Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297

Call me by another name.
Call me waspish,
or boyish,
or fountain-mouthed.
Prate about the crooked,
curved curls of my red-ribbon tongue.
Whisper myths down spidered-ice hallways
about the melted wax love games
fixed between dust-dressed candlesticks,
and the unfaithful rumors
of wine-stained table cloths.

Call me by another name.
Call me button-eyed,
and hollow,
and brittle-garden crucified;
Bind my face with burlap
and replace my spine with
a wood-splintering post;
dry my veins gold
so that my flannel fetters in
the tornado-dry breath
of fraying hay.
I'll fight off autumn winds and
the gossip of crows.

Don't fuse my footsteps to the echos
of Lightning Bearers and Stilt-legged Shadows;
Fasten my shoelaces to the
anchor dreams of drowning cannonballs
where I will only spell stories
with the sharp skin of coral reefs.
Call me by another name.
Call me typewriter-toothed,
or backwash,
or eight-legged.
Just prescribe me a name
that I can live up to.

The moon dangled hard through the city
and the moth-lamps hummed discord with the wetness.
The dripping stars like accidents in spilt milk,
waited for a mop.

Walking home I hallucinated men
coiled up with the smoke-stacks.
They pressed through the brickwork and
as shadows flickered in the street-light.

Though my torch cut them down like saplings
and the moon ripped off their heads like scarecrows,
each man was a sermon,
a vastness straining the borders of sight.

A tailored uselessness hung there arms,
waspish currents tore from their mouths.
Starlings turned on their cross-wind,
as messengers of some sleeveless silence.

The moonlight fell on them like whorls,
like hurricane petals, hostile
were the shopsigns, they moved backhandedly.
The gulls raged. The crows filled silence they left.

The shadows all danced to the back of my head.
And when I turned they were gone.
I'm plucking for life and a body.
That shrinks the world to their size.

Your waspish smile
     Stings me
Like a hypocritical barb from a jaded glance
     A subtle trip, within a slow dance

Alas…

Your Poison ain’t what it used to be!

No matter what new trick he tried
A new deodorant or mouth freshener
Sideburns, swagger or rascally scowl
She yawned, wore her pretty little frown
And swore that he was playing the gem
When he was just another line in her poem

No matter what new-fangled idea he brought
She told him plain and square in caustic words
He wasn’t an iota of what she wanted or sought
So he went back to nights of pining and misery
And morning vigils for the postman’s delivery
Hoping to be more than just another line in her poem

Thinking and believing he could leave and learn
He went abroad to build his sunken profile
In places where none could ever him deride or stifle
Since there’s always some safety in anonymity
But when finally he landed on their shores again
He was still not more than just another line in her poem

So let's live and learn to read the writing on the wall
No matter what; and no matter how this order might be tall
For it matters not what fantasies or novelties you conjure
From what exotic lands or eccentric peoples far and wide
She remains spoken for by the high ideals of her imagination
And you forever will be just another line in her waspish poem

scream absolute violet
the vehement throat of night
blisters insanity
                               and some little reds
what talk like death
      wriggling skulls
full of strobing darkness   &

              angry blood

scarleted in superficial heat
                                                      a thrombosis
aligned rickety knees knocking
      weak lipped fire
                                   ,        at sonorous clouds waspish dint
resting aggressively supine starlight
  in crusts of vibrant tears
   spotting ardently the quavering note of black

when when  when
and the more I say it
the more it sounds like
another language, archaic
german or synonym for
rice bowl in mandarin
the more I say it, the more
it fades from minor burn
to casualty, from rhetorial
question to plea, until I'm
sweating out in my apartment
angrily slamming clothes hangers
into the closet, shakily raising my
voice at God like a waspish child
and tearing dresses over my head
proclaiming see? see? I'll never
get to wear this one either.

curling my fingers into the bedspread--
around bottles of tea tree oil and dragging
an old kabuki brush through peach blush
holding my lips this way and that, when?
when will it be enough?


When will it be enough?

There were sisters three, and they all were free
In a town called Tavistock,
Freer than they would want to be
As they stared at the Town Hall Clock.
‘Our time is running ahead of us
They will soon call us ‘Old Maid’,
Said sister Jill to the younger Phil,
And the eldest one, called Jade.

