Sunday, 29 April 2018


New Growth
The trees are bare now
revealing all
in the winter light.
Or so it seems.
But they can still hide secrets,
unexpected traces
of their secret lives,
and the seeds of more to come.
And every tree is different.
Some are firmly rooted
even when the ice melts
and the ground softens
in the winter sun.
Others have wider horizons
and are making their plans
accordingly.
Getting ready to branch out.
Every tree is different.
Some can act as a womb
for an embryonic form
waiting to develop.
Perhaps a parasite
in search of a new host.
Or a new growth.
Different,
reluctant to form branches
to match it’s parent.
Maybe it never will be a match,
but always an alien
form.
With an unknown future
hidden.
And then,
maybe the new will branch
out
from the belly of another alien
form
and leave it’s roots behind
as it makes tracks in the snow,
searching
searching.
We must wait and see.
Every tree is different.
New Growth by Lynn White The trees are bare now revealing all in the winter light. Or so it seems. But they can still hide secrets, unexpected traces....READ MORE
BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Friday, 27 April 2018


To My Old Friend Who Knows How It Is
What ever happened my old friend?
You know
right from wrong.
You know,
you saw with your eyes open.
You knew oppression,
abuse of power,
state terror,
apartheid.
You knew.
You know.
We boycotted,
we campaigned,
we did what we could.
Then
I would have shared anything with you.
Now
I wouldn’t even share my space,
wouldn’t stay in the same room as you.
What ever happened to you my old friend?
Rediscovering your jewishness shouldn’t mean
giving up your humanity,
negating your history,
seeing with your eyes tight shut
but you know
you know.
What ever happened my old friend?
You know.
We've enjoyed this creative process, and hope you enjoy the beauty that has arisen from it!
INQUIETUDESLITJOURNAL.WEEBLY.COM

Thursday, 26 April 2018


Where Lies Reality
In my sweet dreams
I can float and swim like a fish.
Can extract air from the water,
as they do.
And breathe it out
in pretty chains of bubbles.
But in my dark dreams,
the nightmarish ones,
this is just a pretence.
The only air is within me
and the bubbles lost to me
which soon will cease
as I continue to float
upwards.
Can reality lie
in my dreams?

Tuesday, 24 April 2018


Look Me In The Eye
Here we are
face to face.
Perhaps angry.
Perhaps sad.
Perhaps
you will look me in the eye.
I
will meet your gaze, but
you still won’t find
me.
The mask is firmly in place
and you’ll only see what I choose,
the response I want to show you,
the planned
or the superficial pose,
the pretence of
me.
If you look me in the eye
I
will never know
what you see.
Your mask is firmly in place
to show me what
you
want
me to see
and no more.
So how can we begin
to see each other
any more.
htps://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2018/03/08/honorable-mentions-of-the-contest/
Here are some really good works that I wanted to include as well. It is kind of a long list but they are all really good. By Meekha S Dreams Come to me tonight Scarlet dreams Violet skies Silvery p…
ACADEMYOFTHEHEARTANDMIND.WORDPRESS.COM

Sunday, 22 April 2018


It’s a Worry
He bottled up his worries,
his fears,
and sealed them in
securely.
Put them inside a bottle firmly
corked.
Then he thought, suppose they grew
agitated
and, expanding with the heat
produced
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
fastening
and screw them up tight
without
letting them out of the bottle.
Without
letting them escape.
Without
giving them
freedom,
freedom
to invade
his soul,
his dreams,
his being
his reason
for being.
Such a risk
though.
Such a worry.
Get active! Send us your protests through art!
WEASELPRESS.COM

