Great Collection of Poems

My life is not supposed to be like this.
The air strike
lights up the night sky as bright as day.

Mother puts my head in her lap,
I feel her stroking my hair.
Pain rises in waves,
crashing into me.
My eyes, unable to focus,
my hearing capable only
of taking rhythm and cadence.
Slowly words begin to take
on discrete sounds,
then come meaning
and comprehension.
Mother tells me
I will be saved.

When a person dies, the people cry.
I can see mother crying.
Dream fragments
float past behind my eyes.
Life hasn’t been fair to me.

© Amy Barry

Israeli aircraft strike crowded Gaza areas, civilian death toll climbs 

Amy Barry has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in Ireland and abroad. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

An ancient oak crooked countless gnarled quivering fingers,
beckoned to a child to explore the wildwood.

Inquisitive, the child proffered a few tentative steps, was awestruck
by a pedunculate oak's huge gaping hollowed mouth screaming age;
maybe it sang songs of joy,
or ululated howls of grief for owlets
having fledged or perished there,
its fallen leaves, tears shed.

Empathy with avian misfortune was overtaken by admiration
for this mighty symbol of England,
an affection born of a child's curiosity,
his love of Nature's gifts,
his respect for its occasional brutality.

He has seen those gifts of elm, oak and ash,
some of our Nation's most stalwart sentinels
stand steadfast against gale
and the blight of disease and decay,
has observed the transient seasons defined
by landscape's changing face,
bare and stern in Winter, become Summer's smile in May;
but this smile, no longer a child's, grimaces,
for our trees, Nature's treasures and our National heritage
face the grimmest of fates.

I, who was that child welcomed to the wildwood,
whom Nature beguiled,
who railed against Man's intrusiveness,
see Man, now, as the saviour, the benefactor
who can save our trees under assault from Nature itself,
from deadlier weapons, fungal infections,
that if left untreated,
portend a sadder fate,
though too late,
much too late
for our stately elms
and scattered ash.

©  James Gordon

Now oaks at risk: The symbol of England is hit by two killer diseases

I have been writing poetry most of my life. I have always been interested in Nature and many of my poems reflect this as well as my art.

Pure high school drama at its worst.
Immature school girls whine, argue, and bitch.
“I don’t care” vibes dwell in my headaches.

Taylor Swift, Adele, Ellie Goulding pop era.
Clique time, social status, most racist in history.
Stop trying to make YOLO fetch -
it’s never going to happen.

At school we learn everything
needed to be successful at breathing.
Teachers are so insightful, almost genius.
Feeling that I belong, never listen to the past.
At least they give us a clean environment.

Indie style clothes only,
Hollywood breathes cigarettes,
fashion trends of the old ages.

The apocalypse is coming soon,
I can feel in the heat of debate,
we never realize the best times,
the level of the absurd world.


© Samantha Seto

English 'YOLO' voted top German youth word
What is YOLO? Only teenagers know for sure


Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Carcinogenic Poetry, and Black Magnolias Journal. She is a third prize poetry winner of the Whispering Prairie Press contest. (@samantha36seto)

(honestly)

I think I was nine and a bit but not ten
‘cos the hay was down when the vet came
to the barn that smelt of bleach
that inside would soon be limed again
my calf was not sucking and the harm of the year
and his ribs were actually in real life outside his belly
and I felt between my thumb and fingers
the curl on his head and I smelt his coat
and heard the adults shouting
and the vet said a word I never heard before
and he smelled porter or sweat or maybe smoke
and he shouted into the Cortina boot

bastard leaves me a gun but no cartridge
I was nudged towards the door but sneaked back inside
so soon I would understand
the laughing demand for a substitute
the grunt and the spit as he stood over
my calf and brought down the pickaxe so fast
on his curl and the blow was just excellent
for my calf had slept all morning
only his nose twitched now

