L.A. Mereoie: Clap for the E-card
Let us hear it, on a scale royal or Buckingham Palatial,
For these inventions digital and cyberspatial
Permitting instant Christmas communication across
continent, Channel and Pond
Without the hassle of writing possibly illegible addresses
on envelopes and paper, whether superfine deckle-edged
vellum, or bog-standard Basildon Bond.
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Liza McAlister Williams: Puffy
A down vest’s not for beauty queens: it puffs one’s svelte physique.
But when the weather’s cold enough it’s toasty down I seek.
So let me seem a teddy bear with poundage willy-nilly
and let the ones who really care settle for slim and chilly.
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J. M. Allen: Open Question
The first snow of winter - isn’t it great?
I left extra early, so I wouldn’t be late.
The best season is . . . I can’t decide which.
I debate as my car is pulled from a ditch.
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Pat D’Amico: My Poetic License
The formal, classic poetic forms
Mess around with my brain cell swarms
So I play it by ear and shoot from the hip—
If it makes sense and it rhymes, let ‘er rip.
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John Wood: Happy To Help (Ourselves)
Had a few then had a fall?
Seeking someone else to blame?
Leech & Louse await your call.
Help enrich us with your claim.
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Eve Best: Valentine Switch-up
Sorry, I found this other guy–
his body’s ripped, and makes me sigh;
he’s tall and dark, not short and fair
and, to be brutal – has more hair.
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Alan Millichip: Mistletoe
Smeared by a beak onto apple or willow,
It then grows on its host, berries soft as a pillow;
Hung up over a door, evil spirits you’ll miss,
And the bonus, of course, is you might get a kiss.*
* Covid permitting
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Damian Balassone: Bondi Picnic
I look up from the picnic rug and see
a kookaburra staring from the quay.
I know that bird will swoop before too long.
I guard my tucker with a rubber thong.
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Steven Clayman: The Possum
What is the primal essence of the possum?
It’s not the fleshy tail, though that’s awesome.
It’s not those excess O’s – where did they toss ’em?
It’s teeth so pointy-white you wanna floss ‘em.
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Jerome Betts: Tail-End Terror
The bonacon, a horse-bull mythic species,
Had useless horns, but managed fight and flight.
Its hidden weapon? Streams of flaming faeces
From which derives the saying, Parthian shite.
