Wednesday, 16 August 2017

My Father’s Son
I never knew
my father’s son.
Even though
I met him once,
or maybe twice,
I never knew him.
And then I met
his son.
Caught him
miraculously
in a net.
Held on to him
tightly.
And, I found
that he hadn’t left early,
my father’s son.
He’d waited for me,
wondering,
for a long time.
And so I found him,
my father’s son.
When he was
just ninety six,
I found him.
But I was too late
to know him.
At ninety five,
he was already dead.
So I never knew him,
my father’s son.
Ten Minutes In the next ten minutes I have to go, and you can’t let me just walk out of your life again. Can’t let you! Can’t stop you, I said, and I won’t…
HARNESSMAGAZINE.COM

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Perfectly Imperfect
It started when we stood hopefully,
with our thumbs outstretched
by an English roadside.
We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia
without maps or money,
or sense of direction.
And we made it to Italy.
and swam off the rocks,
with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And we swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.
And we made it to Pec and lived
in a house ‘typique du Turque’
with a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’,
which made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and
the conversations interesting,
Even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian,
which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot,
dusty roadside and fantasize
about the ice cold mountain water
streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.
And we made it back home.
We had got lost a lot,
but hadn’t got raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
What perfection.
It started when we stood hopefully, with our thumbs outstretched by an English roadside. We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia without maps or money, or sense of direction.
HERSTRYBLG.COM

Monday, 14 August 2017

The Company of Butterflies
In the company of butterflies
I can whistle up the wind
and fly
without boundaries.
Flutter by
and then rest
in the sunshine
and drink
sweet nectar
and dream
and dream.
In the company of butterflies
I can whistle up the wind
and soar
over fragile rainbows.
Then stop
in a fusion
of colour
to taste the gold
at the end
of my flight
of fancy.
In the company of butterflies
I am boundless.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Unicorn
I shouldn’t have done it.
I’ve always shunned
the spotlight,
always feared it.
Unlike the horses and dogs
who play the game,
perform,
do what’s expected
by their human providers,
by their audience.
I’ve always been afraid
of being seen
onstage
just in case
I was taken short
and golden notes
fell from my arse
and made
rainbows
brighter
than the spotlight,
upsetting
the lighting engineers.
I think we’re all the same,
we unicorns,
shy creatures.
That’s why we’ve
survived,
hiding
in dreams.
First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, January 2016
Animals Beautiful, Brutal Poetry in Motion So many are endangered Yet the Wildlife Conservation Society Fights on their behalf This poetry menagerie joins the cause Civilized Beasts is a poetry for charity anthology. Poets and…
AMAZON.COM

Thursday, 10 August 2017

Give Me A Hand
Many offered
to give me a hand
to paint the man red.
They thought the town
would be next,
but they were mistaken.
The background was to be in
a different palette,
darker, more sombre.
I asked them to wear gloves.
That way I knew I could
preserve their memory like
the long dried up palette,
peeling their outer skin
like the gloves.
Like the gloves,
I hung them all
out to dry.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries...
SCARLETLEAFREVIEW.COM

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

To The Passing Of The Nightingale
Where are the songs of spring?
Where are they?
Well, Mr K,
they are harder to find
than they were in your day.
Gone with the nightingale,
Gone with the meadows,
the hedgerows,
the woods,
The habitats lost,
destroyed.
Destroyed like the food
that people call pests.
Predated.
Predated by farmers,
one way or another,
the countryside’s guardians,
that’s what they say.
The spring singing has ended,
almost over and done.
Aye, you might well ask, Mr K
The singing is not as it was
in your day.

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Chill
I close my eyes
and listen
to the birds.
I can’t name them,
but it doesn’t matter,
I can still feast on their song.
Song,
well some sing beautifully,
others need to learn.
I sympathise with them,
I can’t sing either,
but there’s no shame
It doesn’t matter.
There’s no one to hear me
if I join in.
I close my eyes and listen to the birds. I can’t name them, but it doesn’t matter, I can still feast on their song.
MOONMAGAZINE.ORG