soft whores like ye would lave him suffer
I heard the sound of the axe again in my ears which
made me bite my cheek to make it go away so hard that I
tasted blood and wet one welly but no one saw
and ran up to the fort on the hill
licked the rain on my lip
and heard my uncle say very loud to the vet

you’ll not get paid for that
and looked down as the car drove off
and looked down as two tall men dragged
two shovels and my calf across the yard towards the small field
(where there was no river to poison
and which wasn’t suited to turnips
and hadn’t many stones that would slow the job
‘cos we had picked them summers before
only a place for dead animals)
and begin to dig
so I took off my wet sock and squeezed it hard
and hid it in my pocket
and after that I was dizzy and spitted only a tiny sick


© Noel Loftus

Terminally ill woman tells High Court she wants to die with dignity

Now there is a melancholy,
now there is a chill,
now some addled trip reveals
teacher took our babies years.

Redressed the chosen few.
Washing cycles to its end,
wakes us to hang out.
This silence is resounding, pounding.

Fridge looms into view.
Forehead rests on freezing things.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.

Age made work superfluous.
What a useless word.
A curious collision scythed
through a humbled mind,
saw a cruet in the thin hands of a boy. 
This house is creaking cold and old and
floorboards smell of dust.
Oil has work to do.
Teacher took our babies years.

Three pm on Monday, they have will to run
and run and bless them on their way.
And we would do that too if we had will.
Hid. Safe. Spouse has life beyond us,
is soothing mental friend
whose partner, they said, leaped (hunting sanity once craved).

Decades slipped away when asses
bray was eight miles loud
across two thousand years.
Teacher took our children,
left back a mighty task.

A mirror in the hallway
is the stranger who resides here.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.
How are you our brother, sister, how are you, yourself.

Washing cycles to its end.
This silence is  resounding, pounding.
Could we begin again.

© Noel Loftus

Quinn 'spent €327,000 in year'

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

Dust clouds swirl
on pools of sticky blood.
Bullets fly inches above her head.

Muffled, strangled cries.
Maggots on decomposed bodies,
severed heads and limbs.

Her fingers rake
through bloodied bodies,
her gaze darts frantically around.

Her father’s boots-
Papa’s dying breath,
did he recite the Shahadah?

Sounds of shelling, shooting-
funnel in her ears,
replay in her head.

She doesn’t have time
to moan or whine
about her fate.

She has little choice.

©Amy Barry, 2013

Syria: no child safe from the bloody conflict

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work.

We started the week with "Jack's Alright" by Laura Taylor which pretty conclusively shows that things with Jack are decidedly not right. There is a lot in this poem that is arrow-straight into the modern human condition.
Haikus made a welcome appearance at Poetry24 from Máire Morrissey-Cummins. I love these small, dense poems about such a wretched episode.
 The Magdalene story was revisited by Jessica Traynor in 'An Education in Silence" on Wednesday. We can take some hope from such good poems arising out of such terrible times
On Thursday Barbara Gabriel's poem 'Step on a Crack' highlighted the sex-trade in young girls through the example of Latino girls being traded. Poetry does not get much more hard-hitting than this and we are honoured to be able to publish this poem.
John Saunders' 'Sacrifice' told simply, yet powerfully, of the decision made by Burmese monks to burn themselves to death as a political process. There is great dignity in this poem and great bravery.
Caroline Hurley's poem 'Collectable Things' pointed out the rather abysmal record that we have as stewards of the environment and also compared it to our  personal relationships.
Well it was a challenging week of poetry that confronts us with the less stellar sides of our natures. As such it performs a vital task if it can keep us honest. As I mentioned there is a a fair amount of the better sides of our natures on display from the poets, themselves. Thanks very much to everyone who contributed and please keep it up. We always need more submissions. Have a good week.

Silently, invisibly, a gentle wind glances off the ways
of things that seem filled with the intent to be watched
and weighed; the disasters or crimes, set by places and by times,
at war with what can’t be compelled and is often lost.

