Stephen Philip Druce… Television Apocalypse


Television Apocalypse

Television apocalypse –
the anarchic celebration,
the annihilationv
of the sweet invention,
now the devil`s mesmerising
television – a poisonous snake
slithering in a slime
on a prime time scour,
we are furniture leaches
for them to devour,
its venom renders
us dense to digest
mindless soaps for dopes
with subliminal hidden agenda`s,
with its sexist, most
politically correctist,
ham over-actors
for uncultured cattle
in a trough of x-factors,
the vultured staring,
the documentary violence
overbearing, the chicken korma
spilt in the t.v. remote battle
in the living room corner, five
star movies long vacated
for one star turkey`s
to feed the perceived
gunshots wake up
babies in their cots, etched
nightmares on the kids not
in bed yet, watch indiscretions
before the watershed, the university set
in unamusing stand up comedy –
abusing the slot, saved by
the canned laughter
we can all spot,
comedy shows discriminate
the working class
and are so unfunny
you need to smoke
the random flick through
of the channels – a bad decision,
nudity on when the parents
are there, an unexpected
surgeon`s incision scare,
television –
the five minutes of fame
ambition, to be a celebrity
with only the brains for
infantile games, showbiz shames
television –
sport overkill, overspill,
no fun – overdone,
television hurts –
its breaking twenty four hour
news, coshes a brainwashed bruise
upon my t.v. weary head,
twenty four minute adverts
kill me dead,
traffic cop shows with
cameras persecute the motorist
and lecture headmaster style,
twist the driver`s words and
put them in a statement file,
stop them without probable cause –
just to harass, no consent to search
but the cop just ignores and expects
them to kiss his ass, television –
deserved of our derision, the over-hype,
the over-sell, the over-ripe, the t.v. hell,
but now it`s time to intervene, let`s
smash up the old, the new, the portable
and the flat screen, this cheap, crude
heap of repeated multi-channels grim,
this sacrilege is a sin.


Stephen Philip Druce is a poet/humour poet/ humour essayist published in the UK, USA, Canada and India. In August 2015 he signed an ebook deal with Tri Screen Connection in The USA – with his British style humour book of Absurd and nonsensical essays – QUIRKY SHORTS. link here –

To hear Stephen read his poems/humour poems link here

Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Philip Druce









Pijush Kanti Deb… Bearing A Grudge


Bearing A Grudge

Bearing a grudge-
a poor intention of a heart,
maybe, rich in good wishes
but ought not to be run down,
in putting two and two together
one can see eye to eye
with the mortals and the immortals,
“Bearing a grudge is sin-less.”
The morning –air-
free of dust and dirt
but not of grudges.
Temple, church and mosque-
the devotional catapults,
start throwing grudges
of all professionals and their counterparts,
wrapped with contradictory prayers,
filling the air and the sky with
the sound of the silent grudges,
“More please—No more please.”
Ought not to be surprised at all,
even the prayer-loving God
forgets to make a figure
and stands in the crowd for a prayer-
full of grudges expressing His longings,
“More sorrows— More prayers.”


Pijush Kanti Deb Occupation—Associate Professor in Economics. Achievement: More than 120 poems and haiku are accepted or published by Indian and international publishers since June 2013. They are, Tajmahal review, Camel Saloon Blog Spot, E-pao.Net, Dead Snake Blog Spot, Down in the Dirt, Poetic Monthly Magazine, Poems and Poetry Blog Spot, Poetry 24 Blog Spot, Long Story Short , Gean Tree Haiku Journal, My Word Wizard, and A Handful of Stones , Kalkion, ,Verse Engine ,The Apple Tree ,High Coupe , Madswril,Whisper, Mel Brake Press, The Voice Project ,Vox poetica, Kritya, Criterion,Calvary Cross . Muse India ,Busting and Droning Magazine, Pennine Ink , The Artistic Muse, Guwahatian and

Copyright © 2015 by Pijush Kanti Deb








Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak… Sunrise at the Seaside


Sunrise at the Seaside

wrapped by the night
swathed in a shawl of memories
filled with love
I froze on an empty beach

with feet mired in the soft sand

staring into the abyss of the sea I can see how
a soft golden-orange sphere
emerges slowly, and majestically rises
spreads its arms above the horizon

cold night slowly dissolved in deep blue depths

golden rays bring warmth and hope
surfing on the backs of the waves
tenderly stroking the coastal rocks
tearing through pine branches
pouring on the dunes
tickling crumbs of amber and shells

scattering on the beach

enriched by the another dawn
ready for sparring with a new day
I prepare my heart for another lonely night


Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak was born in 1958 and comes from Opole (Poland). In search of work she migrated to the UK. She lives in Merstham near London. Verses author, translated by herself into English, published in the U.S. Canada, Australia and the UK. Were read in an Australian Radio. She was a poet issue” in March 2013 “in the quarterly” New Mirage Journal “(USA). Her work has been presented in Writing The Polish Diaspora (USA). In July 2013 a book of selected poems in English, was released under the auspices of the International English Association (IPPA), based in London (UK). This new book is a collection of love poems. It is touching, and lyrical. This collection is special because it establishes that Helena Bozena Mazur-Nowak is skilled in writing and translating her poetry into English. Her work is simple and accessible, but lyrical and well crafted. The poet has many close contacts with poets all over the world, and has been invited to participate in exciting international poetic endeavors. She is glad that her poetry is appreciated and also understandable to readers without “Polish roots.” In May, in Canada 2014 was published her latest book ”Blue Longing”.

Copyright © 2015 by Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak







B.Z. Niditch… 20/20



to explore miles
all that’s out
with Beat Poet eyes,
the Beatles,
now in Japanese
Dylan Thomas
Spinning with us
by the bee colony
out on the islands
close to lyrics,
at first shy
then exploding
in optimum visions.


B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher who resides in Brookline, Massachusetts. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including:Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; HawaiiReview; LeGuepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others. His latest poetry collections are “Lorca at Sevilla”,”Captive Cities.”

Copyright © 2015 by B.Z. Niditch








Joanna Conom… How I Finally Learned to Make Fruit Salad


How I Finally Learned to Make Fruit Salad

children of the victors have heroes and flags but no tales

children of the victims hold the memories in hearts and stories

in the christian genocide which was not so named a man could watch

his children tied limb by limb to four horses while dismembered or

tossed in the air and shot the women used in all ways not be returned

men did and were done to with what they did in war

my grandfather told me these stories even as I covered my ears

houses burned while owners escaped then disappeared anyway

all they retained was misery suspicion grief and story no one wanted to hear

all the shiny things were kept by the victors to be digested by sunny children

who heard only fairy tales of things past victors who seemed

when I first met one to be of oddly good cheer a friendly generous soul

who had never heard of genocide in school had lots of

friends at his table spread thick with foods I had never tasted

and could not help myself we all stuffed ourselves with

the forbidden talk and food and music of childhood tales

all night I could not sleep wondering how I had eaten

the food of others memories without poisoning

from such indulgence so I called the next day begging for recipes

to be prepared with a big dash of story and small sprinkle of guilt


Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Conom