Excel for Charity – why not?

One very worthwhile site which perhaps doesn’t get as much publicity or support as it should is Excel for Charity –www.easternlightepm.com/excelforcharity 

I admit this is partly because they’re in the same Eastern Light stable as my publishers, www.spmpublications.com , but it’s also because their competitions are not just about giving out prizes and pats on the back, they are in aid of various charities which don’t necessarily get too much media support. They’re conducting a poetry competition now in aid of the Psychiatry Research Trust, which I will go in for; in the past, I’ve had a result in a competition they did for Build Africa. The more people enter for them, the greater the donated amount will be, so although I’ve slowed down on SPM competitions in case one of their soon-to-be published authors is seen to be winning, I’ll do the Excel for Charity one regardless.

Not so long ago, I scored a result in a competition run by another of the stable, Swale Life – www.swalelife.com – one of the few rhyming poems I’ve ever won anything with. It’s probably worth another look.

Commuter Computer

 Click, click; I’m on the train now; return key, no room again;

open file on pinching seats and select a moment when;
log on to episode history; I’m going to be stuck with standing
no function seems available for controlling and commanding.
Click, click; we’re on the move now, all sat in rows like androids
programmed into papers with their pictures and their factoids;
advanced search on My Documents, the best of times I’ve known,
think up security software for the virus called alone.

Click, click, the world is passing; Save Target As the view;
I’d put it in My Pictures if there was ever anything new.
Windows here and Windows there, the old zipped up mundaneity
virtually a million miles from virtual reality.
Click, click, I search for images, I search for sights and sites,
physically through the endless days and virtually through nights;
the adult checks, the video streams, the movies by the minute,
all my life’s a download and I am never in it.

Click, click, the final station; direction, office cell;
the programme now responding is one I know too well.
We mouse along the platform, but this is no play station,
it’s auto format for each life until its termination.
Click, click, I’m at my desk now, an online working gnome,
staring at a small glass screen just like I do at home.
Customise the file that’s me dressed in my working suit;
Save As a day like yesterday and eternally reboot.


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