Conquistadors compounded cultural estates.
Darwin, the Dutch, Wallace & Co, helped themselves
on islands explored. They reached out and effortlessly
wrung the necks of fearless birds as though plucking apples;
as if the trust of the predator-free creatures was begging
to be exploited and to be thanked with extinction.

Renaissance men libelled the gristly dodo, calling them disgusting,
lazy-arsed beasts while guzzling them down to the last one.
For state bounty, the Tasmanian tiger, reigning over the food-chain,
was hunted from its livelihood; the final thylacine expired as
the Nazi holocaust gained ground. In this twenty-first century,
remaining rhinos risk carnage by poachers hacking their cornucopian horns
that leaven medical brews, gild weapons and ornamental figaries.

Evidence they existed; is that enough to palliate the loneliness of
human spirit first prognosticated after mass buffalo slaughters?
Like seeds that need to be constantly watered and lit before sharing
their natures, conditions must be attended to conserve companion species;
in the same way that love, once neglected and bled, can degenerate
to seem like a dead shell, just a punishable collectable thing.

© Caroline Hurley

Natural World: Flight of the Rhino

Flight of the Rhino

Caroline's poems have previously appeared in Poetry24 and they have also been published in The Electric Acorn and threemonkeysonline.com. Clebran.org featured a chapter from her novel and some flash fiction. Her current focus is on young adult fiction and screenwriting. She lives near an Irish bird reserve.

Your final act
using what is yours
to make the point
you are in control
and they cannot
diminish your dissent.

You have righteousness.
This is the end of you
and all they can do
is watch you abandon
your young body,
unable to punish.
You have won, Bozu.

© John Saunders

Two Tibetan monks self-immolate as anti-China protests continue

John Saunders' First Collection After the Accident was published in 2010 by Lapwing Publications, Belfast. His second full collection Chance is available is due for publication in March 2013 by New Binary Press

Didn’t anyone ever tell you, puta
nothing in life is free?
Javier whispers hard in my ear
and I know I will pay many times tonight
because Viernes is payday for the men. For me.

You must take steps, chica, proper steps
on your climb to prosperity. Fake it!
Carolina counsels, you are an Actriz now. Makeup
is serious business. Her accent
coastal- fast as gunfire.

English! Slap. Speak English! Slam.
Javier teaches me words copied
like a child: Wanna date big guy?
Sweet virgin, sweet girl. Spanish stays tucked
silent under my tongue. American men want American words.

The sistema por cuotas
keeps me on my back
twenty five times each day
but Sunday. God sees us,
girls whisper. God is busy.

Behind locked doors, in cells
we sleep, head to foot, hand in hand.
Sometimes a lullaby
Sometimes a sharp intake of breath
Wakes me from dreams.

For I dream tonight, in Spanish. Dreams
of hope, of Mama waiting my return.
Tomorrow I will fake it: an actriz,
a super-model. Practice my runway
walk. Try not to step on a crack.

© Barbara Gabriel

for Julie McClure

This morning, light spilled into the courtyard
like God had opened a window.
The light is quiet and can’t be herded
from dormitory beds to morning mass –
it shines where it wants,
blushing the stained glass windows,
washing the priest’s words.

My mother doesn’t write.
It’s been three years. My hands
crack from the heat of the sheets
as we feed them through the mangle.
The high windows admit one square
of light, on the word repent
and I am silent like the sunlight.

© Jessica Traynor

Stanhope St women to get assistance

Jessica Traynor is a Dublin poet. Her poems have appeared in Southword, the SHOp, the Moth and the Stinging Fly. She has won the Listowel Poetry Prize. Her blog is jessicatraynor.wordpress.com

tears
cleanse stains on soiled linen--
Magdalene redress

dirty laundry--
Magdalene women get
state apology

© Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Taoiseach delivers state apology to Magdalene women

Máire is Irish, lives in Co. Wicklow and retired early from the Financial Sector. She is a member of Haiku Ireland and the Irish Haiku Society and has been published in Every Day Poets, New Ulster, Lynx, Sketchbook haiku, Notes from the Gean, A Hundred Gourds, Whirligig, The First Cut, Wordlegs, and Open Road Review.

