Jabberwock Redux

We were never much
for a genuine fight,
somewhat on the slow side,
you might say, with jaws
that could barely bite through
the skin of a peach
and claws that couldn't peel
a tangerine, even if we tried.

Neither was there desire—
too old, almost lame,
the pleasure of the kill long gone
and a heart too weak
I lived alone without a mate
or friend to call my own.

Any Jabberwock with any sense
who is the last one of its kind
would take responsibility
turn the other cheek
avoid the beamish boy and flee
to the safety of its cave.

But I fought back
as if I were a teen again
and lost my head:
Oh yes, I really lost my head,
and now there are no Jabberwocks.

by Neil Ellman

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Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. Enough said.


Turds: On Barely Avoiding One in the Grass

I think I've not seen flower nor bird
which moved me as did that fine turd.

A turd in hue of brown and tan,
it coiled in grass where my dog ran.

Its grandeur suggested that of Alsatian,
a Labradoodle, or Dalmatian.

I chanced to see it, as down I glanced,
and breathed a thank-you as back I danced.

For had I walked without a care,
I'd not have seen it lying there.

The gloom that did downcast my eyes
revealed to me that shrine of flies.

My spirits then were so upraised,
I wrote this verse to this thing's praise:

This universe was made by God, I've heard,
but anyone can make a turd.

by A.J. Dillon-Davis

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A.J. Dillon-Davis worked for almost 40 years as an announcer-producer at CKUA radio in Edmonton, Alberta. Now retired, he lives in Victoria, B.C., known by some as "home of the newly wed, and nearly dead." With "Turds", he loses his poetry publishing virginity.


Dracula's Favorite Things

Blood drops from noses and necks freshly bitten,
Bright trusting eyes on a virgin I've smitten,
Brown bony undead the night shadow brings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When it's sunrise,
When no one dies,
When the world is glad,
I simply remember my favorite things
Until everything turns bad.

Cream colored satin in coffins once feudal,
Death knells to slay belles and anything brutal,
Black bats that fly with the moon on their wings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Ghosts in white dresses and Jason who slashes,
Flesh flakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,
Silver white moonlight where the werewolf sings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

by Diane de Anda

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Diane de Anda is a third generation Latina and retired UCLA professor with expertise in teen pregnancy, STD, and violence prevention. No longer grinding out academic papers, she writes short stories, satires, parodies, children's books, and poetry. She has short stories in Rosebud and Pacific Review, poetry in Light, and 7 published children's books. Halloween is her favorite holiday. She, Dracula, and other creatures of the dark welcome over 200 children each year into her haunted lair.


Tub of Lard

My love is like a tub of lard—
Cold, unmoving, white and hard—
And never buys a sodding card.

My love is like a box of chocs
That's been dropped and taken knocks
And been ground in by grubby socks.

My love is like a keg of beer—
Always drunk and always here
And tastes more like piss every year.

My love is like a rack of ribs—
When eating he needs twenty bibs—
And spends his days just telling fibs.

My love is like a can of coke
Producing wind beyond a joke,
But when's said and done he's still my bloke.

by Tracy Davidson

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Tracy Davidson, from the UK, enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction whether humorous, serious, or downright weird. Her work has appeared in various journals and anthologies. Currently single, Tracy has not given up hope George Clooney comes to his senses and sees that a short, dumpy, middle-age brunette would be better for him than the tall, leggy young blondes he presently favours. Meantime, Tracy consoles herself with too much chocolate and playing with her Schnauzer (no, that's not a euphemism!).


Selected Titles from the Poor Man's Genre Library

From a Pinto Six

The Barrio and the Stars

Farnham's Packing Crate

I, Nobody

The Park My Destination

The Drinking Fountains of Harlem

Journey to the Center of the Dumpster

Stranger in a Gentrified Land

Delirium Visions

Again, Delirium Visions

The Debilitated Man

The Left Hand of Nobody

Lord of the Under Passes

Shopping Cart Troopers


All too Human

by G. O. Clark

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G. O. Clark lives in CA and is retired. He's published many poems and some short stories over the years, and his web page goclarkpoet.weebly.com tidily sums up his writing career and a wee bit more. He has a pet potato.