Poo Corner – Issue 24


Dad, I imagine your predicament

after forty five years I want to rage

for your rescue though I’ve no equipment

you can use, no air to gasp, just baggage

full of instruments of torturous whys

and I have no special gifts to bring you

and can present you with no grandchild’s eyes

no man of the world, only a shell through

which you might once more hear your belov’d sea:

stout messages in bottles sank betwixt thee and me,

then your flat postcards said, “wish you weren’t here,”

and you closed in on me with pain you bore;

the father in you ebbed, to touch no more

even clenched fists. Our eyes meet now in fear.




Holidaying around people who

have the dust , wear and tear

of a real earth outside world.

Scenes pass before me and

I am, at least, fascinated and

sadly gladdened by the light glow

and slightly snickering soundtrack.

I’ve been let in without paying,

the doors are always open

yet I cannot see myself out




Forgive me no farther

I have committed syntax

by being thoughtless, selfish

and I have been texting

while thinking it mattered

and I have considered

hubristling at night

elevating false emoticons

worshipping sheep,

being flocking annoying

in a very woolly sense

I am forlorn

show me a sign,

oh, you have,

tomorrow I’ve a job seekers interview.




This is no time to openly gush

just cos they’ve given us the push

in Scotland we would be merely greeting

just as we did at our first meeting

such an end to auld acquaintance be forgot

the future holds we know not what


for so brief a memory shed no tears

your contingent heart drawn in thumbnails

in an environment where all but numbfails

infrequently met within strict date ranges

without this proximity we’ll be better strangers



In winter I’ve lived a life of some ease

not upset by the most biting cold breeze

even a woollen cap, my bald knapper to appease

merely complements my inheritance of great hairy knees




Emerging into a crackling, conscience-filled sharp spring morning with cutting edge crispness

he heaves a heavy hopeless history, waddling workward as a dilettante dodo doomed by a persistent  pestilent past

left furtively feeling for a future free of feeble foibles, reticent in realising reality’s redolent of remembrance of regrettable bellicose belligerence belying a bad character.




Up again, down again; a usual refrain

coughing trying to find a voice

greeting without losing any poise

holding in a beleaguered history

retaining a self-serving sense of mystery

winking in a playful spring sun:

another staged day has begun.




The tainted tiddlywink, in mid-flight,

flies and tumbles in the smoking room:

past seen by misty-eyed worshippers

overlooked by mystified warshoppers