[Jerome Betts]

They're not exactly known for publishing humour.

Jayne, you have just chilled my blood. Can't we start a trend in the right direction?

Jock McSporran, whose intake of drink
Was tending to grow not to shrink,
Fired his rifle one day
At a beast which, they say,
Had no antlers, but tusks, and was pink.

[John Whitworth]

I really think you should give that a go, Spindley one.

[Spindleshanks]

John, I will, I will.
Here's one from the archives that may also fit the bill, more in Jerome's right direction:

CITY NIMRODS

Two city Nimrods - call them Bob and Bill -
with loaded shotguns cocked, are tracking spoor
far out beyond the 'burban spill but still
in GPRS range. A rabbit's roar
alerts them and they move in for the kill.
Bob makes the classic tyro shooter's blunder
and leaves the safety-catch off; in the thrill
of chase, he trips and blows his toes asunder.

Bob faints; Bill checks his pulse and, finding none,
hits triple-oh and, to a cooler head,
yelps, "Help! What should I do? I think he's gone!"
"Stay calm," says Coolhead. "First, be sure he's dead."

A moment's silence, followed by a shot,
then Bill comes back: "Okay, that's done. Now what?"

oOOo

[Jayne Osborn]

That's very funny, Peter!

[Susan McLean]

It had me laughing out loud, Peter.

Susan

[Spindleshanks]

Thank you, Jayne and Susan. I'm hoping the editor is equally amused, and I'm left laughing all the way to the bank.
Jayne, a question: must the title be "Stalker" or can one choose one's own, with the assigned theme evident from the context of the poem?

Peter

[Jayne Osborn]

You can pick your own title to go with the theme, Peter; the Speccie and The Oldie don't bother with titles, which suits me very well - I usually find the most difficult part of writing a poem is what to call it!!!

[basil ransome-davies]

BLUEBOTTLE

The dark blot on my screen won't go away,
an outsize fly disrupting Film On Four.
I swear, get up and tip-toe for the door
to fetch the kitchen swat, not liking spray.

I catch it on a sill. As Chandler wrote,
it's 'shining and blue-green and full of sin'.
I strike, I miss. It has me in a spin
It settles on the looking-glass to gloat.

Ignoring it, I'm buzzed, as if King Kong.
Am I on its case or is it on mine?
Next it's invisible and mutes its whine.
I cannot stand this deadlocked pause for long.

I grab the aerosol at which I'd balked,
an ugly canister of gaseous pus,
and spraying wildly poison both of us,
not caring who's the stalker, who the stalked.

[Martin Elster]

Stalker

They dog me like a stalker in the night
Or even in the daylight, each a fly
Forever buzzing in my ear. I try
To shoo them off. No use. Turn on the light

And scribble quicker than the beat of wings.
Like bugs on flypaper, they watch in fear
As I roll over. Yet again my ear
Is filled with words. This dreadful rumpus rings

The final drops of dream from my grey matter.
I go out to the kitchen for some water.
My muse keeps bugging me. I’ve never caught her,
Since she’s a shapeshifter. Gawd, how she’ll chatter

Into my mind when it wants to relax!
But when my muse is done abusing me,
She exits like some trickster full of glee,
Then eagle-swoops again in sneak attacks.

Yet sometimes she is gone for days and days,
And I get rest and reinvigorated,
Then start to miss her. While we’re separated,
I’m ineffective, shrouded in a haze.

Is she now on Olympus having a bash
Ingesting lots of drinks and lots of hash?
I hope her leave is only temporary,
And dope her high is only hemporary.

[FOsen]

The Pursuit

I’m mountain ranges from my home,
and heat is dancing up the road.
I can’t recall what made me leave,
was it a bur, a bar, a goad?

A wandering scholar sang your praise,
extolling stations on the way;
how steep the trail, I didn’t ask,
how long the trek, he didn’t say.

Unnumbered times I’ve cursed that bard
and damned each dark, abandoned shrine,
each woman who forbad a bed,
each inn where they refused me wine.

Contesting for my forward foot
distracted me from how I went;
better I never noticed that
the path began a slow ascent,

Until at last I felt you near,
like some pursuing, taunting elf.
I hurry on, now, in a sweat
and keep my curses to myself.