Friday, 20 July 2018

There are just two pieces left.
Two fragments of our dreams.
Two castles in the air,
the remnants of a game
we played
where there was no winner.
Like a game of chess
with an improbable ending.
Just two rooks left on the board.
More flying over
our castles in the air
leaving them behind.

Wednesday, 18 July 2018

I was pleased with my reel to reel recorder.
It was four tracks which was good,
as tapes were expensive.
More tracks, less tapes needed,
that was my reasoning.
My source of music was the radio.
Radio Luxembourg
in and out
with lots of crackles.
Or Forces Requests on the BBC.
Or occasional Pop programmes.
Very occasional.
I hadn’t thought it through,
the source of my recordings,
so the quality was poor.
But I didn’t mind,
it was music,
my music
and I stuck with my reel to reel
enlivened by a transistor radio
and pirate stations
until the age of relative affluence
caught up with me.
Eventually it became an amp
for my boyfriend’s guitar.
But I never bought a cassette.

Thursday, 12 July 2018

Magical Child
In this strange new world
it’s hardly surprising
that a strange child
has slithered it’s way
through the dark passage,
the secret tunnel
that others have feared to enter.
In this strange new world
such magic is normal
and unsurprising.
So come to me,
magical child
and we will
find new secrets,
new passage ways
to a different future
and spread magic
as we breathe.

Tuesday, 10 July 2018

Turn Of the Tide
We will wait for the tide to turn.
It will carry us away
wave after wave
gathering up the debris
which surrounds us
sucking it up like so much dust
getting rid of it all,
everything going
with the flow.
We must wait for the tide to turn.
It will bring us home
leaving new things
there with us.
Bits and pieces.
Leaving them for us to find
so that we can take
what we need
we want.
Or should we swim against the tide?
See where it takes us.
We could try.
It couldn’t be worse.
We will wait for the tide to turn. It will carry us away wave after wave gathering up the debris which surrounds us

Sunday, 8 July 2018

Dandelion clocks
The field was yellow
with dandelion flowers
only a week ago.
A field of sunshine.
I caught it at that moment,
a moment in time.
And now the moment has passed,
clocked off,
has become a field of clocks
which can’t tell what time it is.
Only that the yellow sunshine
was fragile,
as fragile as a dandelion clock.
Only that time has passed
leaving only clocks
that will soon be wished
away in the wind.

Friday, 6 July 2018

The rock looms large above me,
the petrified remains of the last time the sun burned
in the time of giants.
Giant rocks and giant creatures fused together in the fire.
I’m climbing now
Higher and higher.
Now I'm lit by moonlight,
but soon the sun will rise
and consume us,
fuse us together
the rock and I.
I am not sure anything will remain

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

Even Death needs to take a break sometime.
Needs to sit on the beach in the sun
with his scythe hidden,
so as not to frighten the swimmers.
everything about Death has to be hidden.
There can be no exposure
beyond a few inches of face and hands,
hardly more than a woman in a burka.
everything has to be hidden,
so as not to frighten the swimmers
for when the holiday is over.
Scryptic Magazine is a bi-monthly alternative art and literature magazine.

Monday, 2 July 2018

Spotlight On Writers

Lynn White

  1. Where, do you hail from?
I'm from Sheffield in northern England originally. I went to college in Liverpool and never went back! So I lived for many years around Merseyside and still love Liverpool but I now live in Blaenau Ffestiniog, a small town in the mountains of north Wales.
  1. What is the greatest thing about the place you call home?
It's a lovely community - safe, eccentric, beautiful! Pity it rains so much!!!
  1. What turns you on creatively?
It can be almost anything - a phrase in someone else's writing, anger at some humanitarian injustice, a past event which comes to mind. I also enjoy the challenge of writing to a theme or picture prompt.
  1. What is your favorite word, and can you use it in a poetic sentence?
In terms of my writing, probably 'dream' because it can mean so many different things. It appears a lot in my writing!
  1. What is your pet peeve?
'Peeve' seems to me quite a small word or one referring to minor irritations rather than the big issues, so I will answer it accordingly! So far as writing goes, I think it would be those who expect to be paid for their work but expect editors/editorial teams to work for free. Scale that up to bigger issues and there are bigger 'peeves' (and bigger egos!) - not least that the only way to derive benefit from work or to have it valued is to be paid cash.
  1. What defines Lynn White? 
I find that difficult to answer, I often wonder about it myself! Possibly people who know me would define me in different ways. I'm very focused, perhaps obsessive when I'm concentrating on something. I don't give up. I don't like loose ends or unfinished business so I see something through to an end that I can feel satisfied with. Increasingly some things going on in the world or so awful I turn off, don't want to know, then something will spark me and I'll be in full campaign mode...

Saturday, 30 June 2018

Mr Taylor

Probably a polar bear was not a good choice
for my first attempt at whittling. 
A hamster would have been simpler
and avoided the multiple leg fractures..
“Don’t worry girl, no problem”, Mr Taylor said,
when I showed it to him.
“Leave it to me. 
Bit o plastic wood, 
That’ll soon sort it”
and it did.
The tail was more challenging.
But all was not lost, just the tail,
and I managed to convince the Examiner
that polar bears don’t have tails.
Maybe they don’t.
I’m no expert.
I progressed slowly, and probably 
a rocking elephant was not the best choice
for my Final Piece.
There was a lot to cut out,
a lot of curvy bits.
The huge electric saw bench
loomed ominously in the corner.
“Don’t you go near that, girl”
cried Mr Taylor if I glanced in it’s direction.
“Here, give it here, 
Leave it to me. 
There you are.
Now just a bit o plastic wood...”
And then disaster!
Someone stole the rockers.
Who the fuck would steal my rockers?
They never rocked very well,
but even so, they were better than nothing.
And Mr Taylor was hard pressed 
to make new ones 
in time for the exam,
even with multiple,
“No problem, don’t worry, girl”s, 
I was concerned.
But in the end
we both passed.

