Extinction Easter, by Marc Woodward

I am not a silent poet

After this ’hottest Easter Monday’
I sit in my garden at night
hearing the roar of a motorbike
revving through the curves
way over on the coast road.
The noise shouldn’t carry this far
but tonight it stretches through the dry hills
drawn by the density of the air.
Rain is coming soon, I can feel it
in my nose, my ears, weighing on my skin.
The grass will suddenly remember,
the trees sit up and pay attention.
..
But now I’m sitting with a beer
and a chapbook of poems
sent to me by Stella in France.
Lovely as they are I can’t concentrate.
My shirt smells of old sweat,
the beer tastes like tin and her words
melt and run before my stale eyes.
Over the distant glow of town
a muffled helicopter churns
the gathering clouds like a milk whisk.
Thunder will burst this bubble tomorrow;
temperatures…

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Four poems by Dave Medd

I am not a silent poet

Cartoonist

Draw me a laughing Word I can chuckle at.
Draw me a joke with halo and wings
I can cackle at. In your great witness,
draw me a holy guffaw from your boots
or the bile of my belly.

Draw me the rape of reverence. Draw me
a man with a beard, a cross and an ark
full of rainbows. Draw me pillars of good
intentions, columns of justice. Draw me
his engines of comic dominion.

Draw me a child whose head your pen
can explode like a diagram.
Draw me a Laugh
I can strap to my wheels like a butterfly.
Draw me a heretic smile whose punchline
squibs flame like Roman Candles.

Draw me a Laugh I can wear on my sleeve,
a Laugh I can crucify with ridiculous
nails. Draw me a Laugh
on the business end of a missile. Draw me
a landmine of obscene…

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