Alright Jack? And how are you today?
Any propaganda to repeat?
No red-top headlines, green-inked bile,
that you’d like to regurgitate for me?
I’m all ears for your misplaced fears,
for the glowing generalities that glitter when you speak
for the bandwagon slander littering your speech

What about the ‘scroungers’ who live across the street?
The ones with the Blackberry and Sky TV?
Living off your taxes, lying on their backs,
according to the gospel of the right-wing rags.
If it’s in the papers then it’s obviously true!

You’re a hard-working family, a ‘striver’ to be sure,
and the ‘shirkers’ over there, they earn 20k a year!
Jack, you know it doesn’t go into their  pauper’s purse
The landlord gets the benefit, and they live on a pittance,
deflating by the day to bleed them dry

They lost their jobs a year ago, and now they’re on their arse bones,
feeding from the food banks funded by the network
of Tory boys and greedy chums with crafty plans ahoy

But there isn’t any bread, and there’s no fresh veg,
no milk or meat or dignity to dine on
Their Sky TV was cut off but the dish remains in place
‘cause Murdoch can’t be arsed to take it down
And the Blackberry? It’s dead, without a dime to call the time

But don’t let this impede the yellow mantra you repeat
as a talisman against redundancy
Just close your ears and shut your eyes
and pray your acts of Daily Fail
will help you stay a ‘striver’ all your life

God forbid you lose your foot upon the rung

© Laura Taylor

Wage war on shirkers

Laura Taylor has been writing and performing poetry for just over two years and has finally found a space in which to air her grievances with Authority. Her Writeoutloud profile is http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/laura

This week we began with Csilla Toldy's Danube-Duel. `This was about the rising 'rabid' right-wing politics in Hungary which had been recently attacking Gypsies with virulent anti-semitism and its xenophobi Christian Nationanalism. I particularly liked the feeling of aggressive imprisonment in this poem, ending with the ominous 'sulphuric silence.'

We then had High Occupany by Maeve O'Sullivan on Tuesday. The oddity of this story – one about a man who was arrested for having a skeleton in his car so he could use the carpool lane – caught our attention which its strange humour and a surreal blackness.

Wednesday we had Out of Their Mouths Are They Convicted? By our own Abigail Wyatt.  This was a strong piece in it appearance and form. The story was about an elder person found with rotting flesh on him. It was something Abigail felt strongly about, writing in the aggressive irony of 'The nursing home / was treating him well.'

On Thursday we had The Big Issue by David Subacchi. There were a string of murders of Big Issue sellers and this poem highlights the sad loss of them. There is the poignant, guilt-heavy line of 'There are blood stains / Spreading on the cover.'

And for Saturday we chose Her Name is Reeva by Janine Booth. This was a strong and very recent news story that we wanted to put out. It was about then death of Reeva Steenkamp who was killed by her boyfriend, Oscar Pistorious. The poem was giving the identity back to Reeva since the media had been labeling her as the dead girlfriend of Oscar Pistorious, an unnamed celebrity.

We're usually sifting through piles of poetry but as usual we need more, and as the news changes you can write more.

Remember yo send your news-related poems to poetry24@hotmail.com

Have a good week,

Michael.

