Sunday, 19 November 2017

Leaded Light
The glass is cut,
so carefully cut,
so carefully arranged
to break up the light
as it reflects it.
Smooth joints
enhanced
with curving strips of soft lead
to fragment the light.
Light cracked by lead,
bright white
or gilded by sunshine
or bent into rainbows
refracted
to paint colours in reflected shadows
to fall in straight shafts onto grey paving.
The reflection is fragmenting
as it falls
breaking up the grey,
so that even the shafts
of multi-coloured illumination
can make no sense of it.
There’s no sense to be made.
The paving is crazy
now,
simply crazy.

Thursday, 16 November 2017

Alien
They emerged from the cute blue eggs
of our Blue Araucanas.
With every one a cockerel when grown,
we decided to have one for dinner.
Under the grey blue plumage,
the skin was blue,
which was quite a shock,
a little alien,
but cooked it was fine, normal,
as expected
and the flesh was white,
as expected.
But when carved,
the bones were blue,
Disconcerting,
off putting,
a little alien.
And now these red feathered birds
have appeared as if from nowhere,
their eggs pink.
And when they hatched and grew,
all were hens,
each clutch carefully hidden,
each batch of chicks larger then the last.
A little strange,
a little alien.
And then, at last, there were cockerels.
They were too many and too large, so
we decided to have one for dinner.
Under the red plumage
the skin was pink,
which was quite a shock,
a little alien,
but cooked it was fine, normal,
as expected
and the flesh was white,
as expected.
But when carved,
the bones were pink,
Disconcerting,
off putting,
more than a little alien.
There are more of them now,
growing ever larger.
I think that soon,
the dinner tables
will be turned.
By Lynn White They emerged from the cute blue eggs of our Blue Araucanas. With every one a cockerel when grown, we decided to have one for dinner. Under the grey blue plumage, the skin was blue, wh…
OTVMAGAZINE.COM

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

Spanish Room
We were pleased when the smiling nun
shook her head.
They were full, the lorry driver told us.
He was disappointed.
He thought we’d be safer
in the out of town convent than in the city.
He’d grown concerned for our safety
on our long journey through France.
He was nice - ‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend would often tell him.
But he didn’t understand her accent.
He said his lorry wouldn’t fit
the narrow streets, so
we took a cab to the pension he knew.
Our first Spanish room
and we were happy!
The tiles were cool, if dusty.
We covered the TV.
We didn’t need it.
Two single beds pushed together
with one mattress
to make a ‘cama matrimonial’,
normality in Spain.
The owner was nice,
‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend told him.
But he spoke no French.
We shopped in the corner shop with
it’s curved window
and explored the streets
of clubs and cafes and bars and lively people
enjoying the night.
And then we returned home.
Home to a locked door that
no amount of banging or shouting would
cause to open.
A friendly passer by understood our plight
and clapped his hands loudly.
A man appeared with a bunch of keys,
enough to fit the locks of several streets.
Normality when Franco reigned.
He let us in with a smile.
He was ‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend told him,
but he didn’t understand.
Forty years later we found the street.
The curved shop window gave it away.
It was all still there, though only in facade,
waiting for reconstruction.
It was our first Spanish room
and we were happy.
The facade of a memory that
is still there and remains:
‘doux, comme la sucre’.
And we understand.

Sunday, 12 November 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.
Words by Lynn White Image by Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com*Editor's Note: ​ This poem was first published in Visual Verse , June 2017.
QUAILBELLMAGAZINE.COM

Friday, 10 November 2017

Tell It How It is
“Tell it how it is,” the manager said,
when she asked me to write the sign
and design the promotional material.
”Something eye-catching
and straightforward.”
Well,
I generally knew the owners,
and the people who were once owners.
I’ve lived here long enough,
longer than she has.
So I should know.
Yes,
I knew they were no longer with us.
I didn’t know if their past possessions
were antiques,
or nearly new,
or even used
or slightly soiled.
But I knew the one time owners,
knew they were no longer with us.
So I did as I was asked.
It was a snappy caption,
I thought.
Certain to grab the attention of
potential buyers.
Yes,
I always follow instructions,
I explained at my next job interview
and I know how to tell it how it is.

Thursday, 9 November 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. Song, well some sing beautifully, others need to learn. I sympathise with them, I…
THEBEZINE.COM

Wednesday, 8 November 2017

In The End
In the end
I’ll be like you.
Dust with
flakes of skin and bone
wrapped in long hair.
Teeth chattering
With no voice.
No sense of taste
or smell.
No reason.
In the end
we'll be invisible,
impenetrable,
anonymous,
figments.
But then, we always were
you and I,
we always were.
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

Monday, 6 November 2017


On Our Watch
If it had been on his watch,
he would have seen,
he would have given the alarm,
would have been heard
and catastrophe would have been avoided.
She also was alert,
but it was not her watch
and no one heard her warnings.
On their watch we would have heard
the warnings.
But it happened on our watch
and we were sleeping.

