Today’s poem

SUNDAY

I really don’t like Sunday, it’s a land that time forgot, In Twenty Four Hours Later, a film that has no plot, I’m a zombie rising slowly, who sinks without a trace It’s that phone call to my mother, ironing I can’t face.

I really don’t like Sunday, the off switch in my head, A hibernating tortoise who just can’t get out of bed, He wraps himself around me like a giant anaconda, Sunday’s subterranean, a yawn that pulls me under.

I really don’t need Sunday, he’s heavy medication, Amnesia and chloroform, knocking out the nation. I’m feeling quite hungover and my room is in a mess, Monotonal, monochrome, a home for the depressed.

Sunday’s just a vampire who sucks out all my juices, On TV by the sofa, where my plans turn to excuses. He’s really a magician, now he’s going, going, gone, Sunday’s just a stripper, in the end there’s nothing on!

Nicola Wood, Cuckfield, W. Sussex.

Nursery Rhyme For Our times

The other day upon the stair I met a Brexit who wasn’t there It wasn’t there again today I hope it will be again one day.

D.C. Wilson, Whittlesey, Cambs.

Limerick

Amazingly robots now can Do ops a lot better than man, So women could pray That one lucky day, All meals might be cooked by the pan.

S. Chisnall, Brixham, Devon.