Poems
by Tony Dawson

 

Surfing the Net

 

Like everyone playing this writing game,

I surf the net for poetry sites.

Each tends to have a ridiculous name

with editors anxious to read the last rites

over my effort-filled small contributions.

Will my Caterpillar ever reach pupation

or will it be squashed by these Lilliputians

determined to ruin my reputation?

 

My poems return both Rusty and Moth-eaten,

or occasionally strangled by the London Grip.

Though periodic acceptances can sweeten

the pill, some rejections really give me the pip.

I’m just another Snakeskin being sloughed off,

leaving me deep in the slough of despond.

Why do these strangers feel the urge to scoff?

A lot of my writing goes over the pond

where Cider Press squeezed the juice out of me.

I once lost my way just North of Oxford,

but received a warm welcome at HST

and Offcourse too thought my stuff was good.

 

My major drawback is sending poems off in haste

because being an oldie, I’ve no time to waste!

 

 

 

 

 

Superstitious, me?

 

I’m not superstitious, touch wood.

I don’t believe in such nonsense

and never will, (fingers crossed).

When I was a student, I always wore

my blue striped shirt for exams

because it was more comfortable

not because it brought me luck

although it did that too, as it happens.

Of course, it could be I was just lucky

because I had touched wood.

And why do professional footballers

cross themselves before stepping

on the field of play? What’s the point?

God doesn’t referee football matches!

 

 

 

 

 

The Final Countdown

 

“At 88, why are you still here?

It must be time to vacate your space

and let someone else occupy your place.”

“As the saying goes, just hold my bier,

 

I have much to accomplish before I go.

I first have a hard-hitting essay to write

that will highlight the Palestinians’ plight

and skewer their vicious, heartless foe.

 

Then there’s the land of Trump and Musk

where freedom of speech is under attack,

institutions and media are on the rack

and the Constitution’s reduced to a husk.

 

I’ve still got the strength to break the ICE

while reducing MAGA to an orange stain.

It’s possible to make America right again

by impeaching the current president of vice.

 

Am I expecting too much at the end of my life

or should I be resigned to what’s going on?

In which case, who will miss me when I’m gone?

Of course, it’s easier to give up and avoid all strife.

 

I want to fulfill my dream, however gory.

So, let me go out in a blaze of glory!”

 

Anon (but not QAnon)

 

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