Friday, 28 February 2014

Blow up the North


“Mr Cameron we need to destroy our chemical weapons “


can we bring them to your country?”



“Ohh yes sure sure anything to stop this bloody war”



“Ok we will set sail to Dover and maybe a harbour nearby”



“No I have voters there, how about near Liverpool I’m hated there



“But that’s the other side of the country and there maybe loss of life”



“I ‘ll live with it, I’ve already taken most of their lives”

© david r mellor 2014

http://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/syria-weapons-chemicals-destroyed-ellesmere-6519753

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.

Thursday, 27 February 2014

You Are My Sunshine

Munch, shut your Man-in-the-Moon mouth,
listen to Ray Charles Cheshire Cat grin
that only and ever sunshine. "People are jazzed,"
said Omar A. Hurricane, laser scientist
leading a fusion project. The French pursue
the energy paradigm shift via
the Russian acronym tokamak,
which is not a Wampanoag word
like Pawtucket, where the American
industrial Revolution began at Slater's
(not Sutter's, that's the Gold Rush) Mill.
Pawtucket means where sweet water
falls into salt tides obeying Ocean
and Moon. O my, the sky will fall
into our open mouths, will fill hungry bellies
for future millennia to sorrow over past
famines and our deafness and plagues.
Smile, Munch. Other side of that bridge
will be sunshine can't be taken away.


©L.S. Bassen.
Fiction Editor for
http://www. prickof thespindle.com/. 3 books coming out in 2014 from publishers in Hong Kong, Canada, & Tennessee. Finalist for 2011 Flannery O’Connor Award; APP Drama Prize & a Mary Roberts Rinehart Fellowship; book reviewer; 2 poems read at http://2river.org/2R View/15_3/poems/bassen.html.


Wednesday, 26 February 2014

Advice for Google Glass Testers (adapted from the website)

Glass frees you! Look,  
engage with the world around you!
Get walking directions to a fantastic restaurant!
Get updates on that delayed flight!

Glass frees your hands for other things -
golfing, or juggling flaming torches
while balanced on a beach ball
(but also see warnings below.)

When you’re cooking, it’s great for
looking up how many ounces in a cup, 
or taking a sly photo
from your unique perspective.

Don’t, however

Glass-out by reading War and Peace.
You need a bigger screen.  Also
remember you’ll look pretty weird if
you stare off –prism.  Don’t day-dream.

Don’t

rock Glass by doing high impact sports.
Use common sense. Water ski-ing,
bull riding or cage fighting are
probably not good ideas with Glass.

Don’t

think Glass makes you invisible.
People will ask, Wow, are those
Google Glasses? How do they work?
Can you see into my soul?

Don’t

be a Glasshole when this happens.
Don’t be creepy, snappy or rude.  Don’t
ruin it for others.  Remember,
new technology, new questions.


©Sue Norton

Tuesday, 25 February 2014

Collision
















I feel the frisson
of a collision

And dreamt it coming
And dreamt it coming

Between the hum of the humble-bee
and the blind yelp of the barcode bleep

Between the thumb and the palm oil plains
and the deforestation rains

Between the icecaps and the rising seas
and the fuel moguls mendacity
Between their war torn suppliers 
and the stench of the famine pyres

Between the stained sheets of media
cooperations and politicians

What can the poor do but fight one another
What will the rich do but run higher for cover

Can the young teach us a better way ?
Come the day which of us will have the final say ?

With the growl of the arching waves
With the scowl of the heavy skies

I dreamt it coming
I dreamt it coming

A collision
A collision.

©Bryn Hyfrd

I juggle poetry, children and work, attempting to keep most of the balls in the air most of the time.

Monday, 24 February 2014

Mr. Comma---The Poor

Quite complicated the traffic system is,
 yet a set of efficient hands are busy
 in making it simple and effective.
 Mr. Comma---a humble and useful hand-
 serves as a traffic police in the junction,
 controls the regular hustle and bustle,
 compartmentalises the jumbled vehicles-
 carrying the important ''Meaning'' for us,
 provides the drivers with a moment of leisure
 to be refreshed for a while
 and directs them to race on the way of destination
 one by one in a disciplined
 and a meaningful way.
 An indispensible hand it seems-
 so what? We like saluting the reformations.
 Prof. John Mc Whorter,
 one of the famous system directors,
 likes to introduce a post-curtailment process,
 raises his new sword on
 the neck of the old-Mr. Comma,
 convinces the world about his poor significance
 and assures the smooth running of the system
 without the presence of Mr. Comma,
 the world says,'' Let's see''.


