool.
A roulette wheel has fun with me.
I fish the boot out and sit amongst snowdrops,
empty water, pull it back on, each tiny
face whispering once: make a wish.
Cy Forrest is the pen name of Ian D Smith. He’s from Manchester but now living in Wiltshire. He has national and international writing credits: The Ekphrastic Review, Stand, Spelt, Abridged, Poetry Ireland Review, the Live Canon Anthology, Honest Ulsterman, Icefloe Press, Wombwell Rainbow, Obsessed With Pipework, Eratio and Otoliths.
Georgina Titmus
A Summer Stay (of Execution)
She strikes staccato; an antsy
puppet,
a ventriloquist’s
marionette. Echoes of my father,
his trademark
‘uppercut’; thumbnail broad
as a lectern.
His party piece, his trick, his coup
de pique-nique:striped sting
abdomen, flicked to oblivion; al fresco
foetal
furl.
I’ll let this wasp—live.
Georgina Titmus has had poetry published in various places, including: South, The Moth, Orbis, The Frogmore Papers, The Journal, The Pomegranate, Briefly Write, Fenland Poetry Journal, Full House Literary, Into The Void. Once-upon-another-life she co-wrote sitcom; broadcast on BBC Wales. She’s lived in Cornwall for 25 years. Plus 5 (happy) years of her childhood.
David Niven
A fable for the moment
Take a walk with me past the sign
that says ‘Don’t eat the rats’ and then
surprisingly, ‘No te comas les ratas’, in Spanish.
Though no reason yet presented itself
why they have to vanish.
Then, round the bend, with room for a friend,
a welcoming, restful bench
and a flowing scripted message
by a warning sign in French
‘Ne mange pas les rats’.
Move quietly to the cliffs
with a view far out to sea,
the latest warning on a board,
to warn us about vermin,
Is painted large and menacing
In perfect modern German.
‘Iss die ratten nicht’
But further down and on the beach
a barbecue had started.
Around it, dead for all to see,
a pile of diners and a mound of rats,
all well past discussion,
ignoring every other voice
as no signs were in Russian.
David Niven has run www.socialworldpodcast.com for 11 years and 180 programmes. He has written articles, play and poetry, and an episode on children’s ITV.
Michael Klimeš
FBI report on Cookie Monster
J. Edgar Hoover remarked: I’ve never seen anyone with such a big appetite.
He was right, as this agent bit into anything except people.
We were appalled by such gentle nature but admired the vigour when he ate.
He went goggle-eyed before he got his teeth into something.
This gave him an air of menace we liked and could manipulate.
He was also connected to people of dubious tastes, Kermit: a liberal educator
and his part-time lover: Miss Piggy who had intimate friendships with two
eccentrics in Hollywood. One of them took baths with a different duck every night.
We approached Cookie in 1951 about Stalin and the Red Menace.
He didn’t understand and just kept eating. It was a hell of a tab for a first meeting.
After a short round of surveillance, we discovered Soviet contraband in his jars:
cookies from Siberia beyond the Urals and East German chocolate bars.
He denied they were his, but we threw the book at him:
There is no place for communist cookie eaters. Why don’t you buy American?
Michael Klimeš is a financial journalist based in London. He has been published in Alchemy Spoon, One Hand Clapping Magazine and Iota. His pamphlet Love Carries the Future was shortlisted in the Full House Literary Magazine Digital Chapbook 2023 competition and longlisted in the Alchemy Spoon Pamphlet Competition 2022.
Jill Husser
Had I known
When snow came in over my wellies
on my way to school
and we draped our tights
-red, navy blue, bottle green-
over the radiator to dry
sat on low gym benches
before two bright bars of electrics
Mrs MacDonald, the sewing teacher
in front, facing us
knitting covers for coat hangers
mine pale yellow
with a red bow in the middle
I would have walked all the faster
knitted all the quicker
had I known
I would be making this cardie for you now
my five-year-old self on tiptoe
watching you sleeping in your pram.
Jill Husser grew up in the north of Scotland and has lived in Strasbourg, France, for over thirty years, discovering the pleasure of writing in the last few. Her work has been published in Poetry Scotland, the Amethyst Review, Alchemy Spoon and Dreich Magazine.
Peter Burrows
Men of Numbers
They headed North, and lay in wait.
Poised at the tip of the rock-grey promontory.
Watching for signals. Surveying the light.
Long winter coats fastened tight.
