Monday, 31 July 2017

Through The Glass Darkly
The windows are all aglow.
A cacophony of colour
giving glimpses
of other peoples’ lives.
Snapshots into different worlds.
Shapes still
and moving.
A little exposure
sometimes
a mystery revealed.
Stories to be told
from different imaginings.
A cacophony of colour,
until the lights go
out.

http://www.riverpoetsjournal.com/SpecialEditions-Anthologies.html

Sunday, 30 July 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.
ACROSS THE OCEANS II (ISSUE 7) Three Poems by Lynn White CANDLES How many candles must I light to commemorate all the dead souls, all the lives wasted in wars without end. So many that candle makin…
POETSINNIGERIA.ORG.NG

Friday, 28 July 2017

Miss Pass
My first best friend was Susan.
We were inseparable.
Soon we would be starting school.
Starting at the same school.
It shouldn’t be a problem.
But Susan was three months older
and this was a problem.
She must start earlier
and we would be parted.
Unthinkable!!
Such concern from our parents.
But all was well.
It wouldn’t be a problem.
And all thanks to Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a wonderful woman
who understood the feelings
of small children.
We could start together
and in the same class.
She was a shining example
to teachers everywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.
But a few days later
when we had settled in,
disaster struck.
We were to be in different classes.
Such tears and trauma
as we hugged and kissed
and said goodbye at our pegs
in the cloakroom
each morning and afternoon.
And all because of Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a stupid woman
who had no idea about the feelings
of small children
and should never have been allowed
to be a teacher anywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.
By Lynn White QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This was first published by Piker Press, 2016.
QUAILBELLMAGAZINE.COM

Wednesday, 26 July 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.
And then the lamps went out.

Monday, 24 July 2017

When The Mist Clears
One day I’ll see through the mist.
One day I’ll be back to find you again
and uncover what I let slip away
when I became lost in the fog
and the maze
of back streets and tall buildings.
One day I’ll stop searching
and meet the mist with a smile
and watch it fade away.
One day I’ll greet the sun again
as the mist clears
one day at a time.
Here's your prompt! Submit poem responses to: voxpoeticasubmissions@gmail.com. And if you have a photo or piece of artwork you took that you'd like us to consider as a Prompts image, send…
VOXPOETICA.COM

Sunday, 23 July 2017

The Scarlet Woman
We called her ‘The Scarlet Woman’
and gave her sails striped red and white
like scarlet lips astride white pearl teeth.
We roamed the seas in her.
Entered every port
in search of the scarlet women
with hot ruby lips
who would give us a hand
to paint the town red.
Words by Lynn White Image by Christine Stoddard @cstoddard QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This was first published in Visual Verse , Aug 2016.
QUAILBELLMAGAZINE.COM

Friday, 21 July 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,
dead.
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,
dead.
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
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries...
SCARLETLEAFREVIEW.COM

Thursday, 20 July 2017

Image
Somehow
the mirror has broken
fragmenting 
my image,
the image
I have of myself,
the one I like to project..
Was it the sunlight that cracked it,
the exposure to brightness,
an explosion of light.
Or was it already a distortion
ready to be destroyed
by a different audience
looking over my shoulder.
Or was it self destruction
which splintered my image
to reveal the darker side
behind the glass.
By: Lynn White Somehow the mirror has broken fragmenting my image, the image I have of myself, the one I like to project.. Was it the sunlight that cracked it, the exposure to brightness, an explos…
LITERARYYARD.COM

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

It’s Clear
On a clear night
I should see the moon full silver
in a sky shot by moonbeams.
Not greyed by a smoky mist
and dust clouds rising from the ruins.
I should see a black, black sky.
Not bright from the orange glow
from the fires of hell on earth.
Which send sparks high enough
to compete with the stars,
the pinpoint moonbeam spangles.
Not beamed by lasers.
I should hear the silence
in the depth of the black night,
not the explosive cacophony
bought by the masters of war
and the silent screams
buried in the rubble.
I should hear people talking in the street
and the music and laughter of the night.
I should see them walking home
to feel firm flesh loving and soft
unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel,
unbroken by the metal clad monsters
masquerading as humanity and
wrapping themselves in the uniforms
of thousand years old myths
dressed up as history.
These should be my rights.
But they aren’t.
I have no rights.
Nor do you.
Only what they give us,
the men of the flags,
temporally.

Monday, 17 July 2017

It’s Raining Again
The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh.
She’s tried.
She’s really tried.
She’s wept tears
of frustration.
She’s wept tears
of anger.
She’s wept tears
of sadness
that flow from the mountains
to the sea.
It’s the vowels
she finds hard.
And the consonants.
And the mutations.
And the way it’s spoken form
changes
over the distance traveled
in the time it takes her
to make a small cloud
and a tiny puff of wind.
A tiny puff,
not enough to to raise the cloud
above the mountains.
So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist.
Or blows in angry swirls.
And still
she tries.
She really tries.
She weeps tears
of frustration.
She weeps tears
of anger.
She weeps tears
of sadness.
Floods of tears.
Lakes.
Tears which fall
in cascades
from the mountains
to the sea
We publish 8 issues per year. You can subscribe to receive a print version or a digital version. This first issue, January 2015 Winter Stories To Salt Your Icy Road, is free and available on this site in the digital format only. The print subscription will begin with most recent issue. You will rece...
PILCROWDAGGER.COM