©Pijush Kanti DebThe Death of the Comma?
Pijush Kanti Deb is a new Indian poet with more than 100 poems accepted or published in many national and international magazines and journals- print and on-line since June 2013.He is an Associate Professor in Economics.

Sunday, 23 February 2014

Sunday Review

And so, another week has flashed past. I can scarcely believe that we are almost into March already. It seems like only yesterday we were putting our little Christmas tree back in its place in the garden but now, those who are prepared to brave the cold, are being rewarded with the first signs of  spring. Yes, here in Cornwall, the wild weather has abated somewhat, although much damage has been done around our coastline: many local business have suffered badly and some-much loved landmarks have been entirely washed away. My own home, which is well inland and eight hundred feet above sea level, was spared the effects of the flooding. Even so, we did have damage to the roof as a result of unusually high winds. Our thoughts are with those who are still having to live with the aftermath of the recent storms.

On with the business of the week, though, and I think it was an interesting one, We began with Tim McLafferty's economical and hard-hitting 'Zoo' which brings together two news stories, both disturbing in themselves, to powerful effect. Thank you, Tim, for continuing to submit to 'Poetry24'.

On Tuesday, we went for a complete contrast with Melinda Rizzo's poem 'For Shirley Temple Black'. I liked this poem immediately because of my own experience, as a very small child, of having my hair curled in rags. My own mother is a contemporary of Shirley Temple Black and, as a child herself, she greatly admired the young Shirley Temple. Later, when she became a mother - and I was her first child - obviously, she wanted me to look just like her heroine. It wasn't easy. I was a bit of a tomboy and I fought her all the way. Unless you have endured it, you can have no idea how impossible it is to sleep comfortably when your head is a mass of knotted strips of linen.  It was my first encounter with the idea that 'you have to suffer to be beautiful'. As soon as I was big enough, I dug in my heels and wore my hair long and very straight. 

Wednesday's poem was Martha Landman's 'You Don't Get Away With These Things' which refers to the ongoing investigations surrounding the death, on Valentine's Day last year, of Reeva Steenkampf. I can't help noticing that the name that gets most of the coverage is not Reeva's but rather that of Oscar Pistorius whose lawyers must be hoping that, with the passing of time, the world has forgotten the circumstances surrounding this young woman's tragic death.Martha's poem has been skillfully written but I particularly admire the following stanza:

The fragrance of atonement is cheaper
than a finger for a finger, so we light 
candles for the genocides, we mourn
as we lay our wreaths along the road.

On Thursday, it was the turn of another regular contributor, Philip Johnson whose 'little englander's end' was prompted by the resignation of immigration minister, Mark Harper. In this poem, Philip writes, tellingly  of 'the jack ass politician' who 'ate at his own ass until at last / the final break of wind/ was blown'. There you go, Mark, that's how the fortune cookie crumbles. With any luck, your resignation from this government will not be the last.

Finally, on Friday, another very powerful poem, this time from the pen of Sue Norton. 'Cruelty In North Korea Jee Heon-a: a survivor’s testimony' had me struggling with a blurry computer screen. Spare language and an air of detachment: great precision and control, Sue. Thanks for submitting.

Well, that's all from me this week. Be happy and productive. 

Abigail Wyatt



Friday, 21 February 2014

Cruelty In North Korea Jee Heon-a: a survivor’s testimony

A survivor testifies
that because her baby cried
and cried and cried,
the guard beat the mother,
made her shaking hands
up-end the baby

over a bucket,
bury its face in water
until the crying
stopped, and
it was observed
one bubble rose as it died.



©Sue Norton




Sue Norton lives and writes in York.

Thursday, 20 February 2014

little englander's end

greed now
mrs thatcher
closed down the community
turned the family 

son against dad
cost cut and cast out 


out out out

 
and in come the bogeymen
the offshore tax break
multi-national
hand out

held out 
out out 
out
 
all the while the jack ass politician 
ate at his own ass until at last
the final break of wind
was blown

 
 
©Philip Johnson

http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/feb/09/mark-harper-immigration-minister-resigns
Philip Johnson's poetry has previously appeared in: Poetry 24, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Emergency Verse and The Robin Hood Book. 