Night-faced, destined: the elusive legend
tracked and trapped. Echoes distant, quickened,
charging, closer, faster. Points readied, aimed, until –
bellowing from the mouth of darkness…
All was screaming light.
Holding their nerve – with feverish ferocity
they took it down. Scored right through.
Nothing got past them.
Emboldened, raiding parties followed.
Trailing numbers up, down migratory tracks.
Patrolling along the thoroughfares of life:
Carlisle. Doncaster. York.
Stalking about the great hunting grounds:
Bescot. Toton. Crewe.
The annals overflowed with tales of bounty;
the numbers tallied like boastful runes.
Welcomed to the fold, the number warriors,
beloved guests of my brother, kicked off boots,
threw down arms, taking the Sunday feast.
Devouring every plated morsel. Looking up only
to stare curiously at my sister.
Later, lights dimmed, at the long table, men alone
talked of far-off, unvisited places.
My father, the white-haired chieftain, the jarl,
passed on his counsel, recounting journeys of lore,
tales of light, from time before they were born.
Then, unspoken, shared looks knowing, he bestowed
visions of the flesh, watched in silence,
projected onto the dining room wall,
where, unnoticed, I’d sneak in, ducking
under the flickering beam
to grab another fairy cake.
But it couldn’t last.
One by one they fell like Vikings taking to the land.
New places. New pursuits. A few met women.
Never knowing it was the last time.
Pens remained capped. Sheets uninked.
Binoculars unsighted.
Yet the electric charge never stops.
Up, down those time-laden routes,
markings flash in half-glimpsed light
into the day, into the night,
past where once they stood,
at the edge of the world,
taking down all that passes us by.
Fidgetbum
You may say I move around too much.
But I’m just trying to find your point of view.
So I can see why you’re so out of touch
in all you say and do.
The Hare on the Hill
The grass is that bit longer,
it hides the hare on the hill
that I see when I pass at this time of day
but I know that it’s watching me still.
Peter Burrows is a Librarian in the North West of England. His work has appeared in the Places of Poetry anthology and The Cotton Grass Appreciation Society and The Hedgehog Press Tree Poets Nature anthologies. His poem Tracey Lithgow was shortlisted for the Hedgehog Press 2019 Cupid’s Arrow Poetry Prize.
https://peterburrowspoetry.wordpress.com @Peter_Burrows74
Jeff Skinner
I worked out daily as I was told
The physio gives it to me straight. Never mind
a Swedish workstation, foot stool, red
swivelling chair, adjustable for height and light.
You gotta loosen up, she says, you’re a poet, right?
Yes, wandering’s allowed. She makes me sit less,
stand up – like A Tree! – every twenty minutes,
walk for five, do the exercise as prescribed,
riding a rhythm, shrugging my shoulders. Call it
a line-break, mutters Lucy, or even a turn
around the garden, if not the lake, the Alps.
Setting a timer to stop me in my syntax, I step outside
waving my arms about like Coleridge
in the Quantocks, wittering on. Stooping
to touch my toes, I clock the sprightly daffs.
In the Pink
Neither fleck nor faint blotch
of petal blight: my camellia’s blooming,
has seen off the aphid,
the ubiquitous mite, returns
each morning, gorgeous in March,
to punch above its soft pink weight.
Every year it must shrivel, droop,
let autumn rain or winter sun
care for it; no personal trainer
unless that’s a gardener, artful secateurs
to keep it in shape.
If it’s anxious, wary of fungus
or worse, you wouldn’t know.
April. I fix my good eye on it.
Jeff Skinner’s poems have been published in many journals, most recently in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Paperboats, Black Nore Review, Pulsebeat, The Fig Tree; before that, in Poetry News, Acumen, The Alchemy Spoon, to name a few. He was commended in the last Sonnet or Not competition. His voice/speech is impaired so he cannot record an audio file.
Allan Lake
Stalled in Poetown
Having given the beast of my best,
I see, said a blonde man, it hasn’t
been quite enough. You were
intrigued back when I slipped
something – a poem – into
your hand as you handed
me a coffee but in time
came disappointment
to discover writing
poems was pretty
much all I do.
Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada who now lives in Allover, Australia. Coincidence. He has published poems in 24 countries. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled My Photos of Sicily, was published by Ginninderra Press. It contains no photos, only poems.
Andrew Hoaen
Playin’ wit me Angel Michael
We luv’s climin, hands hold, feet push,
twigs snap, birds fright, leaves bruise,
smell eller, musty like church,
wait still- catch a breath then
Come out from green gloom
t’skies like glory,
n’ bees are buzzin’, clouds of flowers
an’ summer smells lemony.
