Wednesday, 30 May 2018


The Empty Room
When I was small
my grandparents occupied
the empty room - all eight of them.
I know now that my great grandparents
must have been there before.
But I hadn’t heard about great grandparents.
I knew about grandparents
because other children had them,
though I never knew mine.
They were always in
the empty room.
They left only to make way for my father.
My mother joined him later.
later still my brother displaced them.
He’s there still,
but fading.
But then,
he always was a flimsy figure,
hardly more real than my grandparents.
It’s still locked to me.
I still can’t get in.
But I will one day
when my brother leaves.
I don’t know when, though.
Don’t know how soon that
will be.

Sunday, 27 May 2018


Perpetrators vs. Apologists
I think I am beginning to despise them more,
the apologists.
At least the perpetrators have a certain honesty
and visibility
to go with their power.
Like all fanatics they are focused forward.
No lateral vision.
But the apologists are safely waiting
ready to lend a hand.
Some,
like all fanatics they are focused forward.
No lateral vision.
Unable to see the context.
or ignoring it
or denigrating it as
whataboutism.
But some,
should know better.
They understand the context
but with eyes and ears
closed,
they too join the chorus,
ignoring the context
or denigrating it as
whataboutism.
Yes,
I am beginning to despise them more
even than the perpetrators.

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

Grey Place
This is a grey place, there's no denying.
Grey slate, grey granite.
And it rains a lot, there's no denying.
But when caught by a sunbeam
it makes glistening slides shimmering across the slate
and falls in bright white tails or snakes like silver
spilling heavily over rocks,
it’s cascades catching rainbows as they crash
then spitting them back out in a fine spray of colours.
No grey at all in this place now, there's no denying.

Monday, 21 May 2018


Shoes
Sometimes shoes
can become iconic,
represent us,
make a statement
about ourselves,
about who we are.
Sometimes,
about who we are eternally
only wearing heels,
only wearing trainers,
only wearing boots.
Sometimes,
about our temporary selves,
tonight in heels,
with platforms,
or without.
Tomorrow in trainers,
or maybe boots,
or sandals,
depending on the weather.
Or piles of shoes
heaped up like bodies
any old how
in a mass grave.
Or laid out in lines
ready for disposal
in a graveyard
neatly
represent ourselves,
us,
how we were,
how we are,
what we have
become.
Sometimes shoes can become iconic, represent us, make a statement about ourselves, about who we are. Shoes is a reflective poem written with love by The Ugly Writers contributor, Ms. Lynn White
UGLYWRITERS.COM

Friday, 18 May 2018


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.

Wednesday, 16 May 2018


Anxious
I am dancing
in the sunlight,
the bright, bright light.
I know the cloud is there
but I can forget it, till I stop.
And then..
There it is,
even bigger
and blacker
than before.
Darker than
ever.
It doesn’t like me dancing,
doesn’t like the laughter
or the sunshine.
Brightness breaks it,
shatters it into a grey mist.
But still it won’t leave me.
The brighter the sunlight,
the louder the laughter,
the greater my fear
that it will form again
and suck me into it’s
darkness.
Get active! Send us your protests through art!
WEASELPRESS.COM

Monday, 14 May 2018


Out Of The Blue
I’m wondering
what will fall
out of the misty blue sky.
Perhaps there’ll be light
spangles and
dew drops
and rain
puddling the road.
Chagall would have a horse or two
hanging there,
or a fish, or a face.
He’d make flowers of the dewdrops
and have the road run pink.
He’d put birds on telegraph wires
and suspend them
upside down
ready
to fall.
I’m wondering
if someone is up there
with his paintbox ready.
Already
knowing
what will fall
out of the blue.
Out Of The Blue by Lynn White I’m wondering what will fall out of the misty blue sky. Perhaps there’ll be light spangles and....READ MORE
BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Friday, 11 May 2018


Golden People
We were the golden people then,
flying high above the rest,
shimmering like the arrogant angels
we saw playing way above the clouds.
We could almost touch them
with our arms outstretched
as we danced our way through
a youth of endless possibilities.
But the grey people were unimpressed.
They had no wish to touch the angels,
or reach the stars, even if they could.
They looked down to us, not up.
Laughed and shook their heads
at our strangeness and waited
for our dreams to fracture as theirs had done.
We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices.
Did not see their once golden dreams split open
and rot away, consuming them in the decay.
Now we have become grey like the rest, tarnished
and knowing that we were not so golden, even then.
Just practicing for a life that would dull our shine
as our dreams remained dreams.
Dreams which became decayed imaginings
growing grey and dusty with time and fading.
Like them, we were consumed in the rot of our dreams
as drabness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall.
Today's poets, today's poems. Share yours, send to duanev@hotmail.com
DUANESPOETREE.BLOGSPOT.CO.UK

