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

Sunday, 10 September 2017

I’ve Seen Them Before
I’ve seen those hats before,
on the heads and in the hands
of tourists returning from Spain.
They’ll never be worn back home,
not practical, you see.
They look practical here, though
on this man’s head.
He’s no tourist.
He’s at home.
I’ve seen the cactus plants before also.
An unwanted export from Mexico
invading the wild arid places.
They’re at home here too,
with this man
who will put on his gloves
while he takes off the vicious skins
to eat the fruit beneath
and take refreshment
in the hot sun of the day,
and sustenance as he wraps up ready
for the cold Mexican night.
First published in Visual Verse, September 2017
Visual Verse: An Anthology of Art and Words One image, one hour, 50-500 words. The picture is the starting point, the text is up to you.

Friday, 8 September 2017

Motherly Love
I have spent a lifetime
trying to break away,
trying to break out, 
trying to find myself.
Always on the edge,
always on the outside,
not quite a part,
of it, not quite
a beatnik,
or a mod,
hippy, or
I was early to realise that
what she wanted me to be
was what she had wanted
for herself, about her, not me.
I wanted to escape such love.
I thought I could escape.
I thought I had escaped.
And I did, surely I did
of it.
But not all.
Not enough.
So even now I feel tethered.
After all this time of leaving
her behind,
I remain
of my

Thursday, 7 September 2017

The Place Where The Stars Are Buried
I’m on my way to the place
where the stars are buried
under a roof of rain.
I won’t get lost.
I’m following the silver snail
trails and the muddy pools
with the little shimmers of spangles.
When I get there - to the place
where the stars are buried.
I shall dig a little, dig
just enough to let
a glimmer of light out.
Just enough to let
the love sparkle and
sizzle in the light
before it burns.
First published in Midnight Circus, June 2016
The Big Book Of Poetry

Wednesday, 6 September 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.
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.
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.

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

End of the Season
The season of wrinkles
and over ripeness
has arrived 
too soon.
Shriveled buds.
Fruits bursting open,
their seeds drying out,
beginning to crinkle
and wrinkle.
Beginning to split
and break.
Beginning to moulder
and dribble with damp.
Their past spring
a distant dream.
Or not remembered at all.
like the fresh shoots
of hopeful green growth.
Even the memories of the
florid, blowzy summer’s blooms
are fading.
Fading fast
and faster.
Perhaps this season of dry
has been here a while
and I haven’t noticed.
It’s been approaching
a long time.
Slow at first
Speeding up, then
But still
as everything
slows down
So quickly
I think that winter has arrived.
Darkness returned.
The season is over,
beyond returning.
Buy mgv2_88 | Swan Song | 04_17 by Walter Ruhlmann (Paperback) online at Lulu. Visit the…

Monday, 4 September 2017

Wait For Me
Wait for me here.
I’ve put up a sign
so that the others
can join you
before nightfall.
Wait for me here
with the others.
There’ll be others
for someone to find them
but someone else, not me.
Wait for me here.
Sit by the sign
so you don’t get
like the others

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Which Way
I’m on the edge of the horizon
looking back.
There’s no looking forwards.
Looking up
I can see the sky,
blue or grey like the sea.
Reflected sunlight,
clouds rippling like waves
making shapes in the sand.
Wave shapes on the land.
Sometimes it’s so bright
I can’t tell the blue from the grey,
the cloud from the clear,
the sky from the sea.
The light blinds me.
It’s too bright for my eyes
and leaves me confused
on the edge of the horizon,
on a thin line
with only one way to go.
Which Way I’m on the edge of the horizon looking back. There’s no looking forwards. Looking up I can see the sky, blue or grey like ...

Friday, 1 September 2017

A Long Walk
It's been a long walk with no sign of escape.
A long walk and a deep walk.
Every step I sink deeper.
Deeper and deeper,
as I tire and drag
my feet
as the white snow crystals give way
and reveal the darkness beneath.
But I can see the forest
on the horizon
and I'm getting close.
But it's not the first time
I've seen a forest
on the horizon
and it hasn't ended.
The snow fields have continued.
Deep, deep, deeper and deeper.
Will this time will be different
and bring me to a new horizon.
Or will sink yet deeper
until the darkness engulfs me
with no escape.
No end in sight.
Indie Soleil Magazine features artwork, writing and fashion/concept photography from Indie creatives.