Wednesday, 28 January 2015

World Cup

The ISIS Brit
tall in the desert

blade by his side
talks to the camera

severs the head 
of the orange infidel

kneeling beside him 
kicks the head

across the sand
while the world 

has a beer
in its coliseum

deaf to Satan
shouting “Goal!”


Donal Mahoney

donalmahoney@charter.net
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, USA and has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Saturday, 24 January 2015

Unfit

I feel unfit
mentally obese
the little grey cells
have matured like John Major
into something ignored and sour

Can the old biro
still scrawl anything half true
relegated to a dusty shelf
of things no one’s sure they should throw away

easier to soak the mind
in old TV, beer, cigars and fear

Why say it in 40 lines
in begging for money magazines
which still insist dead trees
are needed for our muses
when one can littler twitter
and disqus with mental pus
that will remain forever unloved
till someone presses the off button.


Anthony Miller
http://www.pearshapedcomedy.com/A_E_Miller_Poetry.html
mraemiller@aemiller.net 

Sunday, 28 December 2014

Cat Quartet

Winter

That tiger cat with
winking green eyes tossing 
up balls of red yarn.

Spring

Inquisitive...
the gingersnap cat stares as
I get undressed.

Summer

Black and white kitten
lying under clothesline in
soft circles of sleep.

Fall

Windy afternoon
my calico cat leans forward
against the cold.


Joan McNerney,
New York
poetryjoan@statetel.com

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

A New Yo-Yo on Christmas Day

I took grandson Jack
for a walk in the park
high noon on Christmas Day.
He wanted to see 
his yo-yo dance
but his parents said
no yo-yo tricks
in a crowded house
with a Christmas tree.

So after Mass
they wrapped Jack up 
in a snowsuit worn
by the Michelin Man
when he was a child.
And Jack and I 
strolled off, laughing 
through the snow.

The park was empty 
when I showed Jack 
yo-yo tricks I’d learned
many decades ago.
I told him he would
soon be tall enough 
to do these tricks
on his own.

Jack laughed and asked
if we could come back
to the park that night
and watch the comets.
I asked him why. 
That’s when I learned 
comets are yo-yos and 
God swings their strings
on the other side
of the moon.

Donal Mahoney


donalmahoney@charter.net
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, USA and has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Sunday, 30 November 2014

It Could Be Really Somehow Never

Never lumbers in his loft space
The could be world a distant tracing
isn’ts and aren’ts in hobbled whim
bubble offshore of germlike vision.
Blue rings ripple up, a plush rug’s twitch
Feather yellow rings of birdsong tickling.
An odd peckled speck of a moonbright slice.
Scuffling somethings picking at the ground.

But Somehow is stone still, plain so staring,
his eyes unearthing the world so really.
All horrored beaten grey waste grasses,
to the curd-like screech of circling scavengers.
Shot by the light of the moonlike scythe 
Ghosten people scrape nails through dirt.
They speak a chant of pale voiced fear
‘There must be some hope buried here’

Somehow and Never are something alike,
both eyes to see and ears to hear,
buta.


Anonymous 

Thursday, 30 October 2014

By Hand

This is an experiment
to see if holding these words
and feeling my pen strokes
scratched into the paper
makes them more valuable.

I’ve made an old-fashioned effort
to find a pen (sorry, blue ink)
and some paper (apologies,
torn from a reporters’ notepad)
and felt that unfamiliar stretch
of tendons straining against plastic.

I grimaced at the taste
of glue as I sealed in my 
offering and then I queued
at the post office for a stamp.

I know your address by heart;
I should, I live there too.



Ben Banyard

Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, UK where he writes poetry and short fiction. His work has appeared in Shortlist Magazine, The Stare's Nest, Nutshells & Nuggets and a forthcoming issue of Sarasvati.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Great Migration

We all moved
switching our spots,
like leopards denying their
true identities.
We found our new home,
but it reminded us too
much of the old melancholy,
so our feet grew restless
once more moving.


JD DeHart
Tennessee, US