‘So why don’t the menfolk look at us,
We’re not that ******* the eye,
Certainly better than Betty Watts
Who married the stable guy.’
‘I danced with him, did you know?’ said Phil,
‘By God, he’s a clumsy oaf,
He kept on tripping over his boots,
And stamped on all of my toes.’

‘I had a line on the fisherman,’
Said Jill, ‘and I thought I’d win,
I’d give it a month or two to set,
And then I would reel him in.
But Nancy Croft got her hooks in him
And I see they’ve tied the knot,
I said, ‘but you were going with me!’
He said, ‘Oh! I’d forgot.’

Then Jade had turned with a waspish look
And she said, ‘Well, look at me!
I’m the eldest and should be wed
By rights, the first of three.
There’s only a single guy in town,
He’s the only one that’s left,
I heard him say he’s going away,
He’s an army boy, called Jeff.’

But Jill and Phil said, ‘He’s not yours,
It’s the one that gets there first,’
They were in favour of drawing straws,
But Jade had stamped and cursed.
They said they’d ask him around to tea
They’d cook up muffins and toast,
And then they’d see what they all would see,
By whom he talked to most!

He came attired in his uniform
His scabard by his side,
Placed his sword on the mantelpiece
Where Jade stroked it with pride.
‘My, but you’re a fine gentleman
And I see you play the fife,
How sad, you’ll march to a battle cry
Without a beautiful wife.’

He sat perturbed, and he looked at them,
At each one in their turn,
‘If only there were three of me,’
He said, but his cheeks had burned.
The sisters jostled to catch his eye,
Were heated and dismayed,
‘I know a way we can settle this!’
And Jill had reached for the blade.

She swung the sword and before they knew,
The soldier lay in halves,
She’d cleft him, clean through the waist, and then
She’d cut off both his arms.
To Jade the head and the torso went,
To Phil, arms worn like a shawl,
Which left Jill what was below the waist,
(She had the most fun of all!)

David Lewis Paget

Let's have a picnic under the trees.
Between the grass blades, a hay fever sneeze.
We can watch bumblebees dancing on flowers, they're floating on air.
We can eat sandwiches, loaded with tuna and cucumber for a few hours and delicious cream cakes.

Then came forth the wasps, not so pleasant, they bothered us.
Much more than the bees did before.
Toasting summer with ma, who sat on the grass, lemonade sipped by my mother and me.
Mother said" sit still and they 'll let you be".
Me being me, just had to flap.
Waspish creature got stuck under my cap, tangled up in my sweet lacquered hair.
I panicked and ran, flicked him out of my hair, out he flew.
Straight up my swirly pink gingham skirt.
Little beast got me, my how it hurt.
(c) Livvi MMCV

On the seashore
Her back an arrow
She marvels at nature’s flawless flow.
Luxuriant hair cascades to caress
Her waspish waist as if to stress
The point that it’s a beautiful mess.
As the waters make fleeting
Acquaintance with the seeming
“Stationary" shores, her figure’s spellbinding.
Her dress hugs her lithe frame tight
As all manner of inconsistency takes flight
And what remains is an ethereal sight.
It’s clear as crystal that grace
Is outstanding and seldom commonplace.

For obvious reason:
There was once a lady name Annie
A very loveable, respectable Nanny
Her only wish was to become a poet
Without getting the terrible headaches
Until, she discover her grammar was uncanny
The beautiful tone of the poetess seems waspish:
According to the urban dictionary:

Once there was love
That left a light feeling, in one’s heart
It keeps us cheerful, even as ones recites bad hip hop lyrics.
Now it’s leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth
It came in from nowhere: out of left fields:

Ones can still pretend to like swimming in the winter time
Where bathing suits are 75% off the original prices:
In the Y.M.C.A the water is still in the swimming pools:
Ones’ ear is blocked with swim plugs:

Another problem, another loss of the game
Because, it’s still twenty below on the outside:
One’s heart misses a beat for the hundredth times
Warm body, cold hand and feet: not a good treat
Once there was love:
Now it's the emptiness of perception mode:

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                        ­    Leaving the Party

              “You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting
                With much admired disorder.”

                             -Lady Macbeth in III.iv.109-110

The party we leave is not the party that was,
Beginning in optimism and good will
In rooms well-lit with generosity and thought -
Ideas thoughtfully spoken and thoughtfully heard

We have all left a party for fresh air
To escape from hollow laughter and cliches
From shouted arguments and whispered schemes
Half-empty glasses and sour cigarette smoke

Screamed taunts that sting, a hive-like waspish buzz -
The party we leave is not the party that was

crafted before onset when people of color  
got acknowledged for twenty eight or nine days
depending if leap year occurred.