Thursday, 19 April 2018


The Village of Twee
I am just arrived in the village of Twee
with its little front gardens carefully wild,
with its thatch nicely polished,
its flowers dust free.
I wonder who tends them
in the village of Twee.
Who shampoos the pinks
who waters the pots,
who sweeps up the leaves
and prunes all the phlox.
There’s no humans to see
in the village of Twee,
just cars with their robots,
red, white and pink.
They wave as they drive through
with shopping piled high
singing ‘tra lah lah, welcome and fiddle di di.
There’s a welcome for all in the village of Twee.’
They park right outside,
with the pavements long gone
to give wider roads for motoring robots.
So how did it happen, this robotic coup.
There must be a story or legend to tell
to explain the strange culture I came across there.
Well, pavements weren't needed
with no humans to walk
and that’s how it started
if truth it be told.
And it’s ‘tra lah lah, welcome and fiddle di di’
as the robots drive smiling through the village of Twee.
So are there still humans?
I've heard they're indoors
their legs long since wasted,
they're unable to walk.
So the robots took over
and they do what they can
to keep the thatch polished
and dig up the weeds,
to feed all that need it
and take out the waste.
And when work is finished their day will come,
when new robots grow older, they can move on.
Singing ‘tra lah lah, bye now and fiddle di di,
there’ll be no more humans in the village of Twee’
BLP's bookshop offers something for everyone. From an anthologies challenging traditional norms and stereotypes in folklore and literature to a cozy mystery with characters who will wrap around your heart. If fantasy is more your style, check out R.E. Fisher's latest offering. Authors seeking to pub...
BTWNTHELINES.COM

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Apoc-Elipse
They were observant
so they saw that
the night was already black, unbroken by pinpoint stars.
Black even before the moon swallowed up the sun
leaving only a ring of white light for breakfast
with nothing to come after but dark days.
They could hardly believe it
but they knew
that
only black days could follow
such an apocalyptic event,
an event that would
eclipse all others.
That would be
a prelude
to a world without light
a world without life,
an apocalypse.

Tuesday, 17 April 2018


Story Tellers
I’ll tell my stories.
My life stories.
My rememberings,
meanderings
never written down,
but taken in for telling.
Waiting now
to be put outside again.
I’ll tell my stories.
I’ll put the inside out.
See if I can find
my lost past self
and hold it still
for a snap shot
to be taken.
But my dream stories,
were never outside.
They’re the secret ones.
Unrevealed
staying inside.
Maybe later
I’ll tell my dream stories,
let you into them,
put them in the mix.
Let you get lost in there,
as I did.
And then
all of you will see
all of me,
maybe.
Later,
there’ll only be my stories.
I’ll be part of your stories
then.
Or will I be lost,
still lost.
Lost in them.
Story Tellers by Lynn White I’ll tell my stories. My life stories. My rememberings, meanderings never written down, but taken in for telling....READ MORE
BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Monday, 16 April 2018


Lotus
If in the afternoon I come upon a land
and find the lotus blooming there,
Will I recognise it’s flowers and fruits,
I wonder.
Will I remember it’s story,
I wonder.
And in the evening,
after sniffing the fragrance
of the flowers and tasting the fruit,
will I have forgotten
to wonder.
Napkin/Pocket Poems
RIVERPOETSJOURNAL.COM

Sunday, 15 April 2018


Magic
Now is the season of magic,
from the witches of Halloween
to the fairies and elves of
Father Christmas.
Only for children,
though.
Magic for adults has Pagan qualities
referencing the myths and legends
that made sense of earlier times,
though
some still invite their ancestors
to picnic with them on the Day Of The Dead.
Only for children,
though
are the fairy stories and fantasies
of yesterday and today.
But children know
that these are only the building blocks
of magic.
Yes, children know
that magic is something you make.
Sometimes adults forget.

Thursday, 12 April 2018


Now and Then
Now the clouds are pressing down
making everything grey,
everything misty. 
It’s impossible to discern which way
people are facing.
It looks like everyone
is facing both ways,
so it is impossible to know who to follow,
impossible to know which path to take,
which is the good and which is bad.
Then, in the old days
it was all so clear.
This was the way.
These were the good guys,
the brave guys with the guns,
sending out their scouts
from the circled wagons
of peaceful pioneers
in search of a better life
in the vast empty land.
Protecting them from
the bad guys,
the savages,
the cowardly braves
with the bows and arrows
and scalping knives.
It didn’t always go to plan.
But the cavalry usually
arrived just in time.
And the good guys
always won
in the end.
Didn’t they?

