Plane Sailing - Donald Keyman

Looks like there’ll be no Waves again
so I'll be waiting for the seaplane
to gently alight amongst the bustle
of all the traffic in the Russell

but these modern day aquatic Stukas
won't suit the travelling pukers
from check-in on the shore
what a journey to the aircraft door!

lifejackets on, a safety briefing
I'd suggest some waterproof clothing
for the climb from a bobbing dinghy
tied up to the wobbling wingy

then with floats full of excess baggage
forming a leaden undercarriage
it'll plough halfway down to Jersey
the passengers screaming for mercy

eventually it will fly and land
and drive up onto the sand
where St Helier is in easy reach
the other end of the 5-mile beach!

Donald Keyman

“He's really not with us.” - Tony Bradley

I used to tell my wife,"look, I ain't bovvered"
she always said I'm definitely not the full shilling
she knew I easily nodded off with the fairies
and she used to give me a regular grilling.

I can easily nod off, sitting, or just leaning
just a quiet moment, and I'm away
and sometimes I can wake up, 5 minutes later
and I'm sure it can't possibly still be the same day.

If I had to wait 5 minutes for her, shopping
I'd usually dozed off, when she came back
so, no help with shopping bags, she's annoyed
she says it's embarrassing, and I get a whack.

When I wake, I think 'where am I ?
what day is it, what's the score?'
Apparently, I'm the only person, who gets this problem
so now, I don't tell anyone, any more.

Tony Bradley

The Now - Ian Duquemin

Some people live in the years of their past
Clinging so hard trying to make those years last
They can't let them go as they do not know how
So sadly they can't enjoy now

Some others wish that their future would come
Before they had walked they had set off to run
They got there so quickly but never knew how
And missed out on the gift we call now

Ian Duquemin

Miss McCarthy - Richard Fleming

Miss McCarthy by the window,
with a glass of Cork Dry gin,
watching as a band comes marching
making a god-awful din.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.

Miss McCarthy, fifty-seven,
rounded shoulders, spreading hips,
smudged red lipstick, cupid-bow style
to accentuate her lips,
watches with a smile, sardonic,
drinking neat gin without tonic.

In the gloomy first-floor bedroom
(in which, once, her parents slept)
on a sun-bright summer morning
she sways gently, hair unkempt,
cursing life that, once abundant,
left her here washed-up, redundant.

Tired old bra beneath her cardie,
saggy breasts hang down like fruit,
wrinkled buttocks heading southwards,
all the rest in hot pursuit.
Miss McCarthy, lonely, boozy:
when it came to love, too choosy.

In the street, beneath her window,
children frolic with a pup.
She’s been here for half a lifetime,
waiting, but Life stood her up.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.

Richard Fleming

Good To Meat You - Edgar Allan Poet

We stop indoors my wife and I:
keep to ourselves, rarely go out.
We have no friends. We are quite shy.
Newspapers, we can do without.
But, once or twice a year, someone
arrives, by chance, and we have fun.

A man, whose car has broken down,
requiring help or telephone;
A salesman with a worried frown
who, foolishly, is on his own
and sometimes even better news:
Jehovah’s Witnesses in twos.

We fetch them in for cakes and tea
then drug them, carry them below
into our cellar, laughingly,
begin to torture them real slow.
then later on, to soothe their aches,
we chop them up for juicy steaks.

Folk always say that life’s a bitch
and then you die: we fix that bit.
We like our diet protein-rich
and human flesh, I will admit,
sliced carefully from a fresh kill,
is truly irresistible.

Edgar Allan Poet

A New Translation Of Love - Lyndon Queripel

I know inside my heart
Life’s too short to be apart
That together we could start
A revelation, a celebration
A new translation of love

I hear inside my head
All the words I should’ve said
All the words you could’ve read
A dedication, a communication
A new translation of love

Lyndon Queripel

Still Dancing - Diane Scantlebury

Out in the middle of the floor
Poppa and nana dance,
To a song, an up-tempo rendition
Of an old much loved classic,
Curiously out of rhythm with the music
They hold hands and laugh,
As they’re transported fifty years back
To the time they first met,

Nana in her short skirt, giggling,
And poppa with long hair
Trying hard to catch her attention,
Back then the dance floor
Was the place for courtship,
Back then, they knew all the words
And could keep time with the music,

Out in the middle of the floor
Poppa and nana still dance,
Their grey haired heads
Strangely nodding against the beat,
Robbed by dementia, nana’s mind has gone,
But in her eyes there’s a twinkle
A memory of fifty years back,
Of when poppa, nervously,
First asked her to dance
And she said “Yes”.

Diane Scantlebury

My Neighbourhood - Stephen A. Roberts

The great and the good
Live in my neighbourhood
But it's not genteel
It's rather down at heel
They simply haven't got the time
To get their gardens into line

They will never be seen
Giving their windows a good clean
They'll be lounging on the sofa
In front of Big Brother
Watching D listers no-one knows
Or the latest cookery show

Instead of mowing their lawn
They watch property show porn
Feeding their faces with junk food
To Judge Rinder they are glued
And before the programme ends
They'll have Facebooked all their friends

No, they will never find the vim
To give their hedges a good trim
The real world's such a bore
Full of unexciting chores
They'd rather surf the web you see
With one eye watching crap TV

Stephen A. Roberts