Following Poets Submitted their Poems for the Poets of January 2010:

Charles Browne,

Brian Ring,

Sasha Dee

Tim Jerram

William Ball

Peter Cox

Charles Browne

The Great White Hope

Obama are you for real

or is it just more and more spiel,

May be black but think

you lack what it takes

to awaken black peoples

consciousness.

In you we put our trust

but will implode and combust

just as the faded withered

waste that was Michaels glove.

Are you black or white?

or so mixed up in

your own rights

that you cant see your

supposed black peoples

dia plights.

January 2009

Way back when

When I was mich younger

thought I was the pipe -piper

with family crammed

like a score in a van

in a house fit for a king

but needing much attention.

Me and brov were lord of the flies

of our manor as in.

Every summer with our

rolled up newspapers

swatting whatever came in.

As for being the pipe-piper

every nightfall seemed to

draw out my biggest obstacles,

which were the samllest of fellows

some of whom would be sprawled

on the floor at dawn

poisoned by mums concotions.

I’d lead survivors

with moon as bait

trapped by their tailes of woe

I was truly musical

I remember their performances

my biggest obstacles as they

danced to merry tune.

May 2009

Fair Trade

What could be more

English than an

Indian Cup of tea

with a bit of luck

in a China cup please.

With selling sausages

to the Germans

or vodka

to the Russians

Peace pipes bows and arrows

to the Indians aparrel

what could be more

English then

Than to be non-English

May 2009

Brian Ring

Can You See?

9/07/09

I cannot see without glasses

I cannot hear without a hearing aid

I cannot think of what to say

About this affliction

I know by intuition

Not thru conscious insight

How I think I cannot say

Everything depends on the reason why

I have a certain name by repute;

And not by recollection or is

Something dark and instinctive

We now declare

Then it was not inference

For if you analyze those words

Profoundly either nonsense or

Inspired by spiritual joy

And escape from the bad situation

Or review the pictures on the wall

Without glasses and transform

Into a better vision.

There is a brave new dispensation

Inaugurated by the master instigator

With the help of avatar from the space

And the occasional earth bound Purush

—What’s in someone’s pocket—

What’s in my pocket? You well may ask,

Wouldn’t you like to know, say I .

It does not concern you; but tell me anyway!

Well it is nothing special,

A piece of delicatessen, but so not a pomegranate-

Let’s therefore get to the root of this mystery.

And by a process of elimination, decide what on earth we’re on about.

This then gives some sort of a clue; something edible that comes from earth-state,

Carboniferous matter and not a silicon chip,

Something floats I feel: like a fish—or a least it goes with fish,

There you are–that given half the game away.

Can you get this one yet.

No, perhaps there’s something northern about it –

When they say –

What do they say?

‘Do you want a pomegranate jam butty on it?

That is with a side course of French fries with it’–.

‘Just what do you mean?’

Yes, I really have got a lot of that sort of stuff in my pocket.

Yes, and together with mushy peas and delectable onion dressing.

Yes you carry all that in your pocket…

Not loose of course,

But inside of a doggie bag from my favourite fish and chip outlet—

Served with the ginger beer in my other pocket.

Riddle solved (?).

Sasha Dee

Anger and after

I stormed out of my abode

Boiling with anger,

After reading a letter

Walked on the pavement

And a dog barked at me

From the neighbour’s allotment

That, made me gesture a fuming fist

And use swear words at the beast

That in turn made the neighbour

Unholy to throw an unlisted outburst

Language hitherto unheard in our time!

I walked on, seething, unable to self-control

And came to a pond, a wild roadside resort

On the Bluebell Hill, where green bamboos grew,

A secluded haven hidden by the hedge grove

Sat on a bench watching hedge-sparrows

Chirping up on the trees, in the hedge rows,

Ducks and geese, coots and swans waddle

Making patterns of ripples on the water

The huge acorn and oak, plane and fir trees

Full of foliose, stirring gently in the breeze

The sky was clear-lighted blue, a lone, thin cloud

The wind cooled the fiery feelings came in crowd

And I found how to answer the offensive letter.

And I hum:

“I found my thrill, on Bluebell hill

On Bluebell hill when I found peace!”

