Monthly Archives: June 2016

Broken Tulips by Karen Barton

I am not a silent poet

A found poem for those massacred in the Ataturk Airport Attack.


Red streaked, with faint violet hue

Planted deeper, in Ottoman soil,

a visionary poem of mixed populations,

mosaic colourings, diversity.

Small flowered symbol of paradise,

hybrid of complex origin.

Fragrant form and symbol of

beauty in a formerly

temperate world

between East and West

a declaration of love.

Two lips

Red streaked, with faint violet hue

amongst cut flowers

delicately feathered where they fall

a still-life painting of death,

stem by stem, chamber by chamber,

a blight with black center,

by pathogens of darker empires

burned by passion

a form of currency

in a tissue culture.


Tulips are called lale in Turkish (from Persian: ‘lale ‘ When written in Arabic letters, ‘lale’ has the same letters as Allah, which is why the flower became a holy symbol.

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John The Baptist by Steve Sibra

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Bring me the head of John the Baptist

or, failing that

How about a phone call from Idaho?

There’s always room for compromise

In a room with no windows

no door, and no air

It’s lights out

and the little feet start their dance

the sounds of the living deaden the air

you remember the air? – of which there is none here

It’s hard to make demands

without oxygen

and nothing to eat but your mother’s lipstick

– When all is lost, that’s the time

that we finally try to bargain

When all is lost

we never ask for much; if we can just get a crumb

we can pretend the rest

oh yes

we always pretend the rest.

So please, if you will

Bring me the head of John the Baptist

with a side of curly fries

and an ice cold bottle of Coke

Because “It’s the Real…

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Escape from VISA and MASTERCARD Island by Steve Sibra

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Days when the fever broke

Ma remembered it like right now, right here:

“Sister Incontinence and her Bowel Movement Boys

skated down Room Temperature Boulevard

Kayaks made of orange peel piloted by the Walrus twins

Fab and Gear

and soon enough the silver lining of Cloud Nine

turned into just so much angel dust twisting in your kidneys.”

We poked and giggled with glee.

Here she goes, we thought.

“Artificial Bear Grease molested our Monster Magnets,” she rattled

“Serene daredevils filled cinder blocks with razor blade ice cream

made bowling pins out of elephant teeth

and it came to be known as  the  ‘Malicious Malnutrition

of the Magazine Article Five,’ a real page turner.”

Her eyes bright and nostrils flared.

“In the sequel they roasted the pigeons in skunkspray skillets

while Captains of Industry spoke of their lives with twits and twats

a halfway house for bird dogging artifacts


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Remorse of the Wrecking Ball by Steve Sibra

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Let the wind dry your hair

plan for your day at the beach

night on the town

dawn in the arms of another cold fool.

You will never know the damage done

the wave that washes you clean

just carries the wreckage to another plateau

You have made all of my sins come true

And yet all I regret

is never getting to kiss you good-bye.

You are the engine of destruction that never looks back

the dead air gasps

in the space left behind scattered like straws

from some broken bird’s nest

breathe deep of the ash and flaming wind.

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On Older English Women, after Brexit

Maria Jastrzębska

Still stroppy after all these years...Siren feminist band, reformed with 2 daughters playing in Brighton daughters Still stroppy after all these years…Siren feminist lesbian 1980’s band, reformed with 2 daughters playing in Brighton

Eleanor Barrett gave my father English lessons and I was sent to her small, cottage like house to stay for tea after school and sleep over – to improve my English and maybe to give my mother a break, or both. She had silver hair and blue eyes, was a widow and if I was sometimes bored it was because she was an elderly grown up and all I wanted then was to be outdoors playing with other children. But she had an open coal fire which was wonderful and she grated cheese and made me strangely named things like ‘Welsh rarebit’. She was a Quaker and her husband had been a conscientious objector in the war. Pacifism was a startling concept for someone like me who had grown up in a family…

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Not brillig in Brexitland by Sheila Jacob

I am not a silent poet

Write, you bastards, urges the poet from Zaragoza

but random words collide, crash like FTSE shares

plunging off the page, zooming down a rabbit hole

where Sam Cam sits weeping, daubs me with an X.

Eat me, drink me, come to mad Nigel’s party, hunt

foreigners dozing in teapots, cart-load them home

flooding the Severn Tunnel and Spaghetti Junction.

Wales, Wales, you’ve scored the losing own goal.

Birmingham, my birth-home, I’ll fasten a bull ring

around your hard nose, show you the departing star.

London Bridge stands firm, isn’t falling for Boris

but I’m still  the wrong side of the looking glass

balancing fear in each hand, pen & paper in mouth,

trying to write by spitting through clenched teeth.

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. so it goes .

sonja benskin mesher

it is because i care , explained the bear in itallics.

some have carried on regardless, their subsidy

in the post no worry at all.  others brew beer

talk of older days when britain  (thought it) was


 i feel that someone, some thing has died,

mourn here in the covers.

i do not feel so great, again today.

i wanted to be european.

a bigger picture.


men on a beach

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