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Daphne Milne: The Unintentional Poet

My plan it was to write a book,
I wrote for years and years.
I had a plot and characters,
and plenty of ideas.

The final edit's done today,
It could have been much worse.
I’ve cut it down to sixteen lines,
A novel in rhymed verse.

            ♦        ♦        ♦       

Annie Fisher: The Phalarope Is The Thing With Feathers
(Or My Ill-Fated Date With Chris Packham)

No, it’s not a golden plover, m’luvva,
Definitely not a wheatear, m’dear,
Nor a turtle dove, love, or an avocet, pet.
You think it’s a puffin? You don’t know nuffin.
A blackcap? Don’t talk crap.
Red kite? Never heard such shite!
You really believe it’s a chough? Right, that’s it, I’ve had enough.

It’s a linnet, innit.

            ♦        ♦        ♦              

Pat D’Amico: Eternal Summer

She’s vowed she will not age at all.
Her plastic surgeon is on call;
Her body builder and masseurs
Have tightened everything still hers.
On birthdays −how that arrow flies! −
She hyperventilates and lies.
Such constant tension makes it worse
That Father Time can’t do reverse.

            ♦        ♦        ♦          

David Galef: Inutility

If you were a meal, you’d be inedible;
If a “just the facts” article: incredible.
If you were a detective, you’d be clueless.
If you were a vista, you’d be viewless.
You’re gold that doesn’t glisten.
You’re an audience that won’t listen.
You’re the undoable telling me what to do.
When my phone doesn’t ring, I know it’s you.

            ♦        ♦        ♦     

Bruce McGuffin: The Polar Penguin Poem

Last night I dreamed of polar bears
who set out from their northern lairs
pursuing penguins for their meals,
(The bears preferred them over seals).

But every polar bear I saw
flashed fearsome fang and fiercer claw
and growled, "You fool! No penguins here!
They're in the other hemisphere!"

            ♦        ♦        ♦      

Ann Gibson: Motivation

Hands on hips, a scowling, howling hairdryer,
she fills the office doorway. No show, just yell.

They cringe (in embarrassment, not fear,
she’d be disappointed to hear).

No leeway given to wedge in an edgeway word,
she is gone before they can respond.

Left alone they laugh, impersonate, then crack on
back to work, bound in contrary solidarity.

            ♦        ♦        ♦      

L.A. Mereoie: Blood Lines

If you are a dog-fancier you may well be
    excused an obsession with the finer points
    of the genetic hierarchy,
But people merely interested in their family
    history do tend to go on a bit much about
    their links to the former squirearchy,
Or, if of a different persuasion, attempt to
    demonstrate that their ancestors, far
    from being landed,
Were impeccably horny-handed.
Hence the person interested in breeding who
    once boasted of being ‘related to half
A claim which resulted in a display of the type
    of extravagant tantrum or fit known as hissy
Simply because someone then asked a
    question vital enough to be bound, as it were,
    in verbal tooled gilt calf –
Yes, but which half?