Because, by Rupert M Loydell

Because they live longer lives
……we let them sleep all day
……then die alone.

Because they do not understand
……we cannot teach them,
……prefer not to talk.

Because they do not earn enough
……we let them eat badly
……and live somewhere else.

Because they are not us
……we are not interested
……and leave well alone.

Because they will die sooner
……we make excuses
……and put ourselves first.

Because we do not understand,
……they are always there;
……thankfully somewhere else.

Because we do not care
……they are not cared for,
……and live on their own.

Because they live such lives
……we push them away
……and let them die alone.

Shop Window Box, by Al Barz

last time I saw this
mud-brown-coated creature
it was on the edge of town
emerging from a wayside thicket
enveloped by astonishment
as it stared down
at the blazing, dark grey Tarmac
and the zooshing of the vehicles
endlessly going
in the wrong direction
fading to an oblivion
full of miracles
..
I passed by
not caring to know
whether it would survive intact
crossing the torment of traffic
whether it would scurry through
or be attacked by others
who care nothing about it
minus nine on their lives’ priorities
what bubbleheads we surely are
toward perceived insignificant minorities
..
that was last week
a page of mundane away
after an evening entertaining smiles
my town pub vomited us
into paved sniggers
the wrong side
of costly shopping sprees
the wrong time for new shoes
and sparrowhawks
us gay dummies
barely occupying brains
passing the gay dummies
in swanky shop windows
..
we glimpsed a shuffled creature
moving incongruously
curled like a cheese twist
secretly stashed
sheltered from gnawing light
dreading the chill of men
passing in shiny Audis
and silk underwear
that same feral animal
near to the place
where it once worked
when it was a man
before austerity
had bitten its legs off
and made it crawl
the lanes of Brokenshire

Two clerihews by Oonah V Joslin

Theresa May-be/May-be not
changed my mind cos I got caught
‘s moral superiority
suddenly found a money tree!

 

Queen Elizabeth dispassionately examining her crown,

flicked at a huge, dulling pearl, with a frown.

Pearls should be worn. They need keeping warm, she said.

I’m afraid, she hung her head, this poor pearl is dead.

..

..

A clerihew ( /ˈklɛrɪhjuː/) is a whimsical, four-line biographical poem invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley. The first line is the name of the poem’s subject, usually a famous person put in an absurd light, or revealing something unknown or spurious about them. The rhyme scheme is AABB, and the rhymes are often forced. The line length and metre are irregular.

In Each of Her Folds a Promise Waits, by Marissa Glover

The Living Laboratory, by David Chorlton

The cats glow
when electric charges
flow into them,
the monkeys do not know
why they have been chosen
to be held inside a vice
that tightens when they breathe,
and a rabbit is the sore chemicals create
as they drip through a parting
in its fur. A rat
is a monosyllable in a jungle
of medical language,
a pincushion for science,
and trained to stand on the point
of a needle
to prove how small a life
can become when there is no crime
for which the punishment
is administered.

Nora, by Paula Matthews

May she be blessed a thousand times who first blessed me.

Little do you know my story. You seem to like me.
You identify something I can’t recognise.
You even asked me out to lunch.
Twenty people in this office,
you choose me for the seminar.
When you pop your head around the door,
in your lovely stripy top, like the funny clowns,
from the happy circus, before the dark clowns came,
little do you know your holy role in the hidden tale.
You think you are offering me coffee;
you’re giving me life. You’ve never seen
beneath the mask, but you soothe the deepest wound.
Precious Nora, if I could tell my story,
you’d be cast as an angel, or Mary Magdalene
anointing damaged feet with oil. The hero and the star.

..

Paula Matthews is a poet and social worker with personal lived experience of mental health. She has worked extensively in the field of mental health arts and is currently acting as a consultant for arts projects who wish to achieve best practice in inclusion and participation. She is currently writing a collection based on her experiences of bullying and her hopes for recovery.

I refuse to wear this so-called disgrace, by Paula Matthews

For the poet who refused.

When I wore the mask and smiled,
when I complied with silence,
you thought I was a good girl:
I was dying.

So I told:
told the doctor,
told the therapist,
told the bullies,
told my family.

You think I am a bad girl:
I am living.

