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Posted By: Justin Coe
Date: 10 June 2005
In and Out of Love with a Vegan When you first moved in with me I gladly gave up Flora And I didn't mind that my tea Was made with milk of soya But now love reeks like rotten eggs And we go about in mutters Not only now separate beds But also separate butters

Posted By: Stephen Park
Date: 10 August 2005
Of lamb of god hair of the dog bones of contention soup of the day cream of mushroom

Posted By: Clare Kirwan
Date: 10 August 2005
Frog Snogs What about poor Mrs Frog? One eye on the dandelion clock, the tick rock of every drip drop that wasn’t him returning, fly stew ruined, watery tadpole voices: “When’s daddy coming home?” rumours Rippled round the pond - some haughty human girl, a pukka princess, turned his head, it wasn’t just his eyes that bulged, they said. Could he change so much? was it all that spawn at the end of the winter, wet? So unlike him to fall from grace but, warts and all, Mrs Frog still loved him yet. She spent a summer hopping through palaces amongst their silks and chintzes. All that snogging was a long hard slog - she had to kiss a lot of princes

Posted By: Dave Farnsworth
Date: 10 August 2005
The American Boys The American boys are hurting with adolescence And it has nothing to do with Romantic Love Family Affection Or Patriotism They are simply brim-full Like geysers about to burst Or silos packed with over-production And keen to get their rockets off.

Posted By: Janet Beardsall
Date: 10 August 2005
Cosmic Your eyes are scattered with stars Your mouth is full of moon beams Your face is the April Sun You have a heavenly body

Posted By: Anne Briscoe
Date: 10 August 2005
The Love Connection I’m meeting him at half past six, beneath the station clock He’ll wear a pink carnation, I’ll wear my purple frock. I found him in the Lonely Hearts, ‘Suave gentleman seeks mate.’ I thought I’d get in touch with him before it’s all too late. He says his name is Oswald, he’s asked me if I’m slim And am I a free spirit who’d like to swing with him. He’s asked me for my photo – the one I sent with blurred And it was of someone else, but please don’t say a word. He says that he is lonely and needs someone to care And will I bring my nightie and wine for us to share. He’s asked have I dependants, he knows my Dad’s just died And am I really thirty-three? I’ve said yes – and I’ve lied! And do I have a mortgage and any inhibitions And am I flexible enough to try some new positions. I’ve said that I do yoga, he says that should be fine And will I do the lotus at his place or at mine. He says he’s dark and handsome and almost six foot three He says he gets excited when he thinks of meeting me. I’ve waited for an hour or more, there’s nothing in the street Except the pink carnation which is lying at my feet.

Posted By: Ron Rubin
Date: 10 August 2005
William Shakespeare (aka Shaxberd, Shagspere,, Schackspeare, Shakspere, Shagsby) When that he was and a little tiny lad, With a heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, He lived near Brum with his Mum and Dad, Where the rain it raineth every day. And soon Anne Hathaway he wed, With a heigh-ho, the ball and the chain, (And to her he willed his second-best bed, Where he’d often had Anne Hathaway). And then he came to man’s estate, With a heigh-ho in Queen Lizzie’s reign, And he turned out plays at a fair old rate, For where there’s a Will, you can bet there’s a way. And when he died, his legacy (with a heigh-ho – here we go again) Was a thumping lit, crit. industry, Where brains do strain both night and day. A great while ago the world was begun, With a heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, But the Stratford lad’s still Number One – Though he couldn’t even spell his name.

Posted By: Frances Thompson
Date: 10 August 2005
The Poem Gather round, small forest people. Listen. A poet has written a poem about the forest – A poem about you. But the forest people were busy mending their houses, and cooking, and paid no attention. The poet thought: Was my poem perhaps overwritten? Was the womb-metaphor a mistake? Should I have bothered Working on enjambement, alliteration, meter?- Should I perhaps have developed that one line I rather liked: “Slung in the seasons’ ebb and flow”? and edited out “the pulse of things that live and grow” or even vice versa…. and the poet wondered, Should I offer to write a new and different poem? But the forest people were busy telling each other stories, and singing, and didn’t care either way. The next poem was about the ingratitude of small forest people.