Though I yam Caucasian,
rightful to honor most bitter
racist genocidal crime,
nonetheless ovation qua
one non WASPish critter
buzzfeeds kickstarts poetic hitter,
viz quintessential significant contribution
vis a vis ******* that doth litter
just pass over after me death
as posthumous Jew pitter,
patter one among anonymous wordsmith
(linkedin to Ashkenazi)
multitudinous Semitic peoples.

Many unknown dark skinned souls
cruelly abducted, enslaved, lynched...
wrenched, yanked, and zipped
out heart of darkness within
pristine jungles of Africa
bravely fought as non quitter
with ebony melanin to **** sitter,
this asthma feeble attempt
made as thoughtful, rueful, mindful literate
read courtesy sibling, parent,
guardian or baby sitter
reasonable rhyme aye adorn
rhythmically snapchat, tweet and twitter.

**** Sapiens with Negroid color
who, despite being human *******
managed to illuminate, embellish, adorn
worthy contributions to society,
though me Asian garden variety
American (though not so proud),
and civilization since time immemorial
hence, I wanna pay poetic homage
to persons gifted with melanin born
akin to diversity exemplifying gamut
analogous to Indian corn
debased brutally and forlorn
no matter raised in cornucopia horn
of plenty with rare serf tenderness

whipped by wicked task masters
from the crack of morn,
aye cannot fathom why
a great proportion of humanity
must struggle on scraps of subsistence
while yours truly with sixty plus shades
of Caucasian pigment, albeit servile
shamefully linked heritage viz
precarious, opprobrious, nefarious,...  
Matthew Scott Harris sworn

vengeance against those perpetrators
whereat cultures, histories, languages...
eradicated courtesy genocide,
nevertheless heroic efforts
witnessed Underground Railroad
where a minority escaped,
being branded, manacled, tortured,
et cetera history as slaves an existence
until...pacified family dislocated
sans rent asunder, ripped and torn.

Once a proud family akin to Brady
bunch, now brutally, nasty
and short lived poorly destitute
(case in point) like Haiti -
once a nation extant with cultural finery
insidiously ***** "Lady"
lacerated odiously robbing
unique peoples as owners didst slay
practically naked "Primates"
encaged like wild animals in zoos
culturally robbed while
abhorrently marched in ones and twos
shredded souls without shoes
(analogous to persecuted Jews)
of singular ambition to break shackles
though tightly fused
to life as they chose.

The above smattering examples of many peoples
UNFAIRLY subjected
to subservience and exempt
from enjoying the fruits of their labor.

January twelfth two thousand and ten
(original date this communique writ then
kept wedged where in no wise
bore visual witness
vis a vis near annihilation and destruction
of African, Haitian,
South American, et cetera nations
whereby countless/ nameless individuals
e’en the strongest Herculean type men

crushed by humungous slabs of
building facades practically
demolishing every creation
since this island and/or
sundry other nation settled, which
indigenous tribes sought safety
in any geologic den
seeking solace and salvation
from wrath of nature

by paying obeisance via oblation
perhaps giving credence to clear water
in tandem with rooster and hen
that laid a golden egg and chicken thing,
especially encroaching, jumpstarting, outsourcing
once noble savages affected violation
particularly when Europeans
foisted forfeiture of land
with primitive implement like pen
no matter that travesty, trickery, mockery,
et cetera wrought humiliation
pleading invaders to forsake
such actions that rent asunder
culture beseeched god when
these depraved brutish, nasty
and (shortish) Hobbesian simians
wantonly increased desecration.

The peoples of this dominion rose
from the ashes like the phoenix like bird
no mattered genetic pool underwent
white washing from scouring influx
from western thumping proselytizers,
which alien beliefs hard to swallow like curd
basically bribery (with lustrous trinkets)
ah those coveted legal tender.

Upon emancipation proclamation cessation
to sell men, women and for x amount of bucks
akin to the soundcloud winged fowl clucks
foisted/ forced the unpleasant alternative
(wanton slaughter) to be clearly heard,
yet within the very fiber of tropical
mangrove persons patiently lined up their ducks
and declared as one of the first semi *****
esse full African American peoples
INDEPENDENCE to be the word,
whence adulation, elation, inspiration echoing
across ramshackle greensward.