Thursday, 31 August 2017

Tourists
Get the brochure, take a trip
to visit the green fields
of France or Belgium.
And you can stay close or take
an optional excursion.
It's your choice.
Well, there's money to be made.
And you'll be moved to marvel
at the spectacle of it all
stretched out before you.
The bright green fields over fed
with mashed body parts and blood
sucked out by vampires' fangs.
Look, see the white teeth crossed
in their rows upon rows
and stand proud with respect.
Snap, snap,
click, click.
Take a few pics
to join to join those of
last year's beaches, cathedrals
and other art installations.
Immortalised,
lest you forget.
Respect them in their death
the ones who died
for whatever the country.
Respect them in death,
The yes sir, no sirs
of war and of peace.
The ones with no choices.
Remember them.
And remember the vampires.
They’re living still,
as vampires will.
Sucking the blood,
stirring the pot
and making the money.
Online Political, Lit, Human Rights and Arts magazine
TUCKMAGAZINE.COM|BY TUCK MAGAZINE

Wednesday, 30 August 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.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Maud
I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.
She never grew old,
never even grew up.
My father cried..
I never knew her,
never even knew of her.
But I know now.
I have a photograph
so I can see her,
picture her as she was.
And I won’t forget that
I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.
First published by Silver Birch Press in My Prized Possession Series, November 2016

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Through the Glass
Alice saw herself in her looking glass
and walked through
into a topsy turvy world where
everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality,
without breaking the glass.
Uncut by the shards of her mirror
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake to make
things the right way round again.
But walking through a clear glass,
a transparent window,
it would have been different.
Her reflection would float
towards a place where everything
seemed the right way round.
Where everything made sense
and added up sweet with reason.
A place without madness,
which looked easy to enter
and had no sharp edges.
Apparently.
But this glass forms an invisible barrier
to the other side and the life
that seduces and entices her.
And to get through she has to break the glass,
whose sharp edges cut her
and propel her crazily into a place
where she cannot wake.
A jagged, topsy turvy place
where everything spins round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out
trying to make sense of it.
Front to back and outside in.
Everything is the wrong way round again.
Ripe With Rage is a quarterly feminist zine of art, essays, and creative writing. Each issue has a theme, and the profits from every sale go to various organizations that support women. This is volume one: Asylum.…
EVEYINORBIT.COM

Friday, 25 August 2017

Grenfell - Graveyard of Dreams

The blackened carcass
remains,
still
standing
where all else has fallen.
A jagged tower,
the bare bones
of dreams
standing
still.
Still as the dreams
that were lost,
stopped in their tracks.
Standing
still
the graveyard of the lost ,
the lost
dreams and dreamers.
Online Political, Lit, Human Rights and Arts magazine
TUCKMAGAZINE.COM|BY TUCK MAGAZINE

Thursday, 24 August 2017

A Fictional Account
This story is fiction.
Made up.
Made up like a face.
First the base,
the foundation,
then the shadows and highlights,
the blushers and sparklers,
the reds and the blues
to add interest and shape.
Then lines for emphasis.
Black,
thick night time black,
outlining the fiction.
So, there was a base
for this fantasy.
There was some foundation.
Even a made up story
has some links
with reality.
A spark from a dream,
an inspiration
from experience,
mine, or yours,
or someone else’s.
Something written,
something sung.
A word, a phrase, a line
from someone’s life,
their fantastic real life,
or imaginings.
becoming real
in the telling,
when the make up
is removed
and the secrets
are revealed
between the lines.
​ To The Passing Of The Nightingale Where are the songs of spring? Where are they? Well, Mr K, they are harder to find than they were in your day. Gone with the nightingale, Gone with the meadows,...
HEROINCHIC.WEEBLY.COM

Wednesday, 23 August 2017

Where Am I?
Where shall I sit
in this place
I don’t know.
Which side of the aisle
Should I be.
Or should I be at the front
conducting the ceremony
like a lecture.
I’ve done that
often enough
when I knew where I was.
Or maybe I should stand at the back
ready for a quick getaway.
I couldn’t do that at my wedding,
but if it’s my funeral
I think that’s the best place
for me.
But is it?
So difficult to know.

