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)
Pandemonium
Yesterday:
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.
Today:
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
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!