No Bed for the Night

Christmas, the stranger arrived in a town

Where at night, the houses and shops

Shown like the jewels in the crown

It was wrong for him to be in to hop

Long walks in the snowy and stormy

Avenues, dark lanes and blind alleys

Cold sweats, saunter behind step-sounds

Refusal, denial, rebuttal, “No bed-room”

Rich city with depraved, brutal hearts and faces

Full of activities in their own joys and cries

No desire, no time, no care, no Samaritanism

People live and satisfy their own Epicureanism

In the morning a wandering dog sniffed out a stiff

By a rose bed “no bed-man” without anyone’s grief

Blissful Baby

The baby did not like the surrounded gloom

The legroom was very sparse in the dark womb

It could hardly stretch and bend its folded legs

It started kicking and forcing and making room

The exhausted mother to be, suffered pains

Loves’ labour was taking its heavy toll to gain

Her ultimate contentment of motherhood,

Baby’s vigorous cry, to man, bliss of fatherhood.

Babies are seraphs of divine design for man

Disguised cherubs, god’s image as temporal plan!!

Next poet is

Tim Jerram

Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

Said the Sphinx to the cat

And I am beautiful

I am statuesque

I am a third bird, third man and a third tiger

My golden drapes flame the pyramids

And I crouch here serene in my wisdom

Expert wizard to the Pharaohs

And surveyor of all territories

Ponderer of great and noble thoughts

And the single supreme contemplator of time

Stand in awe you miserable cat!

But the cat said I’m not miserable

I have my mobility and my feet move

I can hunt and climb also run

I don’t nee to contemplate great things

Or ponder the mystery of time

I’m free

And the Sphinx said

“Give me your gift”

But the cat turned and ran away

“You have beauty instead”, she said

Next poet is

William Ball

PLOPPING NOISES

17-12-2009

Water plopping down plopping noises had a rhythmic beat

Like large tears falling into still water as a dripping tap

You can twist and grip the handle as hard as you please but still hear

the drip drip drip

Laying down on my bed with a machine turned on crying out a sad ballad

With sighing violins partaking of this sad lament

Soaring as a sea gull would

Dropping like a ton of lead ending in a silence

Then once again the plopping dropping noises began again

Appearing images began to form in my magic box

On an escalator that just never bloody stops

Etiquette William Ball 4-03-2009

Very well spoken to open doors Etiquette walk in shadows stalk

Letting events regarding falls Another sentence another comma

With all this information ripe Swarms of locusts feeding frenzy

Another sentence another comma Cheers champagne drink it up

Swarms of locusts feeding frenzy Fearing terrorist attacks

Missiles launched mushroom clouds expanding

Cheers champagne drink it up The traffic stopped all at once

Missiles launched mushroom clouds expanded

Put on some Hendrix drown out the end The traffic quiet all at once

Looking at some old photos Put on some Hendrix drown out the end

We lay quietly on the bed

Peter Leonard Cox

PERSON URGENTLY REQUIRED TO DO NOTHING.

Dec 1/12 2009.

It’s urgent, urgent. Person is required

to do just nothing. Do you feel inspired?

You just sit still. Not easy, we agree.

You must not read the Sun or make the tea.

You’re not a model, simply Idle Jack,

and if you work, you’ll promptly get the sack.

Do you stand out for doing bugger all?

If we select you, you could have a ball.

When people ask, at parties, what you do

you tell them “I’m an idler..Yes, it’s true.

I’m rarely late, and idling is my trade.

I gaze at walls all day, and get well paid.”

They could restructure idling. Well, what then?

You might be one of three redundant men.

But now they want an Idling team of eight-

four gaze at walls, the others stand and wait.

If you’re the king of idler that we seek,

and not a hyperactive geek,

you then can pity people on the dole.

They’re poor, they look for work, this takes its toll.

No online applications do they shirk,

and then they have to say THEY DO NOT WORK.

DEATH AND THE LIBRARY.
( a rather complicated joke.)

Most books on how to kill yourself come back.
Of interested readers there’s no lack.
If readers die, which isn’t very nice,
it need not mean they followed this advice.

Regarding to those books quite widely read
on how to resurrect yourself when dead,
perhaps there may be libraries that can boast
that such a book was borrowed by a ghost..

Index of the January Poems