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
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Two Sides to the Story There are always two sides to every story, you said. The marchers were armed. The marchers were aggressive. Really? Faced with tanks. Faced with soldiers in full combat gear. Faced with snipers armed with live ammunition. Armed? 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. Really? 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. Ready. There were terrorists amongst them waiting to cross over intent on doing us harm, you said, there are two sides two every story. Really? 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 st
Sometimes There’s Magic See that raindrop falling, falling, falling into wetness. You see it falling, a silvery teardrop then it disappears into wetness, becomes invisible. Is that magic? Only if it could choose invisibility, or choose to stay a raindrop. That would be magic. https://www.amazon.co.uk/…/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_api_i_Z0agBbTP09J… https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07DHYS6VV/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_api_i_Z0agBbTP09JPC
Caterpillar 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 again. https://tropicalacedmagazine.weebly.com/issue-2
Why I will not die. I will not die. I will not die until I have unloaded a hundred poems to tell me why. I will not die. I will not die until I have unloaded a thousand songs on why I will not die. https://www.amazon.com/Essential-Exi…/…/ref=as_sl_pc_tf_til… https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2018/06/17/anthology-release-essential-existentialism-the-meaning-of-life/
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. Now 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 first. But there is no one left to see. http://tuckmagazine.com/2018/05/31/poetry-1516/
Nuts 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. http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/
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. https://uglywriters.com/2018/06/11/water-under-the-bridge/ https://uglywriters.com/2018/06/11/water-under-the-bridge/
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? https://blognostics.net/…/the-graveyard-of-dreams-by-lynn-…/ https://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2018/08/11/lynn-white-poetry-collection/
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. https://visualverse.org/submissions/midas-touch/
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 bel
What Lies Beneath I dug up so many things to create my garden not only rocks and pieces of slate but tools from those who had worked in this difficult land. I built walls from the rocks and edged my new pond in slate. The tools became decorations to tell the story of the land. Then I found the tractor, or so I thought, a toy that some child had played with dreaming of flat land with good soil. Then I looked more closely and saw it was a soldier in the driving seat. Not a tractor then but some sort of killing machine I buried it back where it came from. It seemed the best thing to do with it. https://blognostics.net/…/…/what-lies-beneath-by-lynn-white/ https://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2018/06/01/what-lies-beneath-by-lynn-white/ BLOGNOSTICS.NET What Lies Beneath by Lynn White What Lies Beneath by Lynn White I dug up so many things to create my garden not only rocks and pieces of slate but tools from tho
Ageing I was young once, unbelievably young, almost a child playing. Oh I was young once, waiting for life to begin to grab me take me up and over. Yes, I was young once playing waiting. No end to it just waiting playing ageing waiting. http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/ageing-by-lynn-white http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/ageing-by-lynn-white
Running On Empty We take care how we fill our shoes. Our trainers and boots. Our flats and heels, stilettos and cuban. They may match our mood, specially chosen, or be eternal representations of our unified self. So surely something of us must remain when they are emptied. Not just our smells and mis-shapes, evocative as they are, but something more fundamental. Something spiritual. Something symbolic. See here empty shoes laid out tidily in rows. Blocked together on a grass field or concrete yard. Rows upon rows of them that once contained the school children now shot dead, our children. See here empty shoes piled high in untidy heaps. Heaps and heaps of them, that once contained peaceful people now massacred, bombed, burned. Our people spanning place and time without end. http://tuckmagazine.com/2018/05/31/poetry-1516/