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Jude writes poetry and short stories. She has had several short stories published and is currently working on a YA novel and putting together a poetry collection. She lives in the West Country.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * POEM FOR THE WEEK * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tuesday, 8 October 2013

The Cabinet Shuffle

Lets all do the Cabinet shuffle
(step to the Left, jump to the Right)
Sidestep all the real kerfuffle
(shimmy to the left, wiggle to the right)

Battle through the media scuffle
(Star to the Left, Mail to the Right)
When they ask a question, waffle
(stretch to the left, bend to the right)

Do it like they do in Brussels
(kiss to the left, bise to the right)
Do the Bump and do the Hustle
(twerk to the left, twank to the right)

So take your partners, strut your stuff (all
drift to the left, shift to the right)
and Breakdance to the cabinet shuffle
(twist to the left, spin to the right)

Thursday, 6 June 2013


incorporating the 18 obsolete words from the article by Carmel Lobello @

Thou bookwright! Honest worker thou art not!
No soda-squirt all day upon his feet!
No curglaff wakes thee to thy morning’s draft
But gently into day sat on thy arse.
Spermologer, beef-witted in thy writ
That renders englishable witless phrase
Or employs tyromancy in thy jirble
Whilst groaking at the world without true bite.
Or else in pussyvan thy venom spurns
Resistentialism and queerplungers.
Worse, slow in lunting slouch, thy mind is set
Upon thy snoutfair wonder-wench with squirrel -
That Zafty’s California Widow who
Inspires thy drivel. Get thee honest work!

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

God Bless Google

‘Google is now regarded as being as trustworthy as religious institutions, according to a new survey of Britons.’ (Sky News, 30th April 2013)

Our Google Docs that art up in the Cloud,
hallowed be thy synchronisation.
Thy Gmail come,
thy Searchbar be done
on Google Earth as it is on Google Chrome.
Give us this day our daily animation
and forgive us our typos
as we forgive them
that don’t spellcheck their websites.
And lead us not into eBay
but deliver us to Google Wallet.
For thine is the Google Toolbar,
Google Plus and Images.
In the ether. Forever
Our Mentor.

Monday, 29 April 2013


When the barley straw
in the pond de-composes,
frogs will hip hop back.

Thursday, 25 April 2013

Darwin’s Goldfish

‘Meet Aussie the goldfish who swims upside down’
(The Daily Mail 08/08/08)

Even the goldfish
are starting to rebel,
swimming upside down,
bored with the status quo.
The rest of us wish
for alternatives as well,
but walking upside down
is probably not the way to go.

A sideways leap?
An idealistic rebound?
Or shall we all just go on swimming
this way up and round and round?
The human race could
well be finished
now we’ve been
out-positioned by a goldfish.

Saturday, 13 April 2013


(for Ann)

He sleeps in light now
out there on the rim;
his empty ship still floats
in memory of him.
A marker for the man
who saved the world
and did it not for glory
but for love.
Somewhere a woman sits
and carves his face
upon the rising sun,
alone each day,
and those he worked with,
fought with, carry on
and take the message
to the stars. He’s gone.


Friday, 12 April 2013

Wicker Woman

So those in power want to ban the song.
They feel the water lap around their boots.
This time it’s someone else. It won’t be long
Before it’s their turn knee deep in the sluice.
Ding dong, the doorbell rings. Who’s at the door?
Let’s hope it’s not those badly mannered poor
With their demands of equal this and that.
God help us, now the ship deserts the rat.
The witch is dead and tap, tap here’s the wake
With fire in their eyes to light the stake.
The crone is gone, but here’s her legacy,
A world of ‘trickle up’ economy.
The wicker woman waits upon the hill
If you won’t light the kindle then they will.


Sunday, 7 April 2013


He waits…
stays in bed all day,
gets up for food,
plays Minecraft,

he waits…
meets up with friends,
goes to the cinema,
comes home feeling ill,

he waits…
spends time with his family,
plays pool with his brother,
shares Youtube faves,
watches TV.

He waits
the holiday out;
goes to work on Monday,
slips back into routine.
The days pass…

She doesn’t call.
He waits.

Saturday, 6 April 2013

Could Be Verse

It ain’t fuckin’ poetry,
It’s just fuckin’ verse,
It ain’t fuckin’ brilliant,
But it could be fuckin’ worse.

At least I don’t my words invert
The rhythm to make fit
Or use crass colloquialisms
To rhyme with other shit.

My sentences is grammatical
My punctuations alway’s right
And their ain’t no spling mistakes
In the pottery wot I writes.

My themes is esoterical
My expressions erudite
My handwriting is… something or other...
In the pottery wot I writes

I never just repeat a phrase
To fill in extra space
In the pottery what I rights
The write word’s the in write place.

So maybe it ain’t poetry
And maybe it ain’t brill,
But it ain’t fuckin’ plagiarised
Cos nobody else writes pottery like wot I does.

Thursday, 4 April 2013


I’m very anxious nowadays whenever I go out;
it seems these new Precariat are suddenly about.
The implication is that they are lager swigging shirkers
who mix with manual labourers like cleaners and farm workers.

They rent their homes instead of buying them like decent folk
and live on less than twenty thou a year. No doubt they smoke
and take drugs too. Apparently they are quite dangerous
because their lives are unpredictable, precarious.

They are the rioters, protestors, knee-jerking despair,
without a future, without hope, a job, a life, a care.
And yet, I do not see them when I step outside my door,
the world seems just the same to my eyes as it did before.

I’ve looked under my mattress where I keep my money hid
in case the banks collapse again. I’ve looked in next door’s skip.
I’ve asked my social worker and my cronies down The Bear.
I cannot see these Precariat people anywhere.


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