I Am Not A Robot - Lyndon Queripel

My hand’s been overplayed
My mind’s been X rayed
And it only drew a blank
With all my dreams expired
And my circuits rewired
I can now see in the dark
Lost in the starless night
I just fused a red light
Under planet waves I sank
Will I ever be the same
I can’t even sign my name
So I’ll have to leave a mark.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - Tumisu

Conquerers - Joan Etoile

In the game of colonial bingo
It helps to learn the lingo
And back in the Napoleonic days
I brushed up on my Norman francaise

I was ready to jump through hoops
For Emperor Boney’s troops
They never came, though later in their place
There arrived a different master race

Jawohl! zu befehl! of course mein Kommandant!
Ich lerne deutsch to know exactly what you want
Mercifully they left and after those grim days
I perfected Cockney, Strine and Guernseyaise (sic)

I believe my language skills are assez bien
Enough to fool any dictator’s men
I must now prepare for a new wind blowing in
Yes, it’s time to perfect my rusty Mandarin

It’s not easy though, the letters are strange
Right to left little boxes swarming on the page
So I’m thinking that I’ll soon be out of luck
When I offer our next masters a slice of Peking Duck

Joan Etoile

Image : Joan Etoile/Pixabay glaborde7

Gilead - Stephen A. Roberts

Is this the dawn of of Atwood’s Gilead?
The USA has gone completely mad
The nation that put Liberty on a pedestal
Has put her up against the wall
Green tears of rain run down her face
As she sees the Constitution debased
As the land of the free fights amongst itsel’
The defeated President won’t say farewell
With him we thought we’d seen it all...
...then he incites the storming of the Capitol
The would-be King of America has no shame
The beacon of democracy has gone up in flames

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - kalhh / Gerd Altmann

Second Hand Blues - Lyndon Queripel

They say that the white man
Just can’t sing the blues
But I’ve got a hole in my pocket
And a hole down in my shoes

Do you judge a book by its cover
Or need to read between the lines
Been double-crossed by your lost lover
Before your heart could see the signs?

It depends on where you heard it
And how you translate fake news
It depends on how you word it
And the language that you use

They say the black man’s burden
Is what the blues is for
But there’s a law for the rich
And another for the poor

Some of our best friends are coloured
They’re easy to recognise
They’ve got the truth in their soul
And it’s reflected in their eyes

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - Free-Photos

My Kinda People - Mark Nicol

I salute thee, all the oddballs and weirdos out there who are unique in their beauty, who don’t give a damn about being silly and goofy, and who march to the beat of their own drum coz those are the ones who make the best music.

To all those who are outside of the norm, who don’t try to conform, and who don’t care whether they are deplored or adored, it’s within you where all the magic is stored, coz no one like you will come again or has been before.

So whether you’re a nitwit or a misfit, or you’re more screwy than a drill bit, whether you embrace it or refuse to admit it, all the things that make you, well, just different, adds colour to this world which would have been duller without your life and the way you have lived it.

Mark Nicol

Another Woman - Trudie Shannon

She approaches me, wobbling a little
Upon her high stiletto heels.
Her face has been painted as though
She wears another’s portrait upon the surface of her skin.
Her eyebrows arc like adulterated rainbows
Their lids a convolution of colour.
Her hair is dyed chic, sculpted to the contours of her cheeks
Her lips are engorged with botox
And aflame with fire red.
She approaches me
The older, indistinct, grey haired woman at a cafe table.
We are strangers but it seems she is drawn to me
On request, she takes a seat beside me
And offers me her name
And I gift her with mine.
She speaks haltingly as if a butterfly
Were trapped in her mouth
And says
I would be authentic, be who I am fearlessly
But I am too scared to be seen and
She hangs her head in inverted shame.
I order her a cup of coffee
Ask her to look at me
And when she does, I smile
And look directly into her eyes.

Trudie Shannon

It's just a Flat Cap - Kriss Lee

It's just a flat cap
Seen on stages worldwide
worn with aplomb and pride
Rakishly clamped down
Atop a head of aging curls

It's just a flat cap
Worn by my Grandad
Saw action through two wars
Still on his head at the end
Went with him to the grave

It's just a flat cap
Worn by the conductor
On the southbound train
Sweat stains in the band
Smuts stuck to the peak

It's just a flat cap
Worn for such comic effect
Peak aimed skywards
Cockeyed angle on his head
Mr Grimsdale, yelled out loud

It's just a flat cap
But more than that
It's a symbol of hard graft
A metaphor for common man
A hat worn on all occasions

It's just a flat cap
I said as I left it on my head
But we're having Sex she said!
I reached for her and drew her close
OK she sighed, "You can leave your Cap on"

It's just a flat cap
Worn all day to keep me warm
But no matter where I go
At the end of the working day
Home is where I lay my Cap

It's just a flat cap
But famously on a workshy head
Provided much needed comedy
Lightening the days toils and woe
Trying all the time to hoodwink Flo

It's just a flat cap
With a peak and not a point
Nicely rounded to fit upon Oblio's head
But perfectly weighted too for flight
Allowing Oblio to win at Triangle Toss

It's just a flat cap
Hiding multi coloured hair
As I get older it might be more fair
If used it for another purpose too
In front of my ugly mug might be an idea

It's just a flat cap
It's something else too
If you're guilty of something bad
You insulted me, or maligned me
This is for you, try it on, if the Cap fits, wear it

Kriss Lee

Mr Pol - Oscar Milde

When Mrs Pol goes off to see her aunt
who lives across the town with umpteen cats,
Mr Pol skips upstairs with a smile
to slip on his wife’s best frocks and hats

and pull on her silk stockings and high heels,
her bra, with fillets filling out the slack,
and sometimes when he’s feeling in the mood
he’ll don her cheery little plastic mac.

He’s played these naughty games since, as a child,
he dressed in Mother’s bonnet and her shoes:
he’s not ashamed exactly, but concerned
at the hostility of other people’s views.

So how does he explain it to himself?
It’s really a compulsion not a choice.
It brings to mind his mother’s heady scent,
the fond-remembered romance in her voice.

Oscar Milde