Thursday, 28 June 2018

Two Sides to the Story

There are always two sides to every story,
you said.
The marchers were armed.
The marchers were aggressive.
Faced with tanks.
Faced with soldiers in full combat gear.
Faced with snipers armed with live ammunition.
Armed with only stones,
and only some of them.
There are always two sides to every story,
you said.
They were going to storm the border.
There was going to be a mass invasion.
Two sides
to every story?
Do you really believe that
for a demonstration of unarmed people
marching along their own border
when the snipers and soldiers and tanks
are already waiting.
There were terrorists amongst them
waiting to cross over
intent on doing us harm,
you said,
there are two sides two every story.
Would the harm be similar
to the tens who were killed
and the hundreds that were injured?
We have a right to defend our border,
You said, and yes,
there are always two sides to every story.
Every story.
Well ok, fine,
if that’s what you think,
you will want to hear it for the Nazis then!
No! That’s not what you meant.
That story stands alone
one sided.
Really? No!
It’s not alone.
Not really.

Sunday, 24 June 2018

Sometimes There’s Magic
See that raindrop
falling into wetness.
You see it falling,
a silvery teardrop
then it disappears
into wetness,
becomes invisible.
Is that magic?
if it could choose invisibility,
or choose to stay
a raindrop.
That would be magic.

Friday, 22 June 2018

When I was nine,
by accident
I stepped on a caterpillar.
Stepped on
one end of a caterpillar.
And it’s caterpillar shape,
bright emerald green,
shot out the other end.
Since then,
I have taken great care
never to step
on a caterpillar

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

I will not die.
I will not die.
I will not die
I have unloaded
a hundred poems
to tell me why.
I will not die.
I will not die
I have unloaded
a thousand songs
on why
I will not die.

Sunday, 17 June 2018

Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time
they used to line the streets
with the heads of the enemy on pikes.
The heads rotted away in time
leaving only the pikes
standing empty.
there is too little left,
too little remains to separate
the head from the body of the defeated
remnants in the rubble of the city.
Too little left.
So they take the helmets
and set them on pikes.
This time
the pikes will
rot away
But there
is no one
left to see.

Friday, 15 June 2018

Last night I dreamt
a squirrel's dream.
It must have been a squirrel’s.
Possibly red, possibly grey,
but definitely a squirrel’s.
There were so many nuts.
They were falling from the sky
like heavy rain.
I had to put up my blue umbrella
to protect me from the showers.
And on the ground,
ankle deep acorns
and hazels
were overtopping my blue boots.
But I saw no squirrels,
only their dreams
of nutty profusion.

Wednesday, 13 June 2018

Water Under The Bridge
The Canadian canoe submerged as we got in
too clumsily.
The cushions, brought thoughtfully for comfort
were soaked
along with everything else.
Then we discovered that we were unable to co-ordinate
our paddling
so moving along the narrow canal in a straight line
was impossible.
Thus we made slow progress.
And then we came to the long tunnel.
The sign at the entrance was disconcerting,
forbidding entry
except with a torch.
Of course, we had no torch,
just spluttering roll ups
made in darkness
from damp tobacco,
and five loud voices.
Yes, we were five.
Four adults who should have known better
and a thirteen year old
in despair as usual
of his out of control parents.
All water under the bridge
when we emerged
into the light to tell
a survivor’s tale,
now a memory.

Monday, 11 June 2018

The Graveyard of Dreams
The rubble and wire
are the graveyard of dreams.
The long march to the wire
is the graveyard of dreams.
The long march to nowhere
is the graveyard of dreams.
The merciless ocean
is the graveyard of dreams.
The desert camps
are the graveyard of dreams.
The swollen, empty bellies
are the graveyard of dreams.
When even the dreams
of the graveyards are shattered
will the broken dreamers waken?

Saturday, 9 June 2018

Midas Touch
The sorcerers and scientists
of past times
experimented with their powders
dissolved them,
fired them up
in their laboratories.
searching for the glows and gleams
from base metal,
the Midas touch
that would create the riches of gold
for them.
They never found it.
Now, the sorcerers and scientists
have discovered how
to dig deeper,
scrape harder
and stand by while
we dig and scrape for them.
And watch the gold flow,
watch it pour
like magic
making wrinkles and scars
suffocating our skin.

Thursday, 7 June 2018

Where is the Real World
There was a broken circle in my field of wheat this morning.
Can’t explain it.
Walked through the wheat scratching my head with a stalk.
Can’t explain.
There are shapes in the circle, shapes which look like
the shapes and spaces of this world. Lands and seas.
Can’t explain them.
Fell asleep in the scratchy stalks of my field in the sunshine.
Can’t say why.
Awoke in England, I think, lying there, floating above it,
I think.
Lying here, drifting away, like a balloon out of control,
but avoiding the sun and the stars and the other worlds.
I think.
Or am I lying below, in my field with my heels on the ground?
Difficult to know.
Hard to discern this place and know my place in it.
Can’t explain
why I’m floating here, unsure if I’m drifting above or below.
I might fall. I might fall up or down. I don’t know which.
Can’t explain my confusion.
But, I’ll know when I stop spinning round, seeing the stars
in the sunshine.
But how will I get down if I’m already below, my heels grounded
in reality,
in England, in my field of wheat, scratching my head, looking,
up at the shapes in the space of the sky drifting above me.
Can’t explain.
Where is the Real World   There was a broken circle in my field of wheat this morning. Can’t explain it. Walked through the wheat scratching my head with a stalk. Can’t explain. There are shap…