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

Veiled
I wear my hair
like a veil
covering all.
Covering all that
is not already covered
and needs to be,
they insist.
But it is not enough.
I can still see
when it parts
and still be seen.
I can still move
freely.
It is not enough,
they insist.
I need the mask
of the broad, blue
blindfold
to tether me,
they insist.
And I wonder,
will this be enough?
The Big Book Of Poetry
AMAZON.CO.UK

Sunday, 20 August 2017

Running Shoes
Sometimes,
some things
become more than
things.
Become iconic.
Seek to represent us.
So even running shoes can
make a statement
about ourselves,
about who we are
or want to be.
Simple pumps,
designer trainers
both attach a label to us
to represent ourselves
to ourselves.
How we were,
how we are,
what we have
become
displayed for all to see.
But still
it’s not all.
Somethings still are hidden.
The wheres and whys,
somethings are still
in the running.
Running,
running
smiling
towards a greeting.
Running
fearfully
away
fast.
Faster and faster
turning the labels to dust.
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 that as w...
VOXPOETICA.COM

Friday, 18 August 2017

Perchance A Dream
'To sleep perchance to dream'.
Who said that?
Sounds so gentle,
but there's a rub,
a rough edge to it.
Not the long deathly sleep, though
but drifting away in night time slumber.
It can take you anywhere.
Take you to places you haven't been
and may not want to go.
Send you spinning,
tumbling,
raging,
spiralling,
crashing
out of control
to an indeterminate end,
with demons and dragons
as companions.
Daytime dreaming is preferable,
more gentle than it sounds
fitted into a busy schedule.
In wakeful dreams
you can determine the beginning,
at least,
and invite the participants.
Sometimes
they may act out an old story
with a predictable end,
sometimes
they can drift into a new story
and then
the demons may join in
your daytime dreaming
as well,
perchance.
VerseWrights
22 mins
It can take you anywhere.
Take you to places you haven't been
and may not want to go...
~from "Perchance a Dream," a new poem by poet Lynn White Poetry , featured today on VerseWrights.com

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

My Father’s Son
I never knew
my father’s son.
Even though
I met him once,
or maybe twice,
I never knew him.
And then I met
his son.
Caught him
miraculously
in a net.
Held on to him
tightly.
And, I found
that he hadn’t left early,
my father’s son.
He’d waited for me,
wondering,
for a long time.
And so I found him,
my father’s son.
When he was
just ninety six,
I found him.
But I was too late
to know him.
At ninety five,
he was already dead.
So I never knew him,
my father’s son.
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…
HARNESSMAGAZINE.COM

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Perfectly Imperfect
It started when we stood hopefully,
with our thumbs outstretched
by an English roadside.
We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia
without maps or money,
or sense of direction.
And we made it to Italy.
and swam off the rocks,
with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And we swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.
And we made it to Pec and lived
in a house ‘typique du Turque’
with a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’,
which made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and
the conversations interesting,
Even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian,
which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot,
dusty roadside and fantasize
about the ice cold mountain water
streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.
And we made it back home.
We had got lost a lot,
but hadn’t got raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
What perfection.
It started when we stood hopefully, with our thumbs outstretched by an English roadside. We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia without maps or money, or sense of direction.
HERSTRYBLG.COM

Monday, 14 August 2017

The Company of Butterflies
In the company of butterflies
I can whistle up the wind
and fly
without boundaries.
Flutter by
and then rest
in the sunshine
and drink
sweet nectar
and dream
and dream.
In the company of butterflies
I can whistle up the wind
and soar
over fragile rainbows.
Then stop
in a fusion
of colour
to taste the gold
at the end
of my flight
of fancy.
In the company of butterflies
I am boundless.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Unicorn
I shouldn’t have done it.
I’ve always shunned
the spotlight,
always feared it.
Unlike the horses and dogs
who play the game,
perform,
do what’s expected
by their human providers,
by their audience.
I’ve always been afraid
of being seen
onstage
just in case
I was taken short
and golden notes
fell from my arse
and made
rainbows
brighter
than the spotlight,
upsetting
the lighting engineers.
I think we’re all the same,
we unicorns,
shy creatures.
That’s why we’ve
survived,
hiding
in dreams.
First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, January 2016
Animals Beautiful, Brutal Poetry in Motion So many are endangered Yet the Wildlife Conservation Society Fights on their behalf This poetry menagerie joins the cause Civilized Beasts is a poetry for charity anthology. Poets and…
AMAZON.COM

Thursday, 10 August 2017

Give Me A Hand
Many offered
to give me a hand
to paint the man red.
They thought the town
would be next,
but they were mistaken.
The background was to be in
a different palette,
darker, more sombre.
I asked them to wear gloves.
That way I knew I could
preserve their memory like
the long dried up palette,
peeling their outer skin
like the gloves.
Like the gloves,
I hung them all
out to dry.
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

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

To The Passing Of The Nightingale
Where are the songs of spring?
Where are they?
Well, Mr K,
they are harder to find
than they were in your day.
Gone with the nightingale,
Gone with the meadows,
the hedgerows,
the woods,
The habitats lost,
destroyed.
Destroyed like the food
that people call pests.
Predated.
Predated by farmers,
one way or another,
the countryside’s guardians,
that’s what they say.
The spring singing has ended,
almost over and done.
Aye, you might well ask, Mr K
The singing is not as it was
in your day.

Tuesday, 8 August 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.
MOONMAGAZINE.ORG