Thursday, 22 June 2017

God Save the Sheep
God save the sheep
baa aah.
Where would we be without them.
Who would lead if no one followed?
Why bother to whip up their storm of frenzy,
to feed them on blades of rumours
ready to become knowledge, to become fact.
Baa aah.
Say it again,
baa aah.
And only white sheep allowed,
of course.
No black or pink or purple
to shatter the consensus.
Colours cannot be tolerated,
along with druggies and drunks
and survivors of abuse.
Oh dear me, no,
not appropriate here.
Baa aah
And suppose they stay?
Baa aa aah
Plant their hooves in our cheap wet fields,
sneak inside our friendly flock
and contentedly munch
a thistle here,
a spikey rush there.
Baa aah.
Drown them out
baa aah,
baa aah.
God save the sheep.
Buy Issue II (Special Access) by The Borfski Press (Paperback) online at Lulu. Visit the Lulu Marketplace for product details, ratings, and reviews.
LULU.COM

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

Don't Go

When I’m with you
I feel I am whole.
Captured and completed.
Engulfed by you.
When you kiss me
all my fears disappear
in the kiss.
Where do they go?
I don’t know.
Do you wrap them round your tongue
and swallow them whole?
I don’t know.
I only know the comfort
I feel, such peace.
So don’t go.
Don’t go.
Please,
don’t
go.
Taj Mahal Review VOL. 15 NUMBER 1 JUNE 2017
CYBERWIT.NET

Sunday, 18 June 2017

A Disappointing Day
If they hadn’t asked her
to smell the nice scent.
If she hadn’t remembered
the scent from before.
There would have been
no screams, no stamping
up and down on the trolley.
The nurse would still
have her cap on
and the doctor would have
no fist or feet marks
on his white coat,
no red hand mark
on his pale cheek.
There would have been
no shock, horror reports
to those who had put away
Red Riding Hood
and were waiting
anxiously for news
of their little girl.
But they did ask her.
They did ask her.
The scent wasn’t nice.
She knew it.
And there was no ice cream
afterwards either.
They’d lied about that
as well.
A disappointing day.

Friday, 16 June 2017

Fragment
It’s all that’s left.
A gossamer fragment,
The headband still attached
but nothing left to cover the face.
I wonder,
what happened to the rest
of the veil.
I wonder,
if it went the way of the marriage.
The way of the faces hidden
behind the net curtains.
It’s all that’s left now.
A gossamer fragment
floating like a cobweb
in a dusty room
Ready to be swept away
with the rest.
Sergio A. Ortiz Terri Muuss Ann Christine Tabaka Drew Pisarra Michael C. Seeger Lena Ziegler Lynn White Adrian Ibarra Don Kingfisher Campbell Volodymyr Bilyk Gary Beck John…
CREATESPACE.COM

Wednesday, 14 June 2017

Tomorrow Never Comes
The orcas decreed
that the dolphin’s wedding
should be delayed by a day.
Delayed till tomorrow,
if tomorrow ever came.
This would give more time, they said,
to decorate the wedding gowns,
to weave more shells into the kelp,
the tiniest of muscle shells for him
in every shade of blue,
sweet pink cockle shells for her,
sometimes veering towards red
as if warning of danger.
The music was to be rock ‘n’ roll,
played by the Killers, of course
on improvised pianos.
The octopus was responsible for
the wedding breakfast.
He had enlisted the help of every friend
to enlarge and beautify his garden.
To transport rocks with anemones attached
and bring a multitude of coloured pebbles and shells
to enclose the fishy titbits collected specially for the feast.
But in spite of their reassurances,
still he worried about the guest list.
So many orcas and dolphins
who did not have a good reputation
so far as the octopuses were concerned.
But the garden was beautiful
and surely it was a fact
that tomorrow never came.
He had always believed it.
Now time would tell.
Artwork by Ira Joel Haber.
ODDBALLMAGAZINE.COM

Tuesday, 13 June 2017

Days

As the days go by, I know that
I will remember some of them in their passing.
If only I could choose the ones to remember,
put them on a spike and keep them safe
so I can revisit them with a smile,
while I throw away the rest.
Watch them blow away
in the wind,
uncared for 
these days.
But I can’t.
They’re self selecting,
those memories of
my passed days.
Looking back,
it’s the ones
they chose
themselves
that I remember
and I wonder if they 
will spike my choices
all my days. 



