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

Monday, 7 August 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.
By: Lynn White 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 gi…
LITERARYYARD.COM

Sunday, 6 August 2017

Like Alice
I’m too big.
I’m too small.
I can’t I fit in,
fit into this, rabbit hole world,
any more than I did the other,
the above ground world.
Both can’t be wrong,
can they?
It must be me
that doesn’t fit,
that can’t be made
to fit into them.
Me that’s wrong.
Both worlds can’t be wrong,
can they?

Tick tock says the magic clock In a language that's part of the soul Get in line for the gate You don't want to be late For your trip down the rabbit hole... Our everyday lives are filled to the…
CREATESPACE.COM

Friday, 4 August 2017

Dragonfly
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!
Photo by Dave Marks

Thursday, 3 August 2017

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 making has become
a profitable industry.
The more deaths,
the more candles.
Will there be anyone left
to light a candle for me?
Online Political, Lit, Human Rights and Arts magazine
TUCKMAGAZINE.COM|BY TUCK MAGAZINE

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Orange Light
Orange is at the cheerful end of the spectrum.
It should spill out it’s zest so I can live and love
in a golden shower,
taste exotic fruit, engulfed in an ecstasy of orange light,
be part of a story with a happy ending, full of sunshine.
Bright gleaming reds and yellows are not far away.
Orange is their combination, inevitably.
Yellow and red.
Cowardly, acidic and dangerous when parted from each other.
Colours have different moods when separated. As we do.
So this palette can hide more than it reveals.
And now it forms a mask on the face of black despair,
a bright new dawn
that breaks the surface, but one which is not wanted, not desired.
A flash of lightening breaking up the continuum of my horizon.
There’s a cloud of bright dust swirling in a stormy sky,
with darkness following blocking out the sun,
destroying the light
Rain like tears must follow as the light disperses
and the golden sun is cracked open to reveal it’s inner stone.
This bright cloak of orange light is wrapped round me
like a comfort blanket hiding my spilt zest in it’s brightness.
Fear, sourness and hurt
lie within, inseparable and undiminished by the brightness outside,
the golden glow which is coating this time with sadness.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

The Grey Men
It was an ordinary outing to the cinema
for the little girl and her mother.
But first, the Pathe News
showing a large meeting -
“the United nations”, her mother said.
A fat, bald mad was shouting angrily.
Then he took off his shoe
and banged it on the table.
next came a shot of the listening faces.
Grey men - well the film was black and white,
but she thought they would be grey even in Technicolor.
They were frozen speechless with shock.
“What’s it all about?” she asked her mother.
It seemed he was angry because of
some perceived injustice or hypocrisy.
It sounded reasonable to the little girl.
“But it just isn’t done”, said her mother.
“you just can’t do that. Not there.
Not in such a place”.
“But he did do that”, said the little girl.
And she thought of the shocked expressions
on the faces of the faceless grey men
and thought:
“I would do that”.
She pictured them again
and thought:
“I will do that”
and I think she did.
The grey men are still with us,
but the shoe thumpers are still
splashing
the palette with colour.
Second print issue of Scarlet Leaf Review, a magazine sharing prose, poetry and art.
MAGCLOUD.COM