 

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

You Don’t Get Away With These Things

            Life isn’t a dress rehearsal.
-- John Lennon

He denies murder refrains through
the courts, the woods, the softness
of my skin; penetrates the anniversary
of innocence falling off a balcony.

The fragrance of atonement is cheaper
than a finger for a finger, so we light 
candles for the genocides, we mourn
as we lay our wreaths along the road.

Passion is not a crime on Valentine’s
Day; free tickets and e-cards pay the
debt while old peace talks masterly
capture the pureness of heart from afar.

Freedom has a nutty flavour these days,
tucked away in third-generation bikie
gang outhouses - like truth, or stolen
water, conveniently discarded on a breeze.

Mountains move in the fear of missing
out on another delight, or on revolt against
holy wars for that matter. All the evidence
travels on roads layered with justice.

© Martha Landman

Oscar Pistorius trial
Martha writes in tropical North Queensland, Australia.

Tuesday, 18 February 2014

For Shirley Temple Black

My aunt was named Shirley, after
The Little Princess, America’s darling,
and both wore tight, adorable, ringlet curls.

I doubt Shirley Temple’s curls were set in rags,
like my grandmother Annie set my aunt’s hair
while it was still wet from washing.

This was during the 1930s.
Aunt Shirley died five years ago, and
Shirley Temple Black died today.

Besides the curls,
I doubt these Shirleys
had much else in common,

although both were charming to a fault.
When my aunt died, I grieved for her,
My last living link to a mother,

who died when I was 12.
So I grieved again for my mother,
and grieved for myself, and for all those

I’d watched died, and buried ever since.
Heart-rending grief takes its toll.
From this deep, resonating place

I decided it was time to stop.
Time to look up, time to move onward.

 ©Melinda Rizzo






















Melinda Rizzo lives and works as a freelance reporter and writer in Quakertown, Bucks County Pennsylvania USA.The child of older parents who have both died, she grew up watching old black and white Shirley Temple movies. She lives with a teenaged son, her husband of 35 years, and a black Labrador named Caleb in an old, drafty, lovingly restored farmhouse.

Monday, 17 February 2014

Zoo

Death by bolt-gun, not to poison the meat,
then an educational dissection
and butchering in front of the children
before feeding the lions. Ethical,
like all words, stands many definitions.
The lions are hungry. Where do you think,
if you’ve ever thought, all their meat comes from?

Here, on our death tables, drugs are fine, as
we toss the corpses, and our hunger is

for something different entirely.

©Tim McLafferty
















Tim McLafferty lives in NYC and is the poetry editor at Forge Journal. His poems have appeared in Assisi, Barrow Street, Painted Bride Quarterly, PearlPortland Review and elsewhere. timmclafferty.com

Sunday, 16 February 2014

Sunday Review

Mari Maxwell's poem "Robotic, surely not?" started our week with a tongue-in-cheek look at bionics and where it could lead. There's some great imagery in this:
So that every touch by hubby
had pieces whirring, stirring too.
Nuts ‘n bolts slotting into place  

Angela Carr's "Right of Reply" was Tuesday's poem which looked at a massive payout to people who took offence at a radio announcer. The poem has just the right tone of icy anger as shown in the last two lines.
Peacemakers, merciful, meek and pure
show us why the rewards of righteousness are yours

  Richard Jones' poem "Morecombe Bay cockling disaster" reminded us all of the terrible events of 10 years ago. There is a lovely feeling of China in this poem which overlays the disaster with the extra sadness of being so far away from home.
Their solemn secrets traded
and pass.
Black Sea, Black Sand
you shall see Fujian no more.
Ian Whitely's poem "The Walkin' Man" finished the week for us with a great tribute to Pete Seeger. He is a legend. There's some great imagery in this poem and lines that evoke the loneliness that Seeger must have felt.
A lonely figure steps out and walks into the moon
at the top of a country road, whistling a mournful tune. 

Friday, 14 February 2014

The Walkin’ Man

Serendipity Spangle was a walkin’ man -of that, there is no doubt,
he walked across great continents and was seen round here about.
With his low slung jeans and guitar, he had no need for fancy suits,
he just roamed the great blue yonder in his worm down cowboy boots .

Those who were there at his birth cross their hearts and tell no lies -
they say he came into this world singing and walked straight from his mammas thighs
out into the dustbowl road out there where he promptly disappeared
into the heart of America and was folk and country reared.

