Gregory Palmerino: The Sick Child
O Child, you are sick!
The cruel stomach bug,
That flies in the night
And lands on the rug,
Is now in your bed,
Your hair—What joy!
And those dry painful heaves
Will not stop. Poor boy!
John Cooper: What is a jot?
You could define
a jot,
as merely a dot.
Indeed
It is not . . .
a lot.
Jonathan Humble: Postprandial Ponder
I am a bit of sweet corn
With doubts about my worth;
I wonder what the point is
Of my being on this Earth.
My existential issues
And long night of the soul,
Come while I do the backstroke
Here inside the toilet bowl . . .
Prasanna Kenkre: Monday
My arrival fills people with dread.
As they waken and get out of bed.
It's not hard to find clues
Why they get Monday blues . . .
Could I call myself 'Sunday' instead?
Jan D. Hodge: Home Sauna:
With balm my bum is plastered;
I had this tub installed
But never yet have mastered
A way to dampen scald.
My bottom line is rougher,
A piece of life’s great farce;
Each time I sit I suffer
From burns upon my arse.