Posted By: Povl Webb
Date: 10 August 2005
Smile He loved her. Her smile was as elusive as that of the Mona Lisa. He grafted, he crafted, he had it he didn’t have it, he had it again. The oil applied in fine glazes delicately built up in layers, so as not to lose that Je ne sais quoi that held the very essence of her. After three weeks of passion or thereabouts, off and on, things had cooled between them and she called it a day. He took a cloth and some turpentine, and wiped the smile from her face

Posted By: Nels Rodwell
Date: 10 August 2005
Places There are candles in the biscuit tin I’m wearing your old socks The dirty laundry basket’s full of baby’s building blocks The pebbles from the beach are soaking in the downstairs bath The kittens in the sink asleep inside your coffee flask Your muddy boots are on the bed There isn’t any door My mind’s too deep to think of any matter any more The children sleep in hammocks Their beds are in the hall The kitchen cupboard’s full of bats and table tennis balls Your toolbox now resides inside my wardrobe with my shoes Your motorcycle keys aren’t in the box marked ‘never lose’ We did it on the sideboard and on the kitchen floor My heart is pinned upon your sleeve My diaphragm’s in the drawer.

Posted By: Betty Nunn
Date: 10 September 2005
Doggerel So you think my poems are lightweight? Well I can put your right mate, It’s how I think It’s how I feel This is my life And it’s for real So what if it does not appeal To all those scholars with bigger brains I know that I’m plugged in the mains This is the language of the common man And I will use it as best I can Until I aspire to better things Until I get my angels wings I’ll carry on writing things And on And on And on.

Posted By: Robert Dewell
Date: 10 September 2005
Word Worms Chekhov was a heavy Writer But when he died He got much Lighter.

Posted By: S Handsaker
Date: 10 September 2005
Normality, the Hard Way. We want to be normal, we wanted to be free, We wanted to kiss grannies, dandle babies on our knees. We headed or Normality with Sherpas, tents and ropes, A bunch of freaks and weirdos, misfits, geeks and dopes. The foothills were inviting – fertile, green and lush, Toilets weren’t provided, so we went behind a bush. We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be free, We dreamed of jobs and mortgages and no-risk pension schemes. The villagers had never seen so many eager climbers, None of us had been outside, apart from two old-timers. The basecamp overflowed with eccentrics from all nations, Searching for acceptance; understanding; lost relations. We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be free, We wanted to be decent – pillars of society. The atmosphere was friendly, breeding solidarity, United we would stand upon the peak – Normality. As we climbed, the oxygen was scarce and we were dizzy, The Sherpa with the sickbags was keeping very busy. We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be free, We wanted “Rule Britannia”, and honey still for tea. Among the clouds the lofty peak awaited our ascent, While all around a blizzard raged and kept us in our tents. Eventually, the storm died down, our target was in reach, We did our crampons up real tight – “Once more unto the Breach!” Yetis watched our every step, curious but wary. They looked remarkably like us, though not as big or hairy. We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be free, We wanted to watch telly and retire beside the sea. We set off singing “My Way”, through ice and jagged rocks, Someone fell and dangled by the lining of her socks. Another died of athlete’s foot, several caught the measles, One raced off across the snow, pursued by giant weasels. The route was full of danger, of overhangs and gullies, We managed using suction cups, Velcro suits and pulleys. We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be free, We wanted family values and respectability. The final stretch approached and we saw to our surprise, The slender topmost column silhouetted ’gainst the sky. Despite all of the hardships and the distance we had come, Upon the rugged summit there was only room for one! We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be free, We wanted to escape he fact of our mortality. We wanted to be normal, we wanted to be freaks, We cannot make our minds up, (It’s been this way for weeks.)

Posted By: James Turner
Date: 10 September 2005
You Wouldn’t Understand I hate it when my trousers hole their bums, when my best pair look less than second best. It means it’s time to do financial sums and get my bottom half re-M-&-S’d. I wish neither to differ nor conform, but just to play and unassuming part I dress to hide my body and keep warm, not make myself a walking work of art. Colours confuse me, as do fabrics, styles, washing and drying instructions, prices, sizes. Hell is a large cool store, a maze of aisles tight-packed from end to end with pairs of trousers. I drift until my eyes begin to ache, I circle like ship without a rudder. The notion that I might be forced to fake an interest in fashion makes me shudder. I choose a pair – return it to the rack unsure of what my inside leg should measure, then shamble on a bit, then shamble back… Do people really come in here for pleasure? Then having made a purchase, I quit hell to find a nearly cafe, purchase tea and take it to a table I know well which can’t be seen but from which one can see, and you breeze in, dressed in your latest fashion, so confident we’ll want to gaze on you. Wherever did you get that charming notion? A mystery. But you’ve got it. And we do.