Sunday, 5 November 2017

Follow Your Leader
It’s so easy to be led,
to become part of the audience
to be seduced
by powerful words,
by the performance
on the stage where
leaders make followers.
Followers who will follow,
not herded like sheep
but running,
with the crowd,
trying to keep up,
seduced by the spectacle.
Individuals aren’t allowed
in the crowd
and don’t want to be there.
But, individuality
doesn’t have the warm glow
of follow my leader,
the togetherness,
the comradeship,
the shouted slogans,
the rousing tunes,
the ceremony.
It's for the few,
the one offs,
the weird,
the misfits.
And where is the crowd
being led to?
It doesn’t matter.
They’ll go!
Harbinger Asylum is a literary and arts journal that seeks to bring the international poetry community to Houston poets, and Houston poets to the international community. We seek an honest range of ideas, expressions,…
AMAZON.COM

Friday, 3 November 2017

Shaken Not Stirred
These people here,
those people there.
What do they know.
What do they care.
What will touch their little lives,
to move them, shake them,
disarrange them.
What will pinch them,
wake them,
make them
sit up,
stop their begging
doglike, cringing.
I don't know
what it will take
to shake them up,
to make them fizz
and pop
out of their straight jacket.

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Uniforms
What shall I be,
soldier, sailor,
clown, maybe.
Grey suit, or blue,
tailored jacket, short skirt.
Hippie, maybe.
Now there’s a uniform!
Everyone different,
not conforming.
But, wearing the same
signs,
the signifiers,
of non conformity.
The badges
that identify those
waving the flag,
or burning it.
Beads and bangles,
shell suits, jeans,
leggings, jeggings, posh frocks,
taking us to our comfort zone,
Finding for us the warmth we crave.
A part or apart.
Perhaps we are all figments
as made up and tailored as the
uniform we choose.
Even when we change,
it’s hard
not to
choose a uniform.
By: Lynn White What shall I be, soldier, sailor, clown, maybe. Grey suit, or blue, tailored jacket, short skirt. Hippie, maybe. Now there’s a uniform! Everyone different, not conforming. But, weari…
LITERARYYARD.COM

Monday, 30 October 2017

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 try, won’t try.
How can I? What should I do?
Follow you from place to place?
Sit outside your house and chance
being turned away, by someone?
I don’t know where it is, in any case
and I don’t want to know.
So what’s it to be? A thread?
An occasional e mail to keep in touch?
I don’t think so!
Our lives are so distant in every way,
how to join them up?
The trick would be to store the memories
and leave behind the sense of loss.
Ditch the sadness.
But we’ve tried before. And failed.
And we’re running out of years.
If we meet a next time,
the chances are
we’ll be to old to care.
We need to achieve a modus vivendi,
that will at least allow
our lives to touch each other.
Nothing less?
And, in the next ten minutes!
I said.

Sunday, 29 October 2017

Pure Gold
We were the pure gold people.
The golden generation of
bouncing baby boomers
who had it all,
the best music, the most fun
and the security and optimism
of a golden future.
Now we have had our golden future.
it is done.
Tarnished, cracking up, fragmenting,
turning to sharp dust and black mud.
And ashes, darker still.
We were there at the beginning
of the gold rush.
Now we’re at the end
and we know there will be no more
future.
The gold has melted away.
Only base metal is left
and even that is fragmenting,
turning to sharp dust and black mud.
And darker ashes already
to bury all those golden dreams.

Friday, 27 October 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.
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, 26 October 2017

Help Me Over
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I can see the sky
framed
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
Framed
by sharpness and
impenetrable barriers.
I want to see it clear,
clear and unblemished
creamy white
and pink and blue.
Help me see it.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I want want to see it
framed by trees,
I want to see
the rocks become
flowers
again.
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross
to the place
where the birds are singing
breaking up the sky with flight.
Does it still exist, this place?
I must think so.
Help me find it.
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross

Wednesday, 25 October 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.
First published in With Painted Words, February 2016

Tuesday, 24 October 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.
Faded
away
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
dampness
has been here a while
and I haven’t noticed.
It’s been approaching
a long time.
Slow at first
imperceptible.
Speeding up, then
quickening.
But still
imperceptible
almost
unnoticeable
as everything
slows down
quickly.
So quickly
now.
I think that winter has arrived.
Darkness returned.
The season is over,
finished
lost
beyond returning.