Michael shines Michael’s lish
floatin’ on tippy toes,
gives out he’s an angel-
seems ‘bout right he glows
and knows all kinds of things.
We sing the birds we sing the trees,
we sing of battles and swords,
bulls in caves eagles on the breeze.
‘A game, Michael, a game.
Which one? You mun choose;
Blind man’s buff kingie lurky,
shoe the mare statues?’
Lurky it is dib for whose
‘idin’. It’s me set off like a hare,
creep int’ ’coal ‘ole whisht I am.
Michael looks Michael stares
Uses his noggin Sees me shinin
int’ dark calls me a filthy tyke.
we say ta’ra and see you soon
and off to Nan I go.
Andrew Hoaen is a disabled writer with an interesting journey from the underclass to academia, he has been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, Alchemy Spoon and Sein und Werden.
Kosar Farjoud
5 A.M
So, it all started with a podcast — you know the type: cheerful host, obnoxiously productive guest, both bragging about waking up at 5 a.m. to “seize the day” and find their purpose. Meanwhile, I’m in bed, eating cold pizza, trying not to drop my phone on my face, thinking, “Yeah, I can totally do that.”
Alarm set for 5:00 a.m., yoga mat ready, water bottle filled, and a Post-it on my nightstand saying: “Don’t be a potato.” Inspirational, right?
Then 5 a.m. hit like a freight train. The alarm screamed like it was personally disappointed in me. I stumbled out of bed, tripped over a shoe, and instantly regretted every life choice.
I sat on my yoga mat, ready to meditate. Thirty seconds later, my brain was a hyperactive toddler on espresso — grocery lists, an embarrassing email from 2015, and the time I waved at someone who wasn’t waving back. Enlightenment? Nope. Total chaos.
Next, journaling. I tried to sound deep: “Today I will conquer the world.” Two minutes later: “Actually, I just want to conquer my bed.” And, “Where’s my left sock? Did it run away?”
Then came the run — or shuffle. Pitch-black outside, one squirrel watching me like I lost my mind. Two blocks in, my lungs filed a complaint and my thighs demanded better conditions.
Back home, I made a smoothie: kale, banana, expired powder, almond milk. Blender went full tornado — kale on the ceiling, walls, and the cat bolted. Sir Whiskers gave me a look like, “Dude, what did you do?”
By 6:15 a.m., I had fatigue, resentment, and maybe a vitamin overdose.
Crawling back to bed, I thought: let the early birds have their worms. I’ll take my dignity, blanket, and eight hours of sleep.
Kosar Farjoud is a 26-year-old writer and designer from Iran. He started writing at 18 alongside my design journey. Kosar enjoys joining open calls to challenge himself and grow through feedback. He dreams of one day collaborating with inspiring, successful people in the creative world.
David Bernard
Star of the Nursery Slopes
Much to my amazement,
I found myself on skis,
ploughing down the nursery slopes
at a glacial speed.
My fashionable snow gear,
from, it turns out, way back when,
second-hand, pleased as punch,
I barely broke a ten.
Is he moving forward?
It was easy enough to ask,
as I dodged another mishap
with a toddler tearing past.
Blessed with unhoned circus skills,
I windmilled for an instant,
clattering off the travelator:
a tangled heap of infants.
The only crash, into a fence,
my wife chanced to record,
my claims it was in slow-mo
were rightly so ignored.
Then the pre- or après-ski,
the times I like the best.
I reposed at last with drink in hand,
those toppled tots could rest.
The time had come to part the slopes,
a sojourn spent in vain:
our self-declared fiasco,
He needn’t come again.
How Not to Deliver an IT Project
Stop — go — hurry up — stop
No — wait — back-pedal — stop
Where are we going? — waffle — faster — stop
No one wants this — share price — panic — stop
Better than nothing — full speed — breakneck — stop
Don’t look — precipice — double down — stop
Uh oh — precarious — teetering —
Drop —
David Bernard is a poet based in Herefordshire. Although he has been writing poetry for several years, he has only recently begun submitting work to literary publications. He enjoys the creative challenge of transforming the everyday into poetry, sometimes with humorous results. David lives with his partner and two young children.
Mary Mulholland
Gardener
after Sophie Herxheimer
She plants a lover in her raised patio bed
and tends to him. He rewards her with passion
flowers and golden pepos, but all too soon
creeps over her fence. From a window she
sees his tendrils entwine around a neighbour,
then another. She chases him with secateurs.