Posted By: Robert Dewell
Date: 10 September 2005
Enlightenment God God God God God God God God God God God God Turnip God God God God God God God God God God…

Posted By: Trish Munn
Date: 10 September 2005
Wet Chips Life on this earth can be more than a little strange; and not to stretch too fine a point, I’d go further than that; it’s weird, it’s odd, a joke that has us rolling in the aisles of bitter salt as we try in vain to get it! Mirth may come in hindsight if we hang around a bit. We don’t wear our hearts on sleeves, oh no, we don’t do that here. We don’t sit on the pity-pot, and if for a moment we drop our guard we quickly pull up the sock, stiffen the lip, for no-one wants the sight or smell of that – no stomach for the wallowing as a pig might take its pleasure. Good for pig I say. Life is not the bowl of cherries the songs Would have us think; we all got taken in along the way. Don’t get me wrong it’s not been that bad – it’s just that it’s weird and oddly long. We got old when I wasn’t looking, when I thought we’d be young forever. Bliss bunnies once – old rabbits now, long in the tooth; mutton still wants to be lamb. Best not look back – best not look forward. With one leg behind and one leg in front, you might find you’ve pissed on your chips, I heard a friend say. Kind of ‘gets it’ I’d say. Salty and wet, when the chips are down we pick them up and walk the way of the warrior.

Posted By: Sarah Willans
Date: 10 September 2005
Some Things Can’t Be Mended I argued with your mother over tea, she said I wasn’t good enough for you. You mumbled that you couldn’t quite agree, but fully understood her point of view. You left me and my honour undefended. Some things can’t be mended. You used my car whilst I was out of town, and feigned complete incomprehension when the spending summons came. You let me down, and cost me forty quid, most false of men. Your driving licence ought to be suspended. Some things can’t be mended. You came home very drunk at half past two. I didn’t welcome your inept advances. You said that women gagged to sleep with you, and should I make the most of all my chances. Although our loving once was rare and splendid, some things can’t be mended. My patience and my time are wearing thin, I fantasise about a single flat. A sense of humour and a winning grin can’t make a lover of a selfish prat. And so, my love, our partnership is ended. Some things can’t be mended.

Posted By: Philippa Lawrence
Date: 10 September 2005
I wish I wish I wasn’t spotty I wish wasn’t fat But I’m obsessed with chocolate So that’s the end of that

Posted By: Aaron Custance
Date: 10 September 2005
I CANNOT BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER! I cannot believe it’s not butter! I spread on my bread in a flutter. And this Tastes Just Like Cheese, I wheeze, I sneeze, And take another gulp of Like Orange with Pulp. This tastes… like my mother! Says a calf to his brother, While munching away On some p-e-l-l-e-t-i-s-e-d udder. While monies change in computer brains, Someone buys a Jag and rubs their hands, And friends of theirs in *crispy* suits Bank their cut in foreign lands. “I cannot believe there’s no farmers!, “And why did they close the butchers, and grocers?” A young child may ask, As her diligent mother Triples her Points on a Kenyan cucumber… NO WONDER! There never was a time, such as now, When we can choose, refuse to eat the Tastes Like Cow And protect the things we love the most, Real butter for the children’s toast, Shout KEEP FOOD REAL! from the highest steeple, As we’re fast becoming Just Like People.

Posted By: Johnny Sullivan
Date: 10 September 2005
Kisses Kisses in the morning Kisses at lunch, Kisses that nibble and Snogs that crunch, Kissing like a butterfly Pecks from the sun, Kisses that say – “You’re the only one,” Kisses from your aunt That suff-o-cate, Kisses that whine – “I’m sorry I’m late,” Kisses that float On a sea of desire, Sparkling licks that Light my fire, Kisses in a cornfield Snogging in the bath, Kissing your ankle Belly and calf, Kisses you can borrow Kisses you can steal, Lips that taste Like jellied eels, Unexpected kisses That make you blush, Kisses cause An adrenaline rush, Kisses that are doubtful, “Should I should I not?” Kissing with saliva Mixed with snot, Kissing for a dare Kissing for a joke, Kissing a woman Or is it a bloke? Kisses like a hoover Or little tiny licks, The slobber on the face That makes you sick, Kissing at a party Strong and hot, Kissing in the dark So she can’t see your spots, Kisses that tingle And skip round your neck, Alley cat nips and Pekinese pecks, Farewell kisses That taste like death, All teeth and hair and Doggie breath, Kissing with style And a wiggle of the hips, Passionate moans – Smouldering lips, Kisses that whisper Kisses that shout, Kissing in place I can’t talk about, Kisses by the windmill Kissing on a train, Thinking of kissing you Again and again and again and again and again and Again and again.