Little boy blue, with paper and glue,
Built a Möbius horn, though derided.
  Then under the moon
  He tried to play tunes,
But his notes were all flat and one-sided.  

by Wesley Rodgers

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Wesley Rodgers is on the wrong side of fifty. Been writing most of his life. Born and bred in Darwen, England (where he still lives). He's single (no offers of marriage please). He's been a retail manager. Banker. Postman.


I Heard a Ringtone

I heard a ringtone—when I died
Aunt Sue was calling Mom.
My brother Tom was texting Sis
"Come qkly to the rm."

Sis texted back, then shed a tear
and searched boneyards.com
to find my final resting place
somewhere not far from town.

I willed my iPad, Kindle, phone
and laptop to my kid—
unfriended all my Facebook pals
made my last eBay bid,

Just then the bedside monitor
began to beep so loud
and Windows failed, but not before
it saved me—to the cloud.

by Patrick Cook

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Patrick Cook used to work for the post office. Nothing so glamorous as carrying mail or serving customers at the window. No, he drove the forklift on the loading dock, emptied elevators, sorted letter trays. The mundane nature of the work is what inspired him to write poetry. It's the same instinct that drives a prisoner to cultivate a flower. Of course, parodies are a fairly low form of poetry, but who cares?