Daily Archives: December 1, 2017

Apologies by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

So, we apologise for everything.
The NHS and parking, unemployment,
attitudes to immigrants, the price
of food and drink. It doesn’t
really affect us, we don’t know
about shopping bills, bus fares
or the cost of fuel; but we’re sorry
to hear you’re struggling –
can you try harder to earn more?

We didn’t mean to pinch your arse
or overlook promotion. Didn’t mean
those rude remarks, or your
lower pay scale wages. If you
want a job then fight for it,
you must pay for education;
sitting in the bar, like us,
won’t help with your ambition.
Can’t you try harder to earn more?

The line is longer than you’d wish,
the pub was quiet and empty.
I’m  always amazed how much I know
compared to all the experts.
We’ve started so we’ll finish,
the odds are stacked against us;
nothing’s ever gained by deceit,
so figure out your…

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Predator Response by Steve Lane

I am not a silent poet

They lay around all day
and the people come in
Poisson waves

all the little ones
enthusiastic but not too
loud the slow wind plies

above the short green grass below
where they lay around all day
The sign says talk quietly

but it’s hopeless—lions!
They lay around all
four, five

hundred pounds apiece
snoozing, chuffing
head up head down eyes closed or

barely open

all day behind their moat beyond
their fence and the people come
bearing gifts of little ones

from Japan and San Jose and
always Australia
in their stripey tights and tiny boots

colors lost in every rainbow
never seen on any veldt
They lay around conserving

bored looking

for a moment’s
for a moment’s

time alone

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One More Bullet by Steve Lane

I am not a silent poet

Just                                                              one.

One more high–speed fuck–up   …    ……..tequila–fueled  fear–induced  ham–fisted

hammer–jawed  throat–crushing  blind–eyed

absolutely–good–for–nothing  ball of

Just                                                              one.

You’ll tell yourself final   last   just

oh how the words lie and lay about lost

out in the garden coming in on the tide

You’ll tell yourself and anyone who’ll listen

since you can’t any more not even hear the

begging the screams feel the woman’s hands

tugging  pulling with weakness with final

ounces of  without hope but pleading none

theless  maybe you used to wonder

how could anyone with an iota of humanity

pull the trigger on a fourteen–year–old

child just standing there just riding by

but that was before they put the fear in and you                                                         stopped

wondering about anything at all stopped

questioning your motives stopped

watching your own actions from a close

distance and asking yourself where did your

last iota go?

Just                                                              one.

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Word association by Sarah L Dixon

I am not a silent poet

You tie

my favourite pet

to a sign


‘government interference’.

Make my first gig

when I was discovering

who I was

about proving

my identity.

Take the model and colour

of the Mini

that gave me freedom

and drain the happy flight

from these memories.

What is your memorable word?

And have we sullied it

enough for you yet?

Is it still happy?

If so, we have more work

to do here.


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Not For You by Sarah L Dixon

I am not a silent poet

Not my favourite scarf
or my best corduroy coat.
No eye-liner eyes
or powdered blush.

I take notes
in a stocking-filler notebook.
No rounded pages,
flowery covers or unicorns.
A simple ring-bound A6 volume
with a plastic cover.
For you no flourishes, no hearts,
no sketches of aardvark noses.

In the front I write

not to love
as partner
or mother
a commitment
to invest less time
with both lover
and son.

These letters refuse to join.
Record in stark print
my vows to Theresa May.

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Priceless by Sarah L Dixon

I am not a silent poet

The skip of happy heels.

Your version of the Hokey Cokey.

A second hug

at the classroom door.

Our walk to school

Your questions about marrying trees,

how we know the Big Bang happened,

Why Donald Trump is so bad.

The battle to see who can find a gap

in clothes to put frozen hands

on hot bellies first.

Illicit delighted screams from the other.

Swimming lessons.

You are confident diving for weights,

launching from the side.

Check I am watching all the time.

The way you adjust

to so much change.

New house, school, friends.

New routine and you call it home now.

Being just us two.


Sarah L Dixon is based in Linthwaite, Huddersfield and tours as The Quiet Compere.  She has been published in The Interpreter’s House, The Lake, Obsessed With Pipework,Troubadour and Curlew. She had a poem published on a beer-mat and her pamphlet, 

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Times Like These by Frank McMahon

I am not a silent poet

A yacht sails in summer, northwards to the Pole.

A  slush  of gelatinous grey greets its bow

as  it  makes its ambivalent journey.

On Admiralty charts a woman replaces islands,

sketches  new sandbars, reefs marked with buoys,

while their people are  moving into legend.

Lines of footprints cover deserts; jackals, bones,

eyeballs.  Driven from shelter to shelter, children

ailing and confused, half-filled ditches,

refuse  tips: where will the unborn live as

their families take flight?

A gig

was  once  a party, an impromptu concert

in  a  corner pub, a mingle of music, sweat

and  beers. A world of miasma now,

of  beck and call for paupers’ pay, waiting

to  be plucked like a lobster from a tank.

Yes, yes, the richest should have more,

more  tax-breaks crammed into their maw

until they vomit gold, excrete jewels and mansions,

super  yachts and private jets, smearing

the earth and the airwaves


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