Global Legacy Award, by Brian Timmis

My Silence: My Voice, by Karen Mooney

My silence:  at the time, reflected my fear
My silence: imprisoned me when you were near
My silence: challenged my own view
My silence: you interpret in ways that are skewed
My silence: wrongly, reflected my shame
My silence: still, cannot speak your name
My silence: protected your reputation
My silence: to be questioned by cross examination
My silence:  has masked inner torment
My silence: screams that this was not consent

My voice: could not reach beyond my throat
My voice: strangled by society’s garrotte
My voice:  now risen, will now be heard
My voice: echoed by experiences shared
My voice: calls for the change that we need
My voice: says consider the daughters you seed
My voice: asks do you want them silenced?
My voice: demands that you spare them any violence
My voice: is the mother, daughter, sister or aunt
My voice: now speaks for all those who can’t

..

Karen’s work has been published by The Society of Classical Poets and she has self- published three poetry booklets to support various charities. Karen’s poem ‘Unspoken’ has been included in ‘The road to Clevedon’ by The Hedgehog Poetry Press in April and her poem ‘Still Waters’ has been selected for publication by poems-for-all for. Her use of poetry to raise awareness of Bowel Cancer symptoms has featured in an April edition of My Weekly magazine.
Web page :  https://www.observationsinrhyme.com/

Hardworking Families, by Dominic Berry

You’ll never clean toilets for cash.
You’re someone who’ll never need charity.
You’ll never get spots or a rash
for you’re in a hardworking family.
..
You’ll never get cramp or chlamydia.
You are an icon of normality.
Your child can’t have spina bifida
for you’re in a hardworking family.
..
You’ll never need badgers or foxes.
Your healthcare is just a formality.
You’ll never sleep in cardboard boxes
for you’re in a hardworking family.
..
A loved one cannot tell you lies.
Your Grandma will not lose her sanity
You’re safe while the sea levels rise
for you’re in a hardworking family.
..
The Tories will cleanse all the mess
when rioting leads to fatality.
You’ll never get mugged or depressed
for you’re in a hardworking family.
..
You won’t break an arm or a sweat
or face any kind of calamity.
You’ll feel no harm or regret,
for you’re in a hardworking family.

Definition of Success, by Dominic Berry

Not good enough to feel bad.
Not rich enough to earn poor health.
No privilege of being mad
with fortunes of good mental wealth.
..
Decided when each life’s begun;
Who’ll lose their minds, who’ll lose their homes,
Who’ll starve to death, who’ll die too young,
Who’s brains will break, who’ll die alone.
..
From palace grounds to terrace towns
whose life’s worth more? Whose life’s worth less
when judging life in pence and pounds?
A definition of success.

Immortals, by Kushal Poddar

People here have forgotten to die.
Their tiny village sleeps
through the meteor showers
..
and late night chemical slip,
blasts and those blisters
that appear to eat flesh.
..
They live through murders, rape.
People sleep. Wake. Rake their gardens,
and as prescribed by Zen,
they undo their heavy work.
..
I meet people all the time,
forget their names,
and they do not mind.
They live through my id.

pigs trough politics, by Michael Peck

there was not enough
for all of them
to have more
some of the larger pigs
demanded the smaller pigs
share
snouts squealing
at siren strength
there was no
satisfaction
only the need
for more
small red eyes
heartless, intelligence
looking at each other
as a possible
future meal
pushing each other
Out-of-the-way
to be at the front
to get the first
and largest bite
none of them thought
anything about it
they were that type
of animal
ferocious, mean, hungry
only they lacked
the bigger picture
that they were bred
for slaughter

stations of the crossed, by Kevin Reid

i.
… condemned to death

he won’t leave
the country is sick
but it’s home

ii.
… carries his cross

his want to stay
drags his need to escape
it’s difficult to hide

iii.
… falls for the first time

bombs don’t discern
he prays while he waits

iv.
… meets his mother 

weak they weep into each other
the first time since the invasion

 v.
 … helps him carry the cross

an orphaned friend
i’m coming with you

 vi.
… wipes his face  

he knew those eyes
they saved him from sniper fire
wiped his blood with her hijab

vii.
… falls the second time 

prays while he’s down
water is scarce

viii.
… meets the women

mothers of lost children
wives of dead men
sisters of fighting brothers join us

ix.
… falls the third time 

into killing hands
still he prays

x.
… stripped of his garments

his bones now greater than his skin

 xi.
… nailed to the cross

tortured by his own people
unsaved by bombs

xii.
… dies on the cross

the air full of cries
the earth blood

 xiii.
… taken from the cross 

headless
his body silenced

 xiv.

