Coda, by Annabel Jane Palling

 CODA

Like a poem racing to the page

Like a gift for living, with living as your gift

Like love that tastes you when you cannot taste it

Bursting galaxies of bright stars on your tongue

Until they fizzle out and you return.

Your papers in order, your house tidied

Your goodbyes scribed on the creamiest linen

Like an elegant smile

Retracing itself.

Crisis Management, by Paul Francis

 Crisis Management

You can’t switch leaders in a time of war –

until Ukraine is sorted, hell or bust.

(It’s only happened fourteen times before).

We need a man that nobody can trust.

Looked at objectively, it can’t be right

to let this nonsense force him to resign.

The lion of Kyiv, withdrawing from the fight,

for something trivial, like a parking fine?

If he goes, you can bet the Kremlin cheers.

Putin is scared, he’s running for his life

because Brit sanctions hurt him, it appears

- no more mixed doubles with the donor’s wife.

Big Dog must stay. This is his finest hour.

We’re Tories, and we must cling on to power.