Wednesday, 11 April 2018


The Brooch
We sat on the dirty stairs
holding hands and looking sad.
His name was Ralf
and tomorrow at
"la bonne heure"
he was
leaving Paris,
going home to Geneva.
He gave me a brooch made of metal,
two hands breaking a rifle in two.
I pinned it on my jacket,
the black leather one
that was stolen
some years
later.
I bought a new jacket,
also black leather,
also stolen
later.
I could have bought a new brooch,
identical to the one I had lost.
But I never did.
I couldn't replace the connection lost.
Lost
when I lost
the brooch.
The Ramingo's Porch, issue #2, bursting at the seams with poetry, stories, essays, and other literary constellations. Spring, love, revolution.
AMAZON.COM

Tuesday, 10 April 2018


The Sound of Silence
Silence is complicated.
It can be comfortable and companionable
like the silence between us now.
We see others though, where silence rests heavily,
as they seek speech to bridge the gap
of discomfort, which lies uneasily between them.
We will not allow this silence space,
Worse is the fear of a future silence, a cold space,
where we have nothing to say to each other.
A silence where we are still together, but distant, remote,
without feeling, drifting into our private spheres,
that we do not want to share. No touching warmth,
but a place where we are unable to excite each other
even with conversation.
We know dangerous silences too, seething with an anger
that pours from our closeness and expresses itself,
tightly wound, as it passes through us.
We communicate this only too effectively
and may break ourselves, before this silent storm.
Speech could not help us anyway, it's violent words
threaten only to separate us, to blow away the vestiges
of how we want to remain.

Monday, 9 April 2018


Above It All
Sometimes
I need to be out of the fray,
above the drama
and the darkness,
look down on it all,
be part of the scarlet sky
and the jagged skyline.
Sometimes
I will climb so high
that I’ll have no way back,
no wish to go back
only to stay
above it all.
Visual Verse: An Anthology of Art and Words One image, one hour, 50-500 words. The picture is the starting point, the text is up to you.
VISUALVERSE.ORG

Friday, 6 April 2018


The Skin I'm In
Am I still the same person
under the skin?
Are you?
I think I am.
The outside has changed.
But inside my skin
I am intact.
Myself as before.
I think.
Not quite so comfortable,
though.
It doesn't fit me too well.
Doesn't always represent me.
Doesn't look like I still feel.
Like I still am?
What about you?
Are you still that person
in your new skin?
I'm not sure now
if it is only on the outside,
that we have changed together.
Buy Molt, spring '18 Issue1 by Peach Velvet Mag (Paperback) online at Lulu. Visit the Lulu Marketplace for product details, ratings, and reviews.
LULU.COM

Wednesday, 4 April 2018


Seed Shells
The first seeds were sown a long time ago.
When these small seed shells burst open
they were scattered locally.
They grew patchily at first, in Palestine, in Israel,
in Lebanon and throughout the Arab world.
There were only little streams to irrigate
and fertilise them, so they often failed to thrive.
But that was then.
Now the shells have grown bigger
and the seeds have flown further.
Further and further.
And the streams have grown wider and longer.
And more nutritious.
When the seed shells have burst in this century,
they found ground that was even more fertile.
So more and more has come under cultivation,
irrigated and fertilised now from rivers,
rivers of blood.
So well irrigated,
so well nurtured and tended that
the patches of brown soil became rare indeed.
But there were some.
Later seeds spread wider over Gaza.
As larger seed shells broke and splintered
they found and colonised new areas
outside the brown patches
where it was now easy to germinate and thrive.
Now even trees could grow there and send out suckers
into the newly bloodied green places.
Soon there was a wood with dense undergrowth.
The rivers were torrents now
bloody torrents
with plenty of irrigation channels.
Now more seeds have flown. Ever bigger
seed shells are exploding and unloading
their crop of giant seeds.
The wood is a forest now,
a forest of giants now spreading their own seed
in the already fertile ground,
spreading it ever more thickly,
growing ever taller.
A forest of hate,
a writhing, spitting jungle
that we are unable to cut down