He walked the fields of Gettysburg, dried the tears of the crying.
He strolled the trenches of the Somme and comforted the dying.
He raised the flag at Iwo Jima, hung his head at Nagasaki,
stirred the spirit in Vietnam - his heart is red and khaki.

He’s been around a long, long time and many times he’s died,
but he walks into the valley of the shadow of death and comes out the other side
with a pale horse trailing behind him, riderless and out of breath,
Serendipity Spangle always wins the wrestle with Death.

For the poor, the weak, the hopeless - he will pacify the soul,
the depressed, the hurt, the dispossessed - chew it up and swallow it whole.
With his raging songs of freedom, you will hear the old folk talk,
of the time that Serendipity Spangle stopped by on his long walk.

You hear his footsteps echoing along these highways of dust
when Bob or Bruce or Pete Seeger ask you to place your trust
in poetry and a guitar and a minstrel of the road.
Serendipity Spangle will help you carry your heavy load.

A lonely figure steps out and walks into the moon
at the top of a country road, whistling a mournful tune.
When the sun rises tomorrow his footsteps will have blown away
on a warm and soothing prairie breeze. Walkin’ into another day.

For Pete Seeger (May 3rd 1919 – January 27th 2014)
Pete Seeger's Death
©Ian Whiteley

Ian Whiteley was born in Wakefield but lives in Wigan.
He is a performance poet with a poetry collection ‘A Step Towards Winter’ published recently and a CD of music & poetry ‘Poetic License’ released under the music project name THE CROWS OF ALBION.
http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/ianwhiteley

View 64144_10152223784674124_1797498436_n[1].jpg in slide show

Thursday, 13 February 2014

Morecambe Bay Cockling Disaster

Black sea Black sand
you shall see Fujian no more.
Souls lost twenty three,
twenty one that night found,
two more cradled beyond.
All sea kissed, by shifting
sand flats lay and sleep forever.
Ice tidal none discerning came,
Cares not and takes..
And Morecambe weeps.
Farmers not Fishermen.
Snakehead smuggled you came,
to keep company with Ghosts.
Treasure of Abalone, salt
water hearts at low tide.
Twenty three moon lit silver,
rake lost in Time.
Golden net star filled sacks,
by haunting shore remain.
And Morecambe weeps.
Coasts own knowing, watches tap,
in futile communion.
Night’s veil sits and waits.
Freezing sea fingers ankles lap.
Shore lights bearing lost, twinkle unseen.
Deeper, numbing, top like.
Feet no longer sensing sand.
Swell steals seaward carried
soundless cries swept.
And Morecambe weeps.
Did pairs of eyes in panic meet?
Hands sort, held tight
till one relaxing, limp gave way.
What ancient words foreign
to that shore in Cold Black Mass.
Their solemn secrets traded
and pass.
Black Sea, Black Sand
you shall see Fujian no more.
 ©Richard Jones
Ghosts = gui lao, literally “old ghost”, used colloquially in China to describe white-skinned people
Snakehead = Chinese gangs that smuggle people to other countries
Fujian= province of China

Tuesday, 11 February 2014

Right of Reply

Come on your belly, if your legs can't carry
the weight of your moral certitude;

set us an example in tolerance,
in the noble art of rising above;

instruct us how to love one another
as you have loved, as He has loved you;

teach us the lessons of physical restraint,
show us the stones in your pocket, unthrown;

Peacemakers, merciful, meek and pure
show us why the rewards of righteousness are yours.


©Angela T Carr



Angela is a poet & writer based in Dublin, Ireland. Winner of the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition in 2013, her debut collection will be published by Bradshaw Books in 2014. More at www.adreamingskin.com.

Monday, 10 February 2014

Robotic, surely not?


Do you think they could do that -
With my boobs?
Make them bionic, supersonic flues?
So that every touch by hubby
had pieces whirring, stirring too.
Nuts ‘n bolts slotting into place  -
shifting, right or left with a twist of a screw.
A lever or key.
I’d be happy to forgo the flashing red lights.
The warning alarms of a compact working crew.

But would we even know what to do?
How would we ever handle these self-propelled titties?
How many floors, upstairs or down?
Decorators, contractors, fabrics and wood.
Refurbishment sounds cool but surely these’d do?

And could they create a spaceship? One floor or two?
Where I could store breast milk for a baby I knew.
Could there be caverns that would happily rotate?
Clockwise and counter, shifting into place.
Releasing packaged milk for a bairn or two.
Maybe even lunch or dinner, yahoo!


