Sunday, 22 April 2018


It’s a Worry
He bottled up his worries,
his fears,
and sealed them in
securely.
Put them inside a bottle firmly
corked.
Then he thought, suppose they grew
agitated
and, expanding with the heat
produced
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
fastening
and screw them up tight
without
letting them out of the bottle.
Without
letting them escape.
Without
giving them
freedom,
freedom
to invade
his soul,
his dreams,
his being
his reason
for being.
Such a risk
though.
Such a worry.
Get active! Send us your protests through art!
WEASELPRESS.COM

Thursday, 19 April 2018


The Village of Twee
I am just arrived in the village of Twee
with its little front gardens carefully wild,
with its thatch nicely polished,
its flowers dust free.
I wonder who tends them
in the village of Twee.
Who shampoos the pinks
who waters the pots,
who sweeps up the leaves
and prunes all the phlox.
There’s no humans to see
in the village of Twee,
just cars with their robots,
red, white and pink.
They wave as they drive through
with shopping piled high
singing ‘tra lah lah, welcome and fiddle di di.
There’s a welcome for all in the village of Twee.’
They park right outside,
with the pavements long gone
to give wider roads for motoring robots.
So how did it happen, this robotic coup.
There must be a story or legend to tell
to explain the strange culture I came across there.
Well, pavements weren't needed
with no humans to walk
and that’s how it started
if truth it be told.
And it’s ‘tra lah lah, welcome and fiddle di di’
as the robots drive smiling through the village of Twee.
So are there still humans?
I've heard they're indoors
their legs long since wasted,
they're unable to walk.
So the robots took over
and they do what they can
to keep the thatch polished
and dig up the weeds,
to feed all that need it
and take out the waste.
And when work is finished their day will come,
when new robots grow older, they can move on.
Singing ‘tra lah lah, bye now and fiddle di di,
there’ll be no more humans in the village of Twee’
BLP's bookshop offers something for everyone. From an anthologies challenging traditional norms and stereotypes in folklore and literature to a cozy mystery with characters who will wrap around your heart. If fantasy is more your style, check out R.E. Fisher's latest offering. Authors seeking to pub...
BTWNTHELINES.COM

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Apoc-Elipse
They were observant
so they saw that
the night was already black, unbroken by pinpoint stars.
Black even before the moon swallowed up the sun
leaving only a ring of white light for breakfast
with nothing to come after but dark days.
They could hardly believe it
but they knew
that
only black days could follow
such an apocalyptic event,
an event that would
eclipse all others.
That would be
a prelude
to a world without light
a world without life,
an apocalypse.

Tuesday, 17 April 2018


Story Tellers
I’ll tell my stories.
My life stories.
My rememberings,
meanderings
never written down,
but taken in for telling.
Waiting now
to be put outside again.
I’ll tell my stories.
I’ll put the inside out.
See if I can find
my lost past self
and hold it still
for a snap shot
to be taken.
But my dream stories,
were never outside.
They’re the secret ones.
Unrevealed
staying inside.
Maybe later
I’ll tell my dream stories,
let you into them,
put them in the mix.
Let you get lost in there,
as I did.
And then
all of you will see
all of me,
maybe.
Later,
there’ll only be my stories.
I’ll be part of your stories
then.
Or will I be lost,
still lost.
Lost in them.
Story Tellers by Lynn White I’ll tell my stories. My life stories. My rememberings, meanderings never written down, but taken in for telling....READ MORE
BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Monday, 16 April 2018


Lotus
If in the afternoon I come upon a land
and find the lotus blooming there,
Will I recognise it’s flowers and fruits,
I wonder.
Will I remember it’s story,
I wonder.
And in the evening,
after sniffing the fragrance
of the flowers and tasting the fruit,
will I have forgotten
to wonder.
Napkin/Pocket Poems
RIVERPOETSJOURNAL.COM

Sunday, 15 April 2018


Magic
Now is the season of magic,
from the witches of Halloween
to the fairies and elves of
Father Christmas.
Only for children,
though.
Magic for adults has Pagan qualities
referencing the myths and legends
that made sense of earlier times,
though
some still invite their ancestors
to picnic with them on the Day Of The Dead.
Only for children,
though
are the fairy stories and fantasies
of yesterday and today.
But children know
that these are only the building blocks
of magic.
Yes, children know
that magic is something you make.
Sometimes adults forget.