Thursday, 10 May 2018


I Remember My Father
I remember my father.
Remember being carried high
on his shoulders when
he was walking into town.
I remember that I was scared.
I had never been carried
on shoulders before.
Was there a bus strike
or no money for the fare?
That I don’t remember.
I remember my father
sitting in a chair, a passenger
on a bus or tram,
as I collected his fare
and gave him a ticket.
He drove trams once
and then later he cleaned them.
I remember my father.
Remember sitting on his knee
looking at Rupert Bear books.
I knew the stories by heart
so people thought I could read
and were very impressed.
But I could only remember.
I remember my father.
I don’t need photographs
to jog my memory,
which is just as well
since there are none,
None of him whole, anyway,
just one of his legs
in loose grey trousers,
sitting by me as I planted seeds
in my first garden.

Tuesday, 8 May 2018


Bath Time
The bath used to hang on the wall
in the scullery.
Not our scullery.
His scullery.
We borrowed it from Mr Neil
who rented us the rooms
at the front of his house.
One down, one up.
My mother would knock on his door
and he would lift it down for her.
But she had to carry it to our
living room.
It was heavy,
made of zinc she said.
It took a lot of water
which had to be carried from the outside
tap and then heated on our gas ring.
It took a lot of hot water
and had to be filled
and emptied
with a jug.
Sometimes it was just too much work
for her
and she washed me in a bowl
as I sat on her fat lap.
It was snuggly.
I preferred it
really.

Monday, 7 May 2018


Look This Way
Look this way.
Turn away from the salt wind.
There’s nothing to fear.
Let me see your face.
I know mine looks a little strange,
but there’s nothing to fear,
nothing.
It’s just that I’ve been away
a long time.
I have a long life history,
you see.
Look this way.
I’ve brought you flowers.
I found them when I woke up,
when I rose up.
I didn’t see who left them.
I hope wasn’t you.
It would be discourteous of me
to return your gift.
But at least you know I’m no thief,
no grave robber,
just someone who has been away
a long time.
Look this way.
Let me see the salt wind
blow back your hair,
let me see your face.
Look this way. Turn away from the salt wind. There’s nothing to fear. Let me see your face. I know mine looks a little strange, but there’s nothing to fear, nothing.
UGLYWRITERS.COM

Friday, 4 May 2018


Green Dragon
Does the ghost believe what he's seeing
as the green dragon floats by
breathing rainbows
from flower filled puffs of breath.
Would you believe it?
Would I
believe it?
After all,
this is not the usual sort of dragon
whose fire filled breaths register alarm.
But alarm registers, never the less,
as this is not the usual sort of dragon
and none of us are sure
what will happen next.
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

Thursday, 3 May 2018


The Revolution Is Postponed
The revolution is postponed
until the towels are on,
so they once said.
Until
last orders had been called
and the beer pumps
covered
with towels
to make it clear
that they would be pulled no more
that night,
ten minutes drinking up time
then it was,
“do your talking
while you’re walking”,
we’ve had your money, now piss off,
and a beery smokey exit.
Unless
there was a lock-in
in which case the revolution
would be postponed again.
Now they’re open all hours.
There’s no last orders,
no need of towels
to cover the pumps.
No ten minutes
allowed to drink up.
They’re open all hours
and the revolution is postponed.
Again.

Wednesday, 2 May 2018

Scrittura Magazine
44 mins
Here's an intriguing extract from our Spring 2018 issue 🐭
Visit our website to read the full poem by Lynn White: http://scritturamagazine.tumblr.com/#latest%20issue

Tuesday, 1 May 2018


The Hedgerow Fairies
Where have they gone,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats?
I used to see them sitting
under their leafy roofs
stitching their summer dresses
of poppy and mallow petals
with long silk threads
catching the summer sunlight
as the smiling spiders spun.
I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.
I used to see them collecting
armfuls of meadow sweet
to stuff their nighttime mattresses,
making doorways in their new
toadstool homes with sharp stones.
Maybe they’ve gone underground
to escape the passing cars and tractors.
Maybe they only come out at night now
and stitch and stuff under the moonlight.
I don’t know.
But I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.