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