He's got a gun
He's got a gun a guitar
and a hair cut like Che
He thrusts up defiant v-signs
at streaking vapour trails
the evidence of an enemy he's yet to meet
He's got a gun eye to eye

All the same he unloads his weapon
He's got a gun into the no-fly zone
He's waving it on high
at this illusive foe
singing songs like a Dylan or Baez
and wishing on stars above
He's got a gun the scarlet stripes of the horizon

Tomorrow he's the hero
He's got a gun He can sense
the smell of change
which wafts in his stubbled face
this monster of cool
arraigned against a monster unseen
He's got a gun who has made him all he is

© David Francis Barker

Massoud Abu Assir
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
David says, 'I try to paint, write poetry, prose, sometimes music - I guess that makes me an artist.'

in his mother's arms the boy said ta-ta
to starvation, now lays on the mud floor
his dead eyes blindfolded with a coloured cloth
ready to be buried alongside a crowd
of small mounds of clay where dead children lie

she keeps her son's death a secret so as
not to loose his portion of ration too
to enable feeding his twin sisters, whose
scared eyes witness the life's ghastly drama
unaware of what is in store for them

© SK Iyer

I hid my dead baby so that I could keep food for his twin
Editor's note: This isn't the first poem we've published, associated with this particular story, but such is the gravity of the situation in the Horn of Africa, we make no apologies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
SK Iyer is a commerce graduate, leading a retired but busy life in Pune, India. His poems have been published. He is a member of PK Poetry List, UK.

I left them on the doorstep for a good while.
That’d show them what it was like to live slow.
Then I let them in.  Didn’t offer them tea.

‘Haven’t played tag since primary school’
didn’t go down well with the burly one.
Worth a try.  Miserable gits, both.

I stuck my leg up on the coffee table.
Had borrowed a pair of Dad’s old flares.
Looked a right knob.  But needs must.

‘Must’ve been a nasty injury, that,’
said the thin one, tapping the bandage.
I winced a bit.  Always liked Drama.

He unzipped a rucksack, full of tags
for lads not going out tonight.
Lads with both legs.  Ha ha ha.

‘Tag's not too tight, is it?’ said Fat Bloke.
I nearly lost it then, I’m telling you.
‘Can’t feel a thing.’  It was the truth.

‘That’ll keep you out of trouble,’ they said.
I watched them walk down the road.
That’d be Kane, then.  At number 33.

I left the leg in a corner, home alone,
And practised with my crutches in the alley.
Been a while.  Lump in the throat.

No one at the pub had a better story.
Still came home without a girl
but, hey.  As days go, fair enough.

© Fran Hill

G4S sacks pair who tagged offender's false leg
--------------------------------------------------------
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

Irene you stole the thunder of our grand entrance
And made sure the spotlight was on you
For the first dance
Thanks Irene,
Because of you there will be no Motzi from Uncle Murray
No toast from the best man who was finally going to admit
to my mother, that he is to blame
for the “wrong” turn my life took
Oh so many phases ago.

Thanks Irene,
Because of you there is three quarters of a wedding cake
Sitting on my mothers kitchen counter
Headed for the garbage bin.
My father hording a salvaged platter of chilled shrimp, crab legs and crudite’
For himself, with a plastic cocktail fork keeping us all at bay.

Thanks to you Irene,
There will be no vodka bar, slice meat station, regional wine tasting
Or cheese’s from diverse European nations nibbled upon.
No pigs in blankets, hamburger sliders,
fried calamari in tempura batter or
caprese salad on a skewer.
No cocktail hour small talk
No family secrets whispered over high end whiskey
No past grudges quietly toasted and forgotten.

Thanks Irene,
You imposing blustery bitch,
Because of you the Hora will not be danced
And the ice cream bar will not be scooped.

Thanks Irene,
For not only raining on our wedding day
But for flooding the neighborhood
Causing the bridges and tunnels to be closed
And twisting the power lines into Bavarian pretzels.

Thanks Irene,
The ultimate uninvited guest
Not only did you crash my wedding day
You could have at least given us a gift.

© Joshua Baumgarten

New York recovers as Irene passes
Editor's note: Joshua writes from New York, "Here with my wife to celebrate our marriage with the American side of my family.  Due to Irene it never happened.  The big party was cancelled due to the storm.  Which luckily for us, the hype was worse then her bite."
------------------------------------------
Joshua is an ex-pat New Yorker living in Holland. He organises the Irrational Library evenings - nights of poetry, rock n roll and casual chaos, and performs as a Standup Spoken Word artist.

It's easy to say: 'How can one person make a difference?' and in saying it, to not be the person who does. This week we've had poems about individuals who have made a difference - whether intentionally or inadvertently - and some who are trying to.



We started with Nedjo Rogers' powerful 'Renewal Scourge' which looked at two agents provocateur: Tunisian fruitseller Mohamed Bouazizi, whose self-immolation provoked the Arab Spring and the killing of Mark Duggan which sparked off rather less altruistic riots in Tottenham. On Wednesday Lavinia Kumar's 'Spinning Wheel' on Indian corruption being highlighted by campaigner Anna Hazare. With it's references to sandals, home spun cloth and cups of salt, there were clear echoes of Gandhi.

So what difference can poets make and how best to expose an issue? Well, you can pack a punch with very few words - as Karen Neuberg did with 'By-stander' and Stafford Ray with his 'Shorts'. Or you can home in on the intensely personal like Katherine Lockton on love 'n' marriage with 'September the 3rd' and Martin Hodges with his devastating 'No longer' on the appalling situation in Tripoli hospital.

Submissions have been a bit thin on the ground of late and I'm going off on holiday now, so do please keep sending your poems to Martin.

No longer crying for attention,
meeting mother's eyes
as I form the first words.

No longer shaking my laughter free,
gasping in wonder
as the gift of life is unwrapped.

No longer pleading for mercy,
whispering a prayer
as the darkness descends.

No longer a name,
echoing off the walls
as days ricochet about me.

© Martin Hodges

Horror scenes at Tripoli hospital
---------------------------------------
Martin is a writer, and former columnist. He has twice been editor of Viewpoint (a forum for INDEPENDENT internal comment within the University of Southampton), and is co-founder of Poetry24.

The sins of the father…

President Barak Obama
Was handed the whole Panorama.
Recessions and wars,
Huge debt, all because
Of Dubya’s unfortunate karma!

Better off with Hillary Clinton instead of Barack Obama?

Watching.

No Ghadaffi
People free?
Democracy?
We shall see.

Rebels appeal for Gaddafi capture

© Stafford Ray
 ----------------------------------------
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).