Her name is Reeva
Reeva Steenkamp
Not ‘Oscar Pistorius’ girlfriend’
Not ‘model’
Not ‘reality TV star’
Her name is Reeva

Her name is Reeva
She was not just a model
But also a campaigner against violence
She was not just a reality TV star
But also a law graduate
The story is about her killing
Not about his fame
Or it should be
Her name is Reeva

His name is Oscar
Oscar Pistorius
And every news report calls him that
Her name is Reeva
Sometimes mentioned
But only after ‘his model girlfriend’

He slept with guns
She is one of fifty victims of homicide every day in South Africa

Her name is Reeva
She is a woman
A person in her own right
Not the appendage of the celebrity who killed her
Even now she is dead
She still has a name
Use it please

© Janine Booth

Oscar Pistorius sobs in court describing how he shot his model girlfriend thinking she was a robber

Janine is a socialist feminist, executive member of the RMT trade union, writer and activist, former Stroppyblogger, and supporter of Women’s Fightback.
Her Facebook page is: http://www.facebook.com/janine.booth1
Her Twitter is: @janinebooth

I used to buy The Big Issue
Then I didn’t bother
But in Birmingham
There are blood stains
Spreading on the cover

Two homeless sellers
Murdered in broad daylight
My local seller
Is from Rumania
She says “Buna”
Which means “Hello”

It’s the first time
I have spoken to her
I buy the paper
Sticky with conscience.

© David Subacchi

Man charged over Birmingham Big Issue murders

David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian.

Retired master baker dies: Cornwall coroner says care home wasn't negligent.

Vulnerable 96year old man found with rotting flesh in Camborne

Abigail Wyatt lives at Druids Lodge in the shadow of Carn Brea in Redruth.where she writes, mainly poetry and short fiction, and tries not to get too depressed. She is a founding member of the Red River Poetry Collective and enjoys performing her work locally. She has a fine collection of axes all of which she is much disposed to grind. Her blog is here

No, we're not going to be late
for the ceremony. Nearly there Mom.
You know I hate it when you act
the back seat driver.

Uh-oh, we're being pulled over.
What do you mean are my tax
and insurance still okay?
Of course they are, Mom!

Good afternoon, officer.
Yes, I am aware that this is
the car pool lane. No, I am not
travelling alone. That
is my mother back there...

Can't you see her?

© Maeve O'Sullivan

Skeleton in passenger seat - driver arrested.

Maeve O’Sullivan works as a media lecturer in Dublin. She has published her poems and haiku widely. Her first haiku collection, Initial Response, was launched by Alba Publishing in 2011. www.twitter.com/maeveos

Is that a boat or a coffin
bobbing up and down on the river
framed by the intricate lace of the parliament?

The country taught me hate
the tightness of place, sometimes echoed
when the gales gather and attack this island.

No escape, lie low, let the winds blow overhead,
wait, even if you are sitting on a hot spring
even if you fume vitriol.

Remembering the river’s bank
ragged lines of men and women, shot
after they were told to slip off their shoes.

Boney bare trees reach up into the sky
grab the pain - hanging on
pulling it down, draw it deep into the soil.

The Danube splits the land. From the crack
incredible amounts of fresh water, hot and clear
bubble up with the smell of rotten eggs.

Healing waters - they say -
good for the bones and joints,
the ailments that plague the core of the nation.

The never got buried float away into the sky -
in the spas soaking people play chess
in sulphuric silence.

Rabid right on the rise in Hungary
Csilla Toldy left Hungary in 1981. She does not wish to return. Csilla's stories and poetry have appeared in The Black Mountain Review, Southword, Fortnight, Poetry Monthly, and Strictly Writing Award. Her blog is http://www.csillatoldy.com/

It has been a week of ups and downs here in the boggy marshland that is Cornwall. On the down side, the repair to my laptop which was promised for the beginning of this week, still has not materialised and I am now, officially, so far behind with all kinds of projects that I must have very little chance of ever catching up. On a more positive note, though, it has been a good week socially with two trips to The Poly in Falmouth. The first of these was to see a Valentine's Day showing of 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' (complete with chocolates and paper handkerchiefs) and the second to enjoy the music and quirky humour of the indefatigable Neil Inness at 'Another Chance to Get It Right', his current one man show.

