The old lady sat among the destruction,
on page three of the magazine,
rocking herself.
I leafed thru the rest of the magazine,
her image is all I see.

© Douglas Polk

The Calamity of Japan's 9.0-Magnitude Quake
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Douglas Polk is a writer of poetry, from central Nebraska. Feeling persecuted most of his life he has published three books of poetry; In My Defense, The Defense Rests, and On Appeal. He lives with his wife and two boys and two dogs on the plains of Nebraska.

Bubbling laughter
rips out of me
into words
humming
white scent of incense
I can’t help speaking
I see through petals
centuries old
and my hands clasp
in a prayer for a Japan.
Then something wizened
something blackened
turns to smoke
starts shifting
rips out the heart of laughter
stamps pain on my forehead
with a spring wind
ties my hands
and so dries up
my prayer for a Japan.

© Tatjana Debeljački


Tatjana Debeljački - member of the Association of Writers of Serbia UKS, Haiku Society of Serbia, Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade and Croatian Writers’ Association - has published three collections of poetry and blogs at debeljacki.mojblog.rs/

Though times are hard, decisions tough,
Enough can sometimes be enough.
We all have breaking points, you know -
A duck unhoused, a servant slow;
Or taxes constituting theft
Of hard-earned loot that Daddy left;
And if there is one single thing
That really chaps my sphincter-ring,
It is the thought of lower races
Who simply do not know their places.
Their accents odd, their clothing raggy,
Haunting the ruins left by Maggie,
They live like duchesses and kings
On benefits or some such things;
And even those who do not shirk
Do strange and useless types of work.
Why, for example, should one teach
More than the rudiments of speech
To little oiks who'll get themselves
A cushy number stacking shelves?
And is it really fair that I,
My chubby cheeks and old school tie,
Must needs put up, day in, day out,
With northern folk who fly about?

© Philip Challinor

Oliver Letwin 'makes Sheffield family holiday jibe'

My Weblog: http://www.thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.com
My Books: http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=929514

My tongue is not cheesecloth
enough to strain your syllables,
Scott Walker. This is your love poem.

Every Louisville slugger is a reproduction,
as Baudrillard would have said, simulacra
enough to strain your syllables.

Every ticket has its price. Disneyland,
like Santa Barbara, is a paradise,
as Baudrillard would have said,

but even a town like Celebration, FL
has a record of murder.
Like Santa Barbara, it remains a paradise.

What Marx said: History repeats,
first as tragedy, then as farce.
A broken, murdered record

dragging along the needle of your teeth.
Neither tragedy nor farce,
my tongue is not cheesecloth.
Scott Walker, this is your love poem.

© Andrew Rihn
Here is a link to an article about the Governor's legislation and the mass protests surrounding it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew Rihn is the author of several slim volumes of poetry, including "The Rust Belt MRI (Pudding House). He lives in Canton, OH and can be found online at his blog Midwestern Sex Talk.

In Sydney yesterday, thousands gathered in support of action to stop human induced climate change and made it clear that if a tax would help, they were for it. A short distance away, an opposing rally was told that a carbon tax was a futile and unnecessary impost on the family budget. 

The old irresponsible breed
Who march to Conservative creed;
Are arrogant fools,
Who ignorance rules,
And live in delusion and greed!

© Stafford Ray

Aussies rally for, and against, carbon tax
-------------------------------------------------
Writer of musical plays and reading resources for schools. Wannbe novelist, one completed, two more on the way. Poetry happens when moved, limericks when amused (interchangeable).

Blog : StaffordRay

Memorial in storage,
Honour packed away.
We will remember those
Who, sadly, could not stay.

Something monumental
Once stood here on the land.
A focus for remembrance,
That Van de Vijver banned.

Ironically, under darkness,
A vandalising digger
Clawed at hindering stone,
To make the port much bigger.

© Martin Hodges

Village in uproar as Belgian war memorial relocated

A bit off the top?

Snip, snip, snip.



More off the side?

Cut, cut, cut.



The back's a bit raggy.

Chop, chop, chop.



Your head's a bit flabby

Hack, hack, hack.

Now... anything for the weekend?

Bill Dawson

Where the cuts will hit the arts

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www.bill-storyteller.co.uk
www.writinginlecreuse.co.uk