Monday, 22 May 2017

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

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,
The cloud is becoming thinner,
allowing the light to penetrate.
Now I am even more afraid,
afraid of the light,
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

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!

Monday, 15 May 2017

Saturday Girl
Two days after my fifteenth birthday
I walked proudly into Newman Costumiers
to begin my first job.
It was 1960 and I would earn fifteen shillings,
one shilling for every year, every Saturday.
Knitwear and stockings were on the ground floor,
all neatly stacked on shelves and in drawers.
I didn’t work there. That was Enid’s territory -
she of the bouffant hair and three inch stilettos.
Above were the coats and above them dresses.
All made in Britain, not China and so costing
much the same as they would do today.
Fifteen shillings didn’t go far.
On the top floor was Alterations,
two women stitching away
with a nip or tuck here
and a longer
or shorter
No customer was allowed to escape without a purchase.
We had to fetch the Manageress if they tried.
She would offer inducements such as
a price reduction or free alterations.
Sometimes it was enough
to secure a purchase,
a tweak of the price,
a nip or tuck here
and a longer
or shorter
I worked there a full week during the school holidays
and earned two pounds, seven and sixpence,
not enough to buy my clothes there.
Come the winter custom diminished
and we Saturday Girls were sacked.
So I moved on from gowns to shoes.
Newmans gowns to Stylo Shoes,
both now long gone.
First published in Silver Birch Press ‘My First Job series’, May 2017
Saturday Girl by Lynn White Two days after my fifteenth birthday I walked proudly into Newman…

Sunday, 14 May 2017

After The End
The sideboard was full of magazines.
Not whole magazines but
pages torn from them.
Pages of recipes.
Meals never eaten.
Exotic desserts never attempted.
Guest never invited or entertained.
At least the furniture had been used,
had had many years of use.
The clothes had been worn,
the pictures admired and enjoyed.
But the recipes were the saddest thing.
So many of them
for so many people
who never came.

Saturday, 13 May 2017

A New Meeting
No symbiosis. No reciprocity.
And then..
You spoke to me.
A smile on your lips
and a sadness
behind your eyes
to match my own.
I could see it,
recognise it.
I knew it well.
“Hello you”, I said.
“Hello me?”
A gesture,
a question in your voice,
laughter caught
in the back of your throat
and eyes that smiled.
At least
First published in Breadcrumb, May 2017

Friday, 12 May 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.

Thursday, 11 May 2017

Golden People
We were the golden people then,
flying high above the rest,
shimmering like the arrogant angels 
we saw playing way above the clouds.
We could almost touch them
with our arms outstretched
as we danced our way through
a youth of endless possibilities.
But the grey people were unimpressed.
They had no wish to touch the angels,
or reach the stars, even if they could.
They looked down to us, not up.
Laughed and shook their heads
at our strangeness and waited
for our dreams to fracture as theirs had done.
We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices.
Did not see their once golden dreams split open
and rot away, consuming them in the decay.
Now we have become grey like the rest, tarnished
and knowing that we were not so golden, even then.
Just practicing for a life that would dull our shine
as our dreams remained dreams.
Dreams which became decayed imaginings
growing grey and dusty with time and fading.
Like them, we were consumed in the rot of our dreams
as drabness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

A Rose For Gaza
Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape.
No garden of Eden here.
No gateway to paradise.
Rubble and rock roses.
So I shall plant a rose for Gaza
in my green space,
in my tranquil garden.
I won’t bruise it,
just gently sniff its fragrance
and hope that one day
fragrant roses will bloom again
in the garden of Gaza.
What else can I do?

Monday, 8 May 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.

Sunday, 7 May 2017

It’s a Worry
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.

Friday, 5 May 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,
But then, we always were
you and I,
we always were.…/poetry-by-lynn-white-dandelion-…/
TreeHouse is a place where artists can come to celebrate all forms of art. TreeHouse hosts blog posts and works of fiction, poetry, art, photography, films, and music from up-and-coming artists.

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Eye Contact
Look at me.
Hey, look at me.
I’m here
I’m real,
a real person
and I like you a lot.
You’re really special.
Hey look at me,
look into my eyes.
Look at me!
How the fuck
can I look at you
when you keep
kissing my eyes closed!

The May 2017 of amomancies, the glossy poetry and beauty photography journal.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

Help Me Over
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I can see the sky
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
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
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
Buy Issue I by The Borfski Press (eBook) online at Lulu IE. Visit the Lulu Marketplace for product details, ratings and reviews.

Monday, 1 May 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.
First published in Blue Fifth Review, Poetry Special, May 2017
Poetry Special – Five Poets (May 2017 / 17.4) Robin Grotke is an artist and photographer living on the southern coast of North Carolina. Her inspiration is drawn from nature, people and cultu…

Friday, 28 April 2017

Do you have a secret life,
with secret places explored
only by yourself?
Do you?
Tell me about it,
let me in.
No you can’t,
of course you can’t,
it’s a secret.
Only you can go there.
So I must imagine
your secret life for myself.
May I?
Perhaps a house
with another family in it.
Perhaps a box hidden
under the floor
old love letters
or pornographic magazines
Am I getting warm?
Of course you won’t say.
Well, you can’t say.
For you are part of
my secret life.
My imaginings,
my dreams and fantasies.
And they are part of me.
As real to me as the life I expose.
but no one can go there.
They’re my secrets.
What about you?
Do you have a secret life?
Do you?

Thursday, 27 April 2017

I am dancing
in the sunlight,
the bright, bright light.
I know the cloud is there
but I can forget it, till I stop.
And then..
There it is,
even bigger
and blacker
than before.
Darker than
It doesn’t like me dancing,
doesn’t like the laughter
or the sunshine.
Brightness breaks it,
shatters it into a grey mist.
But still it won’t leave me.
The brighter the sunlight,
the louder the laughter,
the greater my fear
that it will form again
and suck me into it’s

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

All those lost souls wandering sadly
in the space of their imaginations.
Where are they?
I can't find them,
can't help them.
All those lost socks swallowed.
by the washing machine.
Eaten up
Where are they?
but I can't find them.
All those lost words tumbling
through the dictionary.
Sometimes I find a few
and catch them
hold them,
write them down.
Then, sometimes
a few more find me
and I grab them too
and re arrange them all.
Sometimes they are worth reading
found and picked up for keeping.
First published in Silver Apples Issue 9, People We Left Behind

Monday, 24 April 2017

Grains of Time
Time is running out for me
And I sit here gazing into space
Watching each grain trickle away.
I can't catch them,
Can't stop them,
Can't slow them down
Or speed them up.
I can only live the moment
As it passes.
Buy mgv2_88 | Swan Song | 04_17 by Walter Ruhlmann (Paperback) online at Lulu. Visit the…

Saturday, 22 April 2017

The Hedgerow Fairies
Where have they gone,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats?
I used to see them sitting
under their leafy roofs
stitching their summer dresses
of poppy and mallow petals
with long silk threads
catching the summer sunlight
as the smiling spiders spun.
I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.
I used to see them collecting
armfuls of meadow sweet
to stuff their nighttime mattresses,
making doorways in their new
toadstool homes with sharp stones.
Maybe they’ve gone underground
to escape the passing cars and tractors.
Maybe they only come out at night now
and stitch and stuff under the moonlight.
I don’t know.
But I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.
The Hedgerow Fairies Where have they gone, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats? I used to see them sitting under their leafy roofs ...