Local - Richard Fleming

We all recall him as a child:
a nasty boy, a wicked lad,
a vicious kid, thoroughly bad.
Though none of us were meek and mild
and followed him and let ourselves be bossed,
there was a line we never could have crossed.

But he crossed over every time:
those birds he killed, the tortured cat,
the dumb girl with the cricket bat.
I think he relished every crime
and abject terror just encouraged him:
yes, he would crush a weakling on a whim.

Yet now, grown up, he is the one
who seeks election to the post
of Deputy. You’ll hear him boast
and brag of what fine things he’s done:
Vote, vote for me, I’m local, that’s enough ...
but, underneath, he doesn’t give a stuff.

Richard Fleming

David A. and the Gorillas - Tony Gardner

When David he came trampling through

Bringing all his gear and crew

Never asking if he could

Or not even if he should.

We looked, assessed this little bloke

Listened to the words he spoke

Then thought we’d better play along

Humour him, then he’d be gone.


Now all these years have passed and we

Hear he is coming back to see

How we have fared, if we are less

You must admire his nosiness

Truth is that Life is much the same

Not much changes in this game

It’s Nature's law that we live by

By Nature's whim we live or die.


Tony Gardner

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

Hinge - Donald Keyman

This tiny nation

More than the sum

Of its parts

Sits on the

Hinge of history

Watching the men

Of dark arts

Becoming more insular

Than even the

People of these

Battered shores

Ever dared to be


Donald Keyman

Tinnitus - Trudie Shannon

It’s always raining in my head
Sometimes there are cross-winds
And often interminable white noise,
Static that comes before and after storms.
Always raining, from light hissing drizzle
To persistent shards pounding the windows of my eyes.
Sometimes when the night is weighty with silence
I hear the globules of rain flaunt descant and harmony as
They drift around the contours of my skull in vivid orchestration
Often the wind rises exponentially
Obliterating my hope for potential creativity.
Yes, it’s always raining in my head.
Within the landscape of my cranium I have the auditory pulses
Of every season
Soft April showers
The cascade of summer flood
Autumnal gales
And Winter snow’s vibrato hiss.
Always, always raining in my head
With static, that interminable white noise
That comes before and after storms.

Trudie Shannon