He pauses, then is off again, a rambling man.
Mary Mulholland has a Poetry MA (Newcastle/ Poetry School), been published in several magazines, mentioned in many competitions, and is a former psychotherapist.
www.marymulholland.co.uk @marymulhol
Stafford Cross
April Fool
My Brother’s a bit of a lad,
A cad, but not outright bad.
Very fond of a practical joke
He is a most Jovial Bloke
This year on March the Thirty First
He helped me to quench my Thirst
With buckets of Ale – Brown and Pale
And Single Malts – Double and Triple.
While I slept the sleep of the thoroughly soused
He removed Thirty days from my Calendar.
I woke the next morn at break of dawn
And thought I’d been drunk for a month.
May Day! May Day! I cried.
I am lost, I am sunk
All that Ice, and Scotch Mist
Then an ‘orrible Clunk
!!!
It felt good going down,
By the sea I was drunk
I thought I was unsinkable,
I thought I was Titanic.
But likewise I was sunk.
Smile! You’re on candid camera!
Tik Tok, my gleeful brother cried.
I’ll post it on the internet
This clip will go world-wide
May Day means the Rites of Spring
Likewise of Working Men.
But here’s a Funny Thing
It’s the international call sign
For a ship that’s sunk or sinking
We heard the sound of sirens
Come down our street a-wailing
And the air sea rescue ‘copter
On high was loudly hailing!
The April Fools were not amused
To be called out in this manner
Their services we had abused
So they slung us in the slammer
A month in the clink, will make me think
Twice, before my next bender
And hopefully, put me back in sync
With the pages of my Calendar!
Christmas Morning
Is this a dagger I see before me? The handle towards my hand?
No! It’s a Carving Knife! Get Carving!
Macduff! I told you to lay the table, not Lay on it!
And lay another place for Banquo
He always turns up if there’s a ghost of a chance of a free meal.
You lot finish off putting the food out.
I’ve just got to wash my hands then we’re all ready.
What’s that dog doing here?
Out damned Spot!
You’re in the wrong scene.
(Macduff)
I wager I can eat more more Brussels Sprouts than he whose name I dare not mention.
(Macbeth)
Lead on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries “Hold! Enough!”
(Shakespeare)
Sigh!
No one ever gets that bit right.
Dogs Not Allowed
Sam Small loved his little Dog
He loved him unto Death.
Whenever people talked of Sam,
They mentioned Dog in same breath.
But sadly Sam, has breathed his last
He’s popped his final clog.
He’s toddled off to Heaven
And with him goes his Dog
But as they stood at Pearly Gates
A Sign thereon was hung.
“No Dogs Allowed” it sternly said
Sam cried “That must be wrong “
Using stick with ‘orses ‘ead ‘handle
He rattled on Gates demanding
Admission for him and his dog.
His manner, severe and commanding.
An Angel said
“Sam,
Come in, me hearty
Come join the Celestial Party
For you the gates I’ll open wide
But yer Dog must stay outside”
“ I’ll never leave my little dog
In life we two were bonded
I’d rather be condemned to Hell.
Than leave him here unwanted. “
“Then off you go, take that road there
It’s paved with Good Intentions.
But don’t stop at T’bacconists Shop.
They’re the Devil’s own inventions. “
They sadly walked along the road
Consoling one another
They may not have a future but
They still would have each other,
At last they reached a little door
A Black Monk, gravely guarding
He beckoned Sam to come inside
And gave to him this greeting.
“It’s gradely fine to see thee Sam
Likewise your little friend
You had to take the long way round
But you got here in the end. “
“But this is Hell. The gate was barred
To Heaven we’re not invited
Come Heaven or Hell, We do intend
That we shall stand united. “
“Nay Lad! That Gate was but a test
To weed out the faint-hearted.
The man who would abandon
His loyal, devoted companion
Is not a man we care to meet
But Sam,
You’re Truly Champion!
Stafford Cross is a recreational poet and Retired Chemist who has dabbled in Art (rejected by the Royal Academy Summer Show), Campanology, Folk Song and Dance (Ukranian style Cossack dancing), (Finalist in Sidmouth’s Traditional Singer), Poetry (Prize winning limericks by the score) and Story Telling. Only recently published (Wildfire Words).
