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Boris Unleashed Believe in me. This modest ego trip Of fewer than eight hundred pages will Retell the story of my statesmanship. In retrospect, it will appear as skill. Spare's author, whom, with manly pep talks, I Urged not to leave GB, may claim we had No chats; the Palace may flat out deny Liz R had sought my help; that Oxford grad Ennobled, Dave, who fought the Brexiteer And lost, may yet gainsay aspersions he Slung swearingly my way; and polls, I hear, Have found that voters too do not trust me. Et tu, Brute? ... The joke may soon hit home, Dear reader—you have bought a rubbish tome! (First published in Light on 21st October, 2024 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
Diverse* Coterie Drunk elephants, well-oiled non-human apes, Intoxicated pen-tailed tree-shrews, moose Vamoosing tipsily, and rats who traipse Erratically on alcoholic juice Reveal it's nature's nature to abhor Sobriety. This diverse coterie Evolved a drinking habit long before Commercial vineyards: drinking had to be Of some survival benefit ... In flies, The jilted male can drink his sorrows, and Eggs females lay when drunk stint fewer guys ... Research concludes it's time to understand, Inebriation's not a human trait Exclusively—all beasts self-medicate! *Pronounced with stress on first syllable (First published in Light on 4th November, 2024 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
Get Me Out Of Here! G'day from way down under, from below Earth's surface, where I hope to find the phone That found a crevice when I stubbed my toe. My selfie-taking skills, so hard to hone, Everted me while wedging both my pins On top of me between two rocks ... I've been Upended now for over sixty mins— Though didn't I just see you, smartphone screen, On life support and calling out to me For help? Or does this blood-filled head mean I Hallucinate, and we're both doomed to be Eternally apart? ... So long, goodbye, Rock-exploration selfie-taking gear ... Excuse my grief. Now get me out of here! (First published on 4th November, 2024 in Oddball Magazine. Story here) |
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Scarlet Tanager Shelf, miles from North America, is where Committed British twitchers flocked to catch A sighting, as a songbird that is rare Reviewed its options on its foreign patch: Look here for mates—for other refugees Escaping Trump's US? Risk flying back, To somewhere south of Florida's high seas— Though not to Haiti, where there's too much flak? Advance, to where a songbird wouldn't freeze— North Africa? Although warm winds invite A scarlet tanager, would lack of trees Give raptors easy pickings for a bite? ... Excited twitching never harmed a bird— Remaining Shelf-bound surely is preferred! (First published in Light on 18th November, 2024 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
I'm Undocumented I pass you on the street. I can't be missed. My presence is as real as yours to see, Until you tell me that I don't exist: Not dead, and not unborn, but sans ID, Denied a passport by officialdom— Officialdom whose rules insist that I'm Called immigrant, and hence that I am from Un-British parts where I've spent zero time. My twenty-six long years of legal non- Existence in my country will retard Not only me: a nation prospers on The worth of all, like me, who can work hard ... Except that I'm undocumented, and Don't qualify—nor do I understand. (First published in the New Verse News on 30th November, 2024. Story here) |
Winter Holidays White Christmases are few and far between In Florida. But I recall a white Noel in nineteen-eighty-nine: the scene, That Christmas Eve, was snowy half the night. Extremely early risers saw their lawn Repose beneath an inch or two of snow. However, warmer weather came at dawn On Christmas Day, and left no snow to show Late-rising folk ... Fast forward to this year: In England, I await another white December 25. Though warmth, good cheer And family fill Christmas with delight, Yule logs burn brighter on a whiter street— Snow makes your winter holidays complete! (First published on 8th December, 2024 in the Creativity Webzine) |