Yes, I know the Bonzo Dogs were a long time ago but, in addition to the old stuff and the clowning around, Mr Inness offered some sharply observed humour, not to mention a handful of thought-provoking and/or heart-wrenching ditties. Many of the audience, it is true, were of a 'a certain age' but there were, too, some younger admirers and we were all treated to - and most heartily enjoyed - a spirited rendition of that old Python favourite 'The Philosophers Song'.

Why is this relevant to this week's review? Well, in some ways, it isn't.  On the other hand, as my partner and I sat in the audience, we were heartened by Mr Inness's sheer vitality as much as entertained by his actual performance. It was evident to us that he is passionately committed to creative endeavour right - and here I quote one of his own lyrics - to 'the end of the line'.

So, then, on that note, on to the poetry. Gwen Seabourne's 'Raising the White Rose' got us off to an excellent start by asking us to consider the 'unknowable' identity of Richard III. Was he, after all, a 'hero' or a 'monster'? As was pointed out by Michael Ray, the rhythm of this piece was strikingly effective as was the hissing sibilance of 'that snake-twisted spine/ and those venomous wounds'.

On  Wednesday, Maeve Heneghan brought us 'Heavenly Laundry', a response to the accounts given by survivors of the Magdalene Laundries. In the final stanza, a lifetime of loss is boldly stated:

'After that day
I pushed him into this world,
I never saw him again.
He had red hair,
just like his da.'

Thank you, Maeve, for this powerful yet disciplined poem and thank you, too, to those who took the time to leave comments on the site. It is pleasing to see that we are getting a few more of these lately since we do value a dialogue. Incidentally, we really don't mind if someone disagrees with us (as happened to yours truly very recently) since it seems to us that it is part of the job of the poet to poke his or her head above the parapet from time to time.

Thursday saw the welcome return to Poetry 24 of Noel Loftus whose 'Sky Burial' was a positive feast of wonderful lines and images. My own favourite was:

'the Tibetans will bear you to a plateau on a mountain,
shadowed by wild dogs barking your song.'

I also admired the skilful - and fearless -  use of repetition in the opening stanza and I loved the idea of 'the crows who come last'. Noel's poem was a little longer than we usually publish, though our guidelines do specify up to forty lines of verse. Please don't submit anything longer than this because we will only have to ask you to edit it down.

Finally, on Friday, E.R. Olsen gave us 'Timbuktu', a reminder of the value of 'ancient books' and a timely warning that their willful destruction 'will not do'. It seems to me that this is a poem that speaks - or should speak - to all of us, especially those of us here in Britain at a time when our libraries are under threat. Unfortunately, we have a government who cares not a jot for those who depend on the library service more or less entirely for their access to books for pleasure and study. Like E. R. Olsen, we might well 'hope to find/for culture’s sake/fate spared a few.'

Well, that's all from me for a while. Thanks to all our contributors and readers. Please keep the submissions coming and don't forget to tell your friends. Abi

It will not do
The destruction
of ancient books
in Timbuktu

These were not new
or modern works
Lies of the west
Things to eschew

Vengeful adieu
Burning their own
texts and Korans
All that is true

And we've no clue
but hope to find
for culture’s sake
fate spared a few

You’ve come in view
Oh end of Earth
Like other spots
we never knew

A strange milieu
What irony
The savior’s come
Red white and blue

But wrecking crew
Will they return
when legions leave
to follow through?

© E. R. Olsen

Ancient Manuscripts In Timbuktu Reduced To Ashes


E. R. Olsen writes poetry and practices law in Nevada, where he lives with his wife and four children.  His poems have appeared  in various U.S. magazines and journals, and will be included in the upcoming issue of Naugatuck River Review.

They being Buddhist,
the body an empty vessel when worn
and that vessel cold
because He has taken you from your shelf now,
and having no taste for wakes or sleeps,
or tears, or what a decent man he was,
or what a proud mother she was,
and such nonsense,
and having little wood to burn you,
no soil to hide you,
no lies to embroider you,
no basket to solicit your last few coins,
no prayers to appease you,
no child to love you, poor cadaver,
the Tibetans will bear you to a plateau on a mountain,
shadowed by wild dogs barking your song.