Clare Morris
Sparrows in the rain
Rolling deep in springtime lust,
Sparrows love to raise the dust
In garden borders, rich in loam,
Each one a haven; welcome home
To worms and snails – and more, it’s true –
Yet still they scurry far from view.
Not so in rain: beneath the trees,
Paddling widdershins by slow degrees
On lawns fast sinking, sodden, sad,
These sparrows lark, slosh, flutter, glad
To let the dizzy droplets fly
Under an overarching sky.
That place of frequent circling threat
Is clear today; they can forget
The shadow of their heartless foe
Who’s mindful of his grand look, so
Would rather stay at home and preen
Than in wet feathers to be seen –
For of one thing sparrows are sure:
Hawks abhor a spring downpour.
A Tumbler’s Tale
I tumbled first
from tightrope’s perch
near
Piccadilly Circus
in the rain –
the bite of wire
in base of foot
was hardly,
dare I say,
germane
to nascent hopes
of an easy life
so vertigo,
nausea,
fear
soon put paid
to any hope
of a successful
funambulist’s
career,
but weary,
lonely,
heartsore too,
I climbed and
tumbled again,
so that I quickly
forgot
the lessons learned
near
Piccadilly Circus
in the rain.
Bonne Anniversaire, Monsieur Beckett
Samuel Beckett, resident of Montparnasse, sighs.
He is alone, apart, of course, from the old ennui that hangs in the air like heartburn.
It is his birthday.
He has purchased cake.
It has glacé icing and a buttercream filling.
It whispers,
Eat me, it’s my birthday too.
He watches as a fly lands and crawls across the hundreds and thousands.
He could kill the fly or wait until, mired in sweetness, it dies.
He could, he knows he could, but he’ll wait to hear what the cake says.
It’s only fair. It’s his birthday too. It says so on the top.
The fly stops crawling.
Sam, qu’est-ce tu fais, mon ami?
He shrugs as he stares out of the window.
En attendant gâteau.
Ben oui, says the fly.He would shrug too if it weren’t for the icing impeding his movements.
The cake is perplexed. Crème anglaise muffles his hearing.
But wait, what did you say, Sam?
He removes his glasses and cleans them with something approaching infinite care.
It’s nothing,
I’m just waiting for gâteau.
He sighs.
It helps to pass the time.
Prompt and Guidelines for Spring forward/Fall back
Time for a change of season and some lightness of heart. All over the world, clocks are likely to spring forward or fall back by an hour. But whatever the season, one day is recognised everywhere as a time for foolery — jokes whether verbal or practical. You might call it March 32, or more likely April 1 — All Fools Day. At Wildfire Words, and this isn’t a joke, we’re extending this free submission window for the whole of April and May. All that time to share smiles and laughter and brighten the world’s current gloom.
We ran a feature like this 2 years ago. No, seriously, we did. Take a look at what was submitted.
Submitting
We’re looking for writing on this theme that makes us smile or laugh, while it grabs our attention, pulls our heart strings, leaves us open-mouthed or holding our breath, makes us think, and/or is strikingly original. In short, words that excite us enough to share them with Wildfire Words readers.
We aim to be inclusive of writers worldwide. We respect all people‘s free speech and their beliefs, individuality, well-being, culture and ethnicity — and expect the same from writers who submit. We’ll publish any work that adds fresh creative spice to this submissions feature. We’ll evaluate your written jewel, whether it’s a cut and polished dazzler or a rough stone with some interesting lustre. So please don’t hesitate to submit. More on our submission philosophy.
Each writer may make one submission as a single file containing 1, 2, or 3 items, each of which can be poetry or prose. Submitted items can be with or without audio, but each must be no longer than 30 lines or 300 words including title. Your submission may be as text and/or audio of you reading your submissions.
If you do submit an audio, you will have priority in the selection process. If not, and we publish your work, we’ll invite you to email audios, to join a Wildfire Words free Zoom recording session, or to request that Wildfire Words provides a reader to record your text.
**We will consider audio-only submissions that follow the rules
We prefer unpublished work, but will consider any submission that we can legally publish or republish, that is an original and outstanding interpretation of our theme, and respects our submission philosophy.
If your work is published in Wildfire Words, it will be on a non-exclusive basis for at least one year. The copyright remains yours for all poems, prose, bios, and audio recordings you submit for publication.
We do not charge for submissions. Our publishing service is non-profit-making and we provide the service out of a love of sharing poetry and the social and personal growth it provides for poets. Donations are welcome, but voluntary — and don’t affect decisions on whether we publish a submission.