I could happily go braless with my nippleless chest.
Content with the Crème brûlée mounds I love best.
My silicone pair I consider mighty.
Even after the cancer, chemo, radiation blues.
Let’s face it - they’re new. Me too.
A few replacements or two,
now they sit ever so sedate.
My very own motley troop.

And when we were done with our lusty crew,
might we consider recycling those cubicles too?
Trips across the sea, continents away.
Bermuda. Malaysia. Bathing suits and all.
Ryanair flights with no extra baggage.
My mammaries packed free with minimal carriage.

Ah sure it’s happy I am with my unique two.
No need for batteries, petrol or fuel.
So I’ll stay with my mammeries. Silicone too.
Anyone up for this scientific breakthrough?


Bionic hand allows patient to "feel"

©Mari Maxwell



BIO: Along with letting it all hang out, Mari is a 14-year survivor of Inflammatory
 Breast Cancer. Her writing is forthcoming in Veils, Halos and Shackles: International 
Poetry on the Abuse and Oppression of Women. Her work was also shortlisted in the 2014
 Walking on Thin Ice Short Story Contest, [A short story contest where writers fight
 back against stigma and institutional power] Her work was also longlisted in the
 2013 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year. She has previously had the thrill
 of being published with Poetry 24.

Sunday, 9 February 2014

Sunday Review

This week we began with a very beautiful and very evocative poem which, incidentally, also proved to be among our 'most commented' ever. It was Angela T. Carr's 'At The Library'. On reading this delightful piece, I was immediately taken back to the time when I was twelve years old and an almost daily visitor at my small village library.  I was voracious reader then but, admittedly, not very discerning one since I came from a home where books were a luxury we could seldom afford.  Armed with my parents tickets, I borrowed and read anything and everything that took my fancy: Rupert Brooke, Oscar Wilde, Aldous Huxley, it is true; also, however, 'Jill Has Two Ponies' and anything by Jean Plaidy. It was good to be reminded of such times, Thank you, Angela.

On Tuesday, our poet of the day was Laura Taylor with 'Judging Justin', a poem which exposes the dangers posed to young people especially by our 'celebrity culture'. It isn't a new thing, of course; I think of Shirley Temple, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney and others; on the other hand, it seems undeniable that things are getting worse in a world which seems to know the price of everything and the value of not much at all.

On Wednesday it was the turn of David Mellor and his tribute to 'Philip Seymour Hoffman'.  We thank you, David, for marking this loss. We thank, too, Martha Landman for her brief but exquisitely beautiful poem 'Blood Cry'. All I can say about this one is that , if you missed it on Thursday, do click on the link now and make good that omission.

Our final poem this week was 'The Statue of Nelson Mandela' by Pijush Kanti Deb, a response to the story about the small statue of the rabbit hidden in the great man's ear. This was a great story to chose to write about, Pijush Kanti Deb, and we are delighted you sent your poem to us.

Well, that's all from me for this week. Stay safe and do good work.

Abigail Wyatt

Friday, 7 February 2014

The Statue Of Nelson Mandela

Nelson Mandela- the hero of South Africa,
expired, so free of earthly problems and tensions,
as expected,
love, appreciation, respect and gratefulness-
his earthly collections of heavenly powers
combine them together into a sculpture,
a giant statue of the great man
and salute again and again to his greatness.
A thirty feet tall statue
with arms outstretched
symbolizing his devotion to inclusiveness.
Alas! Death yet can’t solve his all problems,
the witnessing eyes are poked by a pointed object,
an odd to the statue stands inside one of his ears,
blasts instantly the crowd in emotion
and circumscribes the environment in shamefulness.
A babbling bunny is witnessed,
tucked inside the ear,
brings about an instant demand
for the immediate removal of the odd
and an inquisitiveness regarding the definition of that odd.
Maybe, a by-product of the sculpting company,
Or, a wrong ingredient applied by mistake,
Or a side effect of paralysing chilled death.
Mandela statue has rabbit in ear
©Pijush Kanti Deb
Pijush Kanti Deb is a new Indian poet with more than 100 poems accepted or published in many national and international magazines and journals- print and on-line since June 2013.He is an Associate Professor in Economics.

