Thursday, 21 September 2017

Cabbage Dreams

I am dreaming my cabbage dream.
I’m peeling off the outer leaves
to find what lies hidden beneath.
Looks much the same as the outer leaf,
a little less battered and crinkled
but fundamentally the same.
Now for the next layer.
There’s a drop of water
shining full of light
and something darker, more solid,
the leavings of some hidden creature.
Another layer reveals the holes
and the sleepy caterpillar
without his pipe
without his crown,
so unsure of
his own
much less mine.
If I peel off
layer after layer until
I get to the heart of it,
will I understand where I’ve come from
and be able to unpack the dream,
find the pipe and put the pieces
together, make sense of the
cabbage, crown the king.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Screwed Up

He bottled up his worries,
his fears,
and sealed them in
Put them inside a bottle firmly
Then he thought, suppose they grew

and, expanding with the heat
forced the cork free from the bottle,
releasing all
those fears and anxieties to reoccupy
his being.

It was another worry
for him
to ponder and fret about.
He knew
a screw top bottle would have
been better,
would have kept them confined
more securely.

Too late
now though, to have that thought
done is done.
The best ideas are, always
too late.
Past has always passed.

And then,
another thought came to him,
so timely.

Maybe he could he transfer them,
move them
to the bottle with the screw
and screw them up tight
letting them out of the bottle.
letting them escape.
giving them
to invade
his soul,
his dreams,
his being
his reason
for being.

Such a risk
Such a worry.

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Autumn Rain

Vertical, or horizontal, autumn rain falls from heavy misty clouds,

but when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides

shimmering across the rock and falls

in bright white tails or snakes

like silver where

the mountains

leak it.


Friday, 15 September 2017

They don’t have the flash
of gaudy summer,
but the winter seeds and trees have 
a poignant beauty of their own.
posing for the camera.
They don’t have the nectar
to entice the sugar lovers,
but there’s food
in their seeds,
ready for spreading
and rebirth
in another place and time.
They don’t have the flash
of gaudy summer
but see them
and sparkle
with wet spiders webs
and jewelled
water drops
to light up the dark days.
And later,
with sugar like
frosty coating.
Still shapely.
Poised and ready
to face the inevitable
With this issue, we're sending thoughts, prayers, good vibes, and positive energy to our poetry editor, David Allen as he recovers from surgery, and…

Thursday, 14 September 2017

Who Am I
When did I last know who I am?
I wonder if it when I was a child,
when I made up stories 
from my imagination.
Was I separate then
from the imaginary children
with imaginary parents
and imaginary friends.
where my story began
and where I ended.
I don’t remember.
Perhaps the story ended before I began.
Perhaps the two began together.
Perhaps they may end together,
or eternally
I cannot say.
I never could.
Did I ever know who I am?
[Insert Yourself Here]: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

Green Dragon
Does the ghost believe what he's seeing
as the green dragon floats by
breathing rainbows
from flower filled puffs of breath.
Would you believe it?
Would I
believe it?
After all,
this is not the usual sort of dragon
whose fire filled breaths register alarm.
But alarm registers, never the less,
as this is not the usual sort of dragon
and none of us are sure
what will happen next.

Monday, 11 September 2017

The Driving Instructor
I needed rather a lot of driving lessons.
My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help.
Nor, did my occasional confusion
between right and left.
But, coming up to my test,
my new instructor was sympathetic.
We could go for a Sunday drive, he said.
I could have a free lesson
and maybe a drink after.
Well, why not?
He told me a story over the drink.
He’d been in the war in Singapore.
Such horror.
And conscripts all.
In the chaos
an enemy soldier had shot his dog.
Shot her.
Killed her,
Such horror.
And conscripts all.
But, it was alright in the end,
he’d ‘got’ the one who did it.
‘Got him.’
Shot him!
Killed him,
Such horror.
And conscripts all.
The life of a man for the life of a dog.
Both shot.
Both killed.
Both dead.
It was the life of the man I valued most.
And I said so
using a lot of words.
Yes, rather a lot of words
loudly spoken.
So no more free lessons,
but I passed my test.
First published in Silver Birch Press, Learning To Drive Series, May 2016
By Lynn White *Editor's Note: This was first published in Silver Birch Press, Learning To Drive Series , May 2016