Saturday, 30 December 2017

Unresolved
I know that
nothing will be resolved,
there will be no solutions.
So I will make no resolutions,
not this year, not next.
No,
no more.
I shall free myself
from the unresolved,
throw the past up in the air
and not bother to catch it
on the way down.
I’ll laugh as it fragments,
as it disintegrates,
as it falls about my feet.
I’ll kick it out of the way
as I resolve to move on
and leave the unresolved
behind me.

Friday, 29 December 2017

Tulips
Gleaming globes of gold,
and scarlet
and pink,
the brightness of their colours
masking the shadows within
and the blackness at their heart.
Too soon their coloured shapes
will fly away like birds of paradise
glistening in the sunlight,
petals of paradise.
But these are transient beauties
already in their death throes
as they soar,
ready
for the dusk to dull their colour.
Ready
to decay,
to become dust,
while their black hearts
grow fat on what lies beneath,
like the black crows that feast
on the bright flesh of below them.
Surviving
to live another day.
Surviving
to make seed
for another year.

Thursday, 28 December 2017

Not Like Us
That was us,
the uncool fans of Alexis Korner and the Chants,
who squeezed into the damp cellar to watch 
the Steel Band at the Jacaranda
and walked home after, singing,
arm in arm through the Red Light District.
Who danced and smiled and winked
and thumbs upped each other
over the shoulders of future boyfriends,
who didn’t know it yet.
Who went to parties at 26a
and ended up always, sitting on the floor
with men we didn’t like very much,
sharing their spliffs and listening
to turgid conversation with increasing hilarity.
Then laughing, laughing, laughing
till they left in despair
and we could stretch out and sleep where we were.
Who hid our friend in the wardrobe
when her many times ex
boyfriend came to call,
with his wide smile and black umbrella.
He knew she was there.
Well, we told him.
We liked him a lot and knew she did too.
He wanted her back and she wanted him back,
but she stayed in the wardrobe
and they missed their opportunity.
Not like us,
Not us.
Not like us.
They’re not like us,
these two old women in the mirror
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us,
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.
Tell-Tale Inklings #3 is a literary journal obsessed with narrative poetry and flash fiction character studies. Cover art: Stephan Antsey ©2017 Among writers included in this issue: Robert Beveridge Lo Gallucio Elizabeth…
AMAZON.COM

Wednesday, 27 December 2017

Buzzing
I can hear the flies buzzing
since I died.
In life I could shoo them away,
open a window
to persuade them through,
though usually they were
too stupid
to grasp the chance of freedom
offered and escape.
Now there is no window to be
opened.
This is a closed space.
Eternal night.
No possibility
of freedom,
or escape.
Not for me.
Not for them.
Poetry by...A. Marie Kaluza, Abigale Louise LeCavalier, Adam Levon Brown, Ainsley McWaters, Amber Tran, Amy Jacoby, Andrew Hubbard, Ayaz Daryl Nielsen, Betty J. Sayles, Bradford Middleton, Claudia Messelod,I Cody Robinson, Daginne Aignend, Daniel de Cullá, Debbie Berk, Dr. Emily Bilman, Erren Geraud...
CREATESPACE.COM

Thursday, 21 December 2017

Skull
The skull lies desolate
on the bare mountain side.
Just lies there among the rocks. 
Lies still with a few accompanying bones.
Each day it decays as wind and rain weather it
and destroys its form and substance so that it wastes
away and fades into the landscape and decays.
If it had come to rest lower down the mountain
it would have sunk into the boggy peat moss
and risen with hair and hide intact with,
the cause of death discernible, with
its last meal of grass or rabbit
still there inside its stomach.
Preserved by nature.
Preserved or wasted.
It all depends on
where you
fall.

Wednesday, 20 December 2017

Christmas Tree
Trimming the tree was a Christmas Eve ritual
in my family.
Each year my cousin would come to help my mum.
They would carefully take the glass baubles from the box
that used to hold her big doll called Topsy.
Then they would put them all in their special place
in my family.
“No the elephant doesn’t go there,
that’s where the peacock should be
and the Christmas pudding goes above.”
Everything had it’s place on the Christmas tree
in my family.
There were shiny miniature crackers never to be pulled
and curly, coloured candles never to be lit, for economy.
No tinsel was allowed for that was cheating.
Only baubles to cover the tree, hiding the green.
The glass baubles had belonged to my cousin,
so had the tree. And earlier, to her mother and granny,
all in my family.
The only family to fall out over trimming a tree,
my cousin’s husband used to say with some truth,
as every year the arguments as to which
bauble should go where were replayed
in my family.
So much stress over trimming a Christmas tree,
that I think they drank Santa’s sherry!
They must have needed it!
And ate his mince pies,
after trimming the tree
in my family.
Spillwords.com presents: Christmas Tree, written by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...
SPILLWORDS.COM

Tuesday, 19 December 2017

The Lighthouse
I was a little crazy
to buy the old lighthouse.
I knew it at the time.
But I wanted to be somewhere,
somewhere where I could shine,
shine it’s lamps out into the vastness,
shine like a beaming beacon.
And it was so high.
It matched my mood and then some.
Higher than high.
Higher than high.
There was no housewarming.
No one came.
There was no one to come.
So, only I could relish the exposure.
Only I could walk round the top
of the tower and look over the edge
into the dark deep depths.
Only I could see the swimmer,
a mermaid, surely? waving.
Or was she beckoning
as she approached the mooring.
Only I could come spiraling down.
Come down from the heights
to open the door,
to run down the steps
to the mooring.