Thursday, 6 February 2014

Blood Cry

The serenity in Abruzzo valley lies shattered. Vineyards framed by weathered stone houses unveil sad songs to a little San Pietro della Ienca church. Dogs sniff for stolen blood along ski slopes, the smell of iron like death in the air. A pontiff’s love in gold and glass soars like a speck of dust astir. Every new year in blood- soaked cassocks, every papacy distraught.
©Martha Landman
 Martha Landman writes poetry in tropical North Queensland, Australia. Her latest work appeared in Eunoia Review, The Camel Saloon and other journals.

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

Philip Seymour Hoffman

A good guy gone
When Jackson went I thought “oh dear”
When Houston went I thought “ how sad”
When I saw you’d gone  I thought “ o no”
Not you

You turned every character into life
But you couldn't do it for yourself
No RIP that’s just too cheap
Just thank you for what you left for
Me and you

Actor Phillip Seymour Hoffman Dies

©David Mellor

Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Judging Justin


The net drips contempt
for a chicken
tied to sing in his teens;
from nothing out of nowhere,
unaware and unprepared.
Damaged
by the jagged
little splinters
made of gilt.

Contractually paid to play,
and play;
to play,
and play
again;
to make the pay his mother never could.

Brains of Braun - chicken pawn
can’t feel a silence of the mind
to rest,
recuperate.
Never to decelerate.

Atoms of his sanity exploding on TV.
Spiralling, signalling,
resisting, somersaulting.
Stripped by the media;
consumed, commodified,
dehumanised, and vilified.
This neverland will never last;
wishes made of dollars never do.

Take the plank from your eye -
a chicken speck of sawdust
costs a fortune,
lasts a lifetime,
narrows all of his tomorrows
fit to slide inside a bottle-necked fate.

Justin Beiber charged with limo driver assault

© Laura Taylor
View B & W from Tyldesley.jpg in slide show
Laura Taylor bangs her head repeatedly against various walls. Luckily, she has a very hard head.
http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/laura

Monday, 3 February 2014

At The Library

Note: Prior to the second decade of the 21st Century, information was held in a paper format called books; these were stored in building mainframes known as Libraries.
Its sleepy silence grounds me; traffic noise 
doused in the sweep of a carousel door,
only the brisk clip of shoe leather
on the dull copper burnish of herringbone
parquet; the pattering of typewriter keys;
the rubber stamp's thunk-thunk and the crisp lick
of a turning page, dog-eared, yellowed
by impatient thumbs and tracing fingers;
and the ghosts of a thousand whispered questions,
wary of disturbing calf-bound reverie,
where the magnetic pull of a paper North,
travels pulp mountains and rivered ink,
stirs the golden dust motes, hung in the morning
window, and my imagination to flight.
©Angela T Carr


Angela is a poet & writer based in Dublin, Ireland. Winner of the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition in 2013, her debut collection will be published by Bradshaw Books in 2014. More atwww.adreamingskin.com.

Sunday, 2 February 2014

Sunday Review

Monday's poem was "I Hear No Music" by Martha Landman which looked at a recent case in Texas involving a brain dead, pregnant woman.  It is a very evocative poem and this stanza is very powerful.
I am the music I’ll never hear
the Nicaragua I’ll never see
I am my brother’s raven hair.
 Tuesday brought Philip Johnson's poem "the second half of a pair of shoes wishes me a good day" which is very critical of the UK Prime Minister hailing a recovery that has escaped the eye of just about everyone else.  There's some great imagery in this poem such as:
sat there in his cardboard box with his big broad smile
tapping together his feet - a plimsoll on his left foot
oddly a wellington on the right.
Wednesday's poem "Ronchamp" was the first by Aoife Troxel to appear at Poetry24. It is a poem tinged with sadness and anger with some very striking lines in it. We hope to hear more from Aoife.
In the moonlight, it grew fungal
dark and magnificent.
But there are those who would let it rot.
Sarah Clancy's Thursday poem "Selfie" quite shocked me because I had not heard of the incident before. This silencing of protest is getting to be quite popular with the ruling classes. The last three lines speak to and for us all.  I don't blame it all right.
the self won’t get up out of bed today
and I don’t blame it,
I'll have to leave without it.

 
Craig Guthrie's poem "The Subjective Nature of News"   showed the bewildering nature of the news cycle whilst our own lives whirl on . I love the section beginning
My eight websites
and my lost phone number
 
I hope the coming week is a good one for you all and that you get inspired to submit a poem to us.