First published in Light Journal June Summer issue - Solitude

http://www.light-journal.com/so/fLna04ek…

Sunday, 11 June 2017

Beached
He’s standing on the beach
with a small suitcase.
Not sure if he’s coming or going,
if it’s an arrival or departure.
It’s unclear.
It’s unclear
if the suitcase is full
or if it’s empty.
Once he packed it full
of his dreams, but now
it’s unclear
if any remain.
If any remain caught
in the lining, perhaps.
Or if all have been carried away
and are gone forever on a storm tide,
or washed up and buried in the sand.
It’s unclear.
All that is clear
is the emptiness
of a long horizon.

Friday, 9 June 2017

Sea Horse
It was on the first day of our seaside holiday
that I found him
washed up,
stranded,
spat out by the sea
and swimming alone in the rock pool.
I had never seen a sea horse before,
only pictures in a book.
I used my shoe to fish him out
and ran back quickly,
one shoe on and one shoe off,
before the water leaked out.
I put him in the sink
and watched him swim.
He didn’t seem quite right.
Or maybe it was the pictures that were wrong,
or my memory.
He couldn’t stay in the sink.
My mother made that quite clear.
So I found him a jar in the cobwebby shed
and put him in that.
I fed him on bits
of bread,
minced meat
and mashed banana.
He spat them all out angrily.
I thought he would die from lack of food
and my mother said he couldn’t come home with us.
So I took him back to the waters edge
and released him,
gave him back
to the sea.
The next day I found him lying on the pebbles.
The sea had rejected him,
spat him out,
just as he had spat out my food offerings.
I carried him back,
in my shoe again
and put him
back
in the jar.
I’m older now and when I look at him,
I’m wise enough to know
that he is no seahorse,
but not wise enough
to know his name.
Only that the sea rejected him,
spat him out,
as he had rejected me.


First published in Visual Verse, June 2017

Monday, 5 June 2017

The Keys of the Kingdom
The kingdom had so many keys,
keys to its doors,
keys to its gold,
keys to its time,
keys to its secrets.
Nothing moved without a key.
Everything was controlled.
Nothing was free.
Then came the Great War of the Keys
and the kingdom collapsed.
Its doors stayed open,
its secrets exposed.
Its gold melted away.
Its locks grew rusty.
Time stood still.
All it had valued
rotted away,
decayed,
collapsed
into a heap
of useless keys.
A place to read fiction and poetry from some of your favorite online writers. Don't be surprised if you see some of mine sprinkled here and there. I love to write with great authors.
CAVALCADEOFSTARS.WORDPRESS.COM

Friday, 2 June 2017

Turning to Ice
Snowflakes lit by sunbeams
blowing gently,
fragile as shadows
making rainbows in the sun.
Smiling in the soft light.
So soft.
So soft.
Catch them quickly in your hair
to melt them.
Time has past and
they're already harder now,
even though the sun
is still shining and smiling.
Blindingly bright.
Crunchy crystals.
Jewels
glistening still.
Shining like diamonds,
but harsh
in the sunlight
while it lasts
Cooler now as
the light starts fading.
The surface is melting.
Shiny where the sun
still catches,
but fading,
giving way to ice.
Losing it's smile.
And we're skidding, sliding
beyond control.
slipping away,
blinded by tears of ice.

