Guest Poetry – Kevin Stubbs

Guest Poet - Kevin Stubbs

Guest Poet – Kevin Stubbs

At the end of the garden,
In the outhouse bog,
I sit,
unlit.

Red-gold rays of the retreating sun
Crawl through the cracked and weathered window frame.

This old man will countenance no waste
On 3-ply, 2-ply or aloa-vera infused.
Rough-ripped squares of daily mail on a driven nail
Are all that he will use.

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Christmas list

Christmas list

“…all I want for Christmas is…”

Last year,
All I got for Christmas was…
A pinch of salt – for resolutions
A bottle of glue – for broken promises
A roll of paper – for cracks
A camcorder – to capture missed opportunities
A drop of milk – over which to cry
A carpet – under which to brush indiscretions
A cabinet – to hoard all mistakes
A room – for an elephant
A knife – for the back
A clothes line – for airing dirty laundry
A spectacle – for neighbours
A bridge – to burn
A road – to hell.

This year,
All I want for Christmas is…
A new lover – preferably one who doesn’t fancy my best mate.

Yapparister – December 2013

 

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The Secret of Spontaneous Combustion

The Secret of Spontaneous Combustion

“…and all that remained was a pile of ash, by a burnt pair of shoes on the ground…”

Young Sam was watching the news on TV,
“…man bursts into flames unexpectedly…”
the picture showed flames leap from his belly,
spontaneous combustion – on telly!

“And all that remained was a pile of ash,
by a burnt pair of shoes on the ground,
and a dangerous question we never should ask,
with an answer should never be found.”

That dangerous question nevertheless,
“Why do we spontaneously combust?”
Got Sam hard thinking to hazard a guess,
is it something we eat, do or touch?
something we drink?
something we think?
something we all can do?
something so magical,
something so tragical,
is it made-up or true?

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Maracas On Crackers

Maracas on Crackers

“…to bated breath, his baton drawn”

MARACAS ON CRACKERS

Searching for a new sound, the composer sat confused
Music was his food of love, but he couldn’t hear the muse

“A diet of music is called for!”, he thought it a bright idea,
To eat what once he would play, to taste what he needed to hear

So he ate…

Marinated guitar, baby-belles (tubular),
Triangle fritters, double bass pittas,
Haloumi harps, elbow of oboe,
Tambourine jus with violin roux,
Xylophone on the bone, flute en croute,
Trumpets on crumpets, maracas on crackers

He finished his meal with a Swiss glockenspiel,
Washed down with clarinet claret,
And baked drum sticks for percussion toothpicks,
Piano sorbet for cleansing the palette

He strode into the concert hall, to bated breath, his baton drawn,
Then let out one almighty roar, a truly original and gutsy score
A triumphant melodious malodorous,
As never composed before.

Yapparister – April 13

 

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.