 …laid in the tomb

dumped in a mass grave

Sorry, by Cath Campbell

I am sorry.
I am sorry.
Sincerely, I am sorry.
I am sorry 901 bumrushed
children of the windrushed
were forced from these shores.

I am sorry.
I am sorry.
It was on my watch.
The one that ticks on,
eternally, eternally, eternally,
tickety tockety, tickety tockety.

I am sorry.
I am sorry, she said,
and as she turned to go,
she sang from the book of Enoch.
Nothing has changed.
Nothing has changed.
Tickety tockety, tickety tock.

Aspiring, by Carolyn Batcheler

I had a dream
Except I don’t often
Only aspirations and hope
Things to achieve  

A child terrified
By their situation
Dreams of a revolving door
With no way out 

Or never getting where you want
Waking up to break the fright
Of the thing that you want
Being a fingertip away 

Smell of lavender
Fresh sheets and warm
A good book, then darkness
Add a cat for good measure 

Dream of a whole nights sleep

Asifa Buried, by Joseph K. Wells

A country
of many
gods that live
in men,
just men,
and goddesses
many,
now lifeless,
who exist merely
in rote hymns
and flash protests
that adorn
ceremoniously
until candles melt
into the usual
life that goes
on and on
until it’s time
to bow
to pray
or prey
again.

Three, by Dominic Berry

Beneath the blind, balanced in a window ledge, he has made three towers of twenty, fifty and ten pence pieces. Not great at counting. He can walk shop aisles for hours adding to what he thinks he can afford but always the check out girl must ask what he wants to leave behind.
Beneath his boxer shorts there are three shadowy bruises left by the mugger whose fingers slid inside these damp pants whilst pressing what might have been a knife to his naked neck. Nails. Lips. Fists. Blood. Not great at countering. Recounting this story to his doctor is not enough to earn him any therapy.
Beneath closed eyes, each night brings one of three recurring dreams. There’s the one where he falls silently into factory machinery, innards split by spiky cogs. There’s the one where he has earned his freedom from the old tower block, fingertips shine like bright silver coins, feet leave concrete and he can fly for hours. Great at flying. There’s the one where the knife goes in and out and in and out and always the check out girl must ask what he wants to leave behind.

Something to Do Whilst Washing, by Dominic Berry

Prepare a public talk about charity. The suffering of others has become as boring as sand. Don’t dive in naked. Those coarse grains niggling itches could remain clinging for days. People who claim to be pained should be approached fully covered. Imagine accidentally spilling a caring word on someone only slightly needy. If a noted humanitarian commits an act of kindness in the middle of a desert when there is nobody worth impressing present to witness said event, can an unwitnessed event even be counted as a true act of kindness? What is the point of wasting such a limited resource on a person who is probably too lazy to appreciated compassion? Optimise everything. Rehearse about brilliant speech about benevolence from the comfort of a deep, soapy bath.

Slavery in all Shapes, by Maggie Mackay

The tumbling lassie is what they call me.
I’ve no other name. I’m a little girl.
My joints are stiff with dancing,
in all shapes on the stage
at Mr Reid’s travelling show.
He oils them every day.
Tumble, tumble,
three hundred and thirty years ago.
Look hard, look twice now
at the car wash lads and nail bar lassies.
Look hard, take a tumble, give shelter,
for forced labour they may be
and under Scotland’s law
we have no slaves. I was made free.

..

Maggie Mackay, a jazz and whisky loving poet with an MA from Manchester Metropolitan University, has a range of work online and in print, including the recent #MeToo anthology. In 2017 her poems were nominated for The Forward Prize, Best Single Poem and the Pushcart Prize. Her first pamphlet will be published by Picaroon later this year.

http://www.tumblinglassie.com/about-the-tumbling-lassie