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Syndic Literary Journal

Six Short Poems

Written/Narrated By British Emigré in Spain Tony Dawson

The Dead of Night

I dreamt I was trapped

in a narrow tunnel,

slowly suffocating.

Squirming about,

I eventually wormed

my way out,

still gasping for breath.

I heard you say,

“What are you doing

in my dream?

You’ve ruined the colours.

They were so bright

and now they are drab.

Get out of my dream!”

Then, you woke up.

But I didn’t.

Reality TV

(Narration Only)




as I walked home

I saw a couple having coffee

outside the Quilombo café

holding hands across the table,

but at a safe distance.

The scene evoked remembrances

from many years ago

when we would often do the same…

though snuggling much closer.



clad head to foot in PPE,

I hold your hand in mine

across a hospital bed.

You’re struggling to fill

your lungs as COVID

stops them being fed

the oxygen

your body needs.


Outside, in the street, there’s

a crowd of COVID deniers,

brandishing placards, and shouting

“It’s a hoax!” through loud hailers.

They demand FREEDOM

(from wearing a mask!)

Online Poetry Magazines:

O.P.M. for Would-be Coleridges?

An O.P.M beckons…

a site for sore I’s

where tortured egos

can parade their angst;

an existential haven

for souls in torment,

adrift in a sea of doubt,

to moor their rafts of despair…

and then repair

to the supermarket

before the milk’s sold out.


But let’s not forget that

O.P.M.’s the drug of choice

for the ‘poets of ideas’.

They think its potent effect

gives them a ‘voice’,

the illusion that they

‘really do have

something to say’…


And O.P.M. works miracles

for the bard who waxes lyrical

about ‘how the words are stuck’.

But if he’s really out of luck,

frustrated with his lot,

hit the wall, lost the plot,

finds himself in thrall

because the words no longer run amuck

and he’s suffering from writer’s block…

just blame the man from Porlock!

Ode To Another Slug



(With apologies to Hamish Whyte)

O slug

slugging across

the space between

the muzzle

and my head


so fast


you must know

where you’re going

I just believe

I’m good as dead

Maradona Meets His Maker

At last, the World Cup’s little faker

shuffled off to meet his Maker.

Soccer’s odious little midget

who loved to flick his middle digit

at losers on the field of play

has finally passed away.

Whether he was buried or was burned

his reputation’s now been urned!


So, let’s not praise dear Maradona,

Argentina’s prima donna,

the man who was a walking arsehole.

The “hand of God” that scored that goal,

and made the beautiful game a farce,

also wiped Diego’s arse,

then beat the women in his life,

whether girlfriends or his wife.


Good riddance to the cheating sod.

At least, in the end he didn’t linger

and if he saw the hand of God

I hope he got the middle finger!







Compiled/Published by LeRoy Chatfield
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