That song will be discordant now
because the wind is cold
and the tripping monk with stiff fingers will lay you
on the bed of rock.
Denying the worms their banquet,
denying the fire its fury,
grinning down his whiskey,
he will rend your flesh with a cleaver,
scatter your bits aside
for the griffons who come first.
He will crush your bones with a sledge
to be mixed with flour for the hawks
and the crows who come last,
who will pick the bed of rock, and your shroud, clean.

If you were meagre you become bird faeces falling
from the sky to fuse with the pungent guano of those who had station.
Together you will feed the bitter grass to feed the yak to feed the people.
Later a boy will take your shroud and wash it in the stream.
Later he will lay it on the roof of the world to dry.

I fell in love with a fella,
that was my only crime.
Before my belly swelled,
they had to put me away.

Eleven hours a day
I scrubbed clean
all remnants of my sin.

As tears merged
with murky waters,
sheets of fallen women,
my memories, like the stains
began to fade.

After that day
I pushed him into this world,
I never saw him again.
He had red hair,
just like his da.

©Maeve Heneghan

Maeve Heneghan is a native of County Dublin.  She has been writing poetry and short stories for a number of years now and has had some of her work published with First Cut, Verse land,  Static Poetry and Every Day Poets.

Magdalene laundry report

Under the tarmac

The week at Poetry24 started with a reminder that rising tides don't always raise everyone equally, so to speak, from  James Besant's 'Swallowed'. I like the mention of the "voice in the dark" which has the feeling of helplessness in the face of nature about it.
Craig Guthrie's 'Harry' gave a nicely done look at  political decisions made by governments and how it can mean that sometimes we have to take a side at a personal level.
In his second appearance in the week James Besant extracted the urine from an all too common facet of professional sport in 'Hazard'.
David Mellor's 'Pushed Over' on Thursday really hit the mark as the world gets faster and faster and workers get squeezed evermore. It's like a jungle sometimes, but, as poets, we carry the best machetes.
Abi Wyatt's 'Locked In'  followed up and re-enforced the message that we're all getting a bit more locked in.
Peter Goulding's 'Scourge the Bastard' finished up the week with a poem about decriminalizing drugs which drew attention to way that society reacts to any thought of that. Strangely enough, there are double standards involved.
A good week reflecting a few worrying trends that are emerging in the world. There must be more things that you could write about, we would even like some happy poems! So submit your poem today!!

Scourge the bastard till he starts to bleed
(they cry, with righteous anger and disdain)
for advocating legalising weed.

Elected democratically, indeed!
Drugs have caused such misery and pain,
so scourge the bastard till he starts to bleed.

Protect our children from this evil creed
and cut the tongues from those who won’t refrain
from advocating legalising weed.

You say that hash is harmless? I concede
that alcohol is much more of a stain.
Still, scourge the bastard till he starts to bleed.

And cigarettes may feed a dying breed
but string him up, I tell you once again,
for advocating legalising weed.

You might as well say pushers should be freed
to kill our kids with acid and cocaine!
So, scourge the bastard till he starts to bleed.
for advocating legalising weed.

© Peter Goulding

Time for debate on cannabis says 'Ming.'

Peter Goulding rails at life from the comfort of his Dublin armchair. Lured into poetry by the promise of untold wealth, his work has been rejected by editors in four continents.

Pushed on and pushed on further
Those in work can feel the hairline crack
Lay in the bath completely wrung out
Drained, blurry-eyed, some deadline has whizzed by

Frontal lobotomy “what piece of shit have I got to write today”
Pushed on, pushed on blurry-eyed
Let go, let go of what kept you alive

And if by some chance
We see you slumped at your desk
With rigor mortis setting in
We’ll expect you to keep pressing the keys

© David Mellor

British men are working the longest hours in Europe

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