Monday, 18 December 2017

The Breathing Days
In the days when I still breathed air,
the days before
living took my breath away,
the days before
I knew my soul was there.
I thought about this time,
this time of no light,
the forever night time
with no breath, no air
to breathe.
Just dust and darkness.
And I pondered.
Would there be slow decay
or fast.
Stillness or movement.
Now I know.
I know everything about
the dust and darkness.
But I can't tell you.
Not now
in these days
of no breath,
no air
to speak.
Only my soul can speak.
Can you hear me?
I know everything about
the dust and darkness.
But I can't tell you.
Not now...
...See more
VerseWrights is a community for those who enjoy writing poetry, and who want to post their work for others to read, experience, and comment upon. The site is open to all who write and wish to join.

Friday, 15 December 2017

In This Space
Concrete and glass, marble and stainless steel,
reflecting distorted strollers, shoppers,
passing each other by,
walking purposefully or aimlessly,
footfalls on spotless tiles—still damp
from their overnight wash and brush up—
phones between fingers or clamped to ears.
So much space.
No glimpse of narrow streets
of tenements, courts and terraces,
washing hanging and children playing
or sitting on steps, women gossiping.
No sounds and smells of human life
nor animal—working or wild, not petted.
No rattle of carts on cobbles.
No noise and dirt, dust and fumes
of workshops, docks and factories,
spewing into this living space.
But scratch the shiny surface,
lift the cheap veneer,
take up a tile.
Look behind the facades
of the people and you will find
another place and its people
living
in this space.

Thursday, 14 December 2017

Lynn White comes from Sheffield, England and she has lived most of her adult life on Merseyside. She lives presently in Blaenau Ffestiniog in North Wales How long have you been writing? I have been…
RAMINGOBLOG.COM

Wednesday, 13 December 2017

Angels Wings
I am pondering the nature of
angels wings.
Fluttery things.
Gossamer
like powdery moths
or butterflies,
fluttering by.
Or, feathered like a bird's.
Made to hover and soar.
To glide on the thermals,
higher and higher,
heavenwards.
Not tight skin and bone
like bat's
or scaly like dragon's.
Prehistoric.
Long before the birds
and the flutterbies.
But, after than the angels,
later than those fluttery things.
So did the feathers come first
and fall to earth
becoming scales
on the way down.
How far did they fall
before they left heaven
and hit the ground flying
to metamorphose
and make a scaly shell
of skin ready to burst
and open dustily.
Powdered.
Clothed.
Scaled like moths
in clouds
of dust
Not so different then
in the scales of things,
those powdered creatures
those fluttery things,
those angels wings.
Angels Wings I am pondering the nature of angels wings. Fluttery things. Gossamer like powdery moths or butterflies, fluttering by. Or, feathered like a bird’s. Made to hover and soar.…
CREATIVETALENTSUNLEASHED.COM

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

Dragonfly
It was so beautiful,
gleaming huge and iridescent
gold and green and blue and black.
With wings that should have been clear,
filled with shining rainbows
not like this, twisted at strange angles
and dulled with sticky silk.
Not stuck there waiting
to be prepared for some spider’s supper.
I held it gently
and took it from the web.
I carefully removed the sticky silk
and saw the rainbows sparkle as they should,
saw it’s eyes brighten and gleam
with the prospect of freedom.
It took a while, this disentanglement,
a delicate task to free this fragile creature.
And when it was ready,
I opened my fingers and
let it fly away.
It bit me then.
No parting kiss,
but a bite that
left a bruise.
Such gratitude!
|| N E W P O E M ||
The newest poem is up on the blog this afternoon. Go check it out.

Monday, 11 December 2017

Rebirth
I’m ready for the birth of a new day.
Ready for a pink dawn to rise
and break
full of possibilities,
as the light takes
over from the dark
and the day is born
again.
And I shall follow the road towards the light,
and leave the dark behind,
again.
But I have found that the dark always follows.
Catches up with me, as if it were the past.
If I hurry maybe I’ll escape it this time.
Maybe I’ll catch the light
and hold on to it and
not let it break
again.
A collection of poetry reflecting upon the darkness and light of life that exists within this world of ours.What makes you want to shout out and share your emotions? Express your darkest times or your happiest moments? Let…
AMAZON.CO.UK

Friday, 8 December 2017

Gloria
I called the doll Gloria.
I no longer know why.
My father bought her for me
on a trip to the seaside,
on my first trip to the seaside.
I was bored with the endless sand
and the cold grey sea
and with the effort of pretending
to enjoy myself
on my expensive treat,
at the seaside.
We went to a toyshop after
and my father bought me the doll.
I called her Gloria.
I no longer no why.
Perhaps it was the name he suggested.
Or maybe my mother suggested it
when I couldn’t decide.
I don’t remember.
But I remember the doll.
She had real hair that I could comb.
But it turned out to be plastic,
nylon, I think.
And
after I had combed it a few times,
the whole lot came off leaving her bald.
Yes
without her wig she was bald,
my Gloria.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

Void
There are clouded spaces
so dark I can’t see into them.
I have always been afraid
that monstrous beings
may lurk there,
waiting.
But now that the cloud
is lifting, moving away,
I am even more afraid,
afraid of the light
afraid
it may reveal
the bare boards.
Lynn White's poems 'Void' and 'In This Space'
THEWILDWORD.COM

Wednesday, 6 December 2017

Crossing Over
Running downhill, on and on,
the orange sun bearing down
on me.
Scorching me,
burning me up
until
I come to a river cold with ice.
Icy water flowing too fast.
Too fast.
Faster than I can run.
Flaming under that bridge.
A bridge to somewhere
from here,
from where I am.
But where is here
or there?
And is the bridge real
or a bridge of dreams.
Or, a bridge for my dreams,
leading nowhere.
If I cross over
will I plummet
into the nowhere
on the other side.
Shall I try?
Or shall I stay here
running
looking for the light
until
I find it.
First published in Ramingo Magazine, Issue 1, 2017