Sunday, 16 July 2017

Desolate Road
It’s a long and desolate road.
I think it’s always been so.
Such a desolate road to travel
before I see the brightness ahead,
the light after desolation
reflected in the water of the lake,
And the wire fence is no barrier
to this vision of my future brightness.
And the gate looks open
ready to welcome me through.
Sometimes a gate has seemed closed,
only to open with a degree of pressure
to allow me through.
Sometimes it has stayed closed
set firmly against me.
But this one is seems open,
or partly open,
no barrier
to my passing.
But as I draw closer
I can see the chain
and the padlock.
Open so far,
but no further.
I can go so far,
but no further
along the desolate road.
So far, but no further
towards the light
unless I climb.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries...
SCARLETLEAFREVIEW.COM

Friday, 14 July 2017

Bobbley Things
Those knobbley, bobbley things
are marching forth
covering the sidewalks 
in a pavement proliferation
of ever wider strips,
ever steeper ramps,
ever stranger cambers
determined to catch you out.
I know that they are only really designed
to trip up those who can’t see very well,
but they are a problem for everyone
those knobbley, bobbley things.
I wonder, was the man designing them
bitten by a vicious guide dog, out of control?
Or perhaps he was floored by the too eager
waving of a white stick?
I think something has caused him
to bear a grudge.
But it can’t be justified.
when they are difficult for everyone
those knobbley bobbley things.
And yes, I know it’s a ‘him’.
No woman would endanger
her high heeled strut
in such a way.
They are a male invention,
those knobbley, bobbley things.
Man made and increasingly
creating problems for everyone.
Seemingly unstoppable
in their forward march.
Spillwords.com presents: Bobbley Things written by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...
SPILLWORDS.COM|BY LYNN WHITE POETRY

Thursday, 13 July 2017

Paris in the Spring
We set out hopefully,
hitching our way to Paris,
in the spring.
And we made it, even
found the recommended hostel near Laumiere,
Though a little disconcerted to be
met with a closed door
covered in signs which read
‘FULL’ in every known language,
we went in anyway.
‘Of course we’re not full
at this early hour’.
‘Anyway, no one is ever turned away’.
They were planning a demonstration,
a rehearsal for May 1968,
but of course,
none of us knew that then.
We could join if we wished,
but of course,
we were too early,
even for the rehearsal.
It was only April.
Just three days
in April
in Paris.
We had coffee on the Champs Elysee
and were shown Notre Dame
by someone we met there
and then sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur
to eat our French bread lunch.
We held up the traffic at the Arc de Triumph,
triumphantly succeeding in crossing the roads.
And at the hostel the next day
we did our best to be helpful,
getting up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floor
for the first time in many years.
Then we sat on the stairs
and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone,
until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not speak,
why this was necessary.
It was a just long weekend our April in Paris.
It felt like it would last for ever.
The Big Book Of Poetry
AMAZON.CO.UK

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Sunday, 9 July 2017

The Old Curiosities Shop
“Curiouser and curiouser”, cried Alice
as she rummaged through the remnants
of other people’s lives,
now offered for sale
to become part of
another person’s life.
“Curiouser and curiouser”, she said
holding up two fat schoolboy
salt and pepper pots.
“They look like real characters,
I shall name them Tweedle Dumb
and Tweedle Dumber”,
for now.
She searched in vain for a looking glass
to see if she could walk through it.
She had heard this was sometimes
a curious possibility.
But among the objects in a large shiny bag,
she did find a set of playing cards
with a fearsome looking Queen of Hearts.
“I could write a good story about her”,
she thought.
She found the butler with his empty tray
somewhat unsatisfactory.
So she removed the tray
and hung a tape measure round his neck
and put a thimble on his finger.
Now he could measure his former master
for a new suit, she thought.
She was pleased with the transformation
and thought that maybe it was now time
to transform herself.
She undressed
and donned a little black dress
that she found in the shiny bag.
She painted her face
and covered her blond hair
with a dark wig
in a new style.
Such a pity
that there was no looking glass
for her to view her appearance.
She could only imagine
her new self.
Such a pity
that no one
would ever see
what she had created.
That no one
would ever know.
Or so she thought.

Saturday, 8 July 2017

Expectations
I had never been to the seaside.
I knew what to expect, though.
I had a book about it.
There were lots of pictures of rock pools
and the strange creatures living there.
My favorites were the hermit crabs.
I was looking forward to those the most.
I had a little bucket to collect them in.
But there were no rock pools,
at this seaside.
Just flat sand with a thin distant line
of cold grey sea.
Why?
No one said.
I found some shells
to put in my bucket.
I liked the tiny pink ones best.
But most were broken
and not worth collecting.
Why?
No one said.
No shells, no hermit crabs, but
they showed me how to put damp sand
into my miniature bucket.
with my miniature spade
and how to pat it down
and tip it out to make ‘sand pies’.
I was supposed to like doing this.
Why?
No one said.
They gave me some paper flags
on thin wooden sticks.
I could stick them in
the top of my sand pies.
I was supposed to like doing this.
Why?
No one said.
I thought I’d save up my flags
until I’d climbed the mountain
at my auntie’s.
When I got to the top
I’d arrange them into my initials
so everyone would know I’d been there.
I started to practice this.
But they said the mountain
was a slag heap, not a mountain
and therefore out of bounds.
Why?
No one said.
We stayed on the beach a long time.
Then we went to a toy shop.
My father bought me a doll
with real hair, they said.
But it was made of nylon.
I called her Gloria.
That was the best bit.
but nothing was
as it had been
inside my head.
First published in Silver Birch Press, Beach and Pool Series, 2016
It started with an idea,An idea to make a book.So we released a call for submissions,Just to try our luck.Many people came forward,To show us the talents that they own.And so an idea grew and grew,Into a world of its own.With…
AMAZON.CO.UK