POETRYPACIFIC.BLOGSPOT.COM

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Transient
Snowflakes lit by sunbeams
blowing gently,
fragile as shadows
making rainbows in the sun.
Smiling in the soft light.
So soft.
So soft.
Catch them quickly in your hair
to melt them
while the sun
is still shining and smiling.
For only as long as it falls,
can the snow renew them
when they melt away.
Sergio A. Ortiz Terri Muuss Ann Christine Tabaka Drew Pisarra Michael C. Seeger Lena Ziegler Lynn White Adrian Ibarra Don Kingfisher Campbell Volodymyr Bilyk Gary Beck John…
CREATESPACE.COM

Sunday, 28 May 2017

Dawn Chorus
It starts with one.
One skylark singing.
One Carson warning.
Then the robins and blackbirds join in.
The early birds, like Carson.
Then the wrens and warblers
as the daylight warms them.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
The warning calls are warming up as well,
strengthening their numbers
as the bird song
dies away.
Listen.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
Listen.
Don’t sleep.
Don’t wait
to hear
the silence.

Friday, 26 May 2017

River
I look into the river and see myself in reflection.
Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in it’s flow.
I am constantly being moved and changed,
but left stationary, moved but not moving on
like the fishes and pebbles.
Here I am, disturbed and abstracted,
surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world,
which leaves me unclear who I am and,
more unclear about the solidity of my background
and what is happening around me.
I look into two worlds which are intermingling,
becoming inseparable before my gaze.
My own distorted image fades and breaks
with the images behind and beyond me
in the background of my life.
This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion.
For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside.
I am in danger of being broken up and washed away.
Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces,
undecided, lacking definition.
It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person,
into the confusion and fragmentation beyond it’s edges,
into the reality outside, which is pressing in on me.
It excludes any coming together, any resolution as
it embraces me in it’s ripples and sounds.
Such sweet, watery sounds, cooly relaxing my spirit.
Shutting out the incoherent babbling outside.
But still, even as I put my hands over my broken ears,
I know it will find a way inside and overwhelm me,
in any case.
Spillwords.com presents: River written by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...

Thursday, 25 May 2017

Washed Up

So many dead people
caught in the crossfire
created by the the money men,
the arms traders,
the super ego-ed politicians.
They lie dead where they fell.
Flesh and blood transformed to
fertilizer to nurture the seeds
and grow the crops, in a future
they will not see.
Their bones decaying to dust
to form the building blocks
of homes they will never inhabit.
Dying where they fell,
over there, not here
and not looking like us.
Unseen or soon forgotten
by us here.

But the dead washed up
on holiday beaches
look like our flesh and blood.
They’re wearing our clothes.
They’re washing up to haunt us
in the Old World.
Then there’s the living,
washed up alive
and by any means necessary
moving on to bear witness,
if any one is listening.
To bring the horror home
to those who created it
in the Old World.
Bringing it home to the Old World,
soon to the New.

http://johnkaniecki.blogspot.co.uk/2017/05/washed-up-poem-by-lynn-white.html

TURN A PAGE OR TWOMay 2017,

Monday, 22 May 2017

Invisible
For a long time, such a long time,
invisibility has ironed out the creases
in my soul, 
so I can hide,
so I can decide
if I want to be seen.
I was always hiding.
But now invisibility hides me
even from myself.
It imagines my future
as it has distorted my past,
separated me from my history.
But I cannot abandon it now,
since I no longer know who
I am.
If I could make
a new person
to fit this moment,
a new me for the now.
Maybe then for a short time,
I could step inside,
find myself and
no longer need invisibility.

Friday, 19 May 2017

Void
There are dark misty spaces
topped by the blackest clouds,
so that I can’t see into them.
I have always been afraid
of the monstrous beings
which may lurk there
waiting in the dark.
But now the mist
is lifting,
moving
away.
The cloud is becoming thinner,
allowing the light to penetrate.
Now I am even more afraid,
afraid of the light,
afraid
that it may reveal
not monsters, but
the bare boards
of emptiness.

Thursday, 18 May 2017

Empty Chair
You turned my head so many times
I felt dizzy.
I felt
in a permanent state of dizziness
my head spinning round
full of sweet sayings,
full of sweet thoughts
Surrounding myself with hearts
and smiley faces,
happy faces
turning to tears now,
as the hearts turn blue
and I stand, still dizzy,
behind your empty chair

Tuesday, 16 May 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!