November Issue ~Joyfully Wondrous~ https://magiquepublishing.wordpress.com/2024/11/04/november-issue-joyfully-wondrous/
Posts
New Times For Old It wasn’t the first pandemic and, as in all the ones before birds sang an opening chorus for the pollen laden bees to hum on their way through the miasma to the flower borders in the park summer buzzing and blooming bursting into full swing. But there in the playground the swings were empty, the marks on courts fading. No one played outdoors and no one played indoors, the cafes were as empty as the park. Isolation was complete that summer. And now, for some it’s almost forgotten. For others the old habits have died and the new old habits are hanging on carrying emptiness like bees carry pollen. New rules were made that summer and its hard not to obey them still staying at home in private space neither visiting nor visited but in a hazy miasma waiting and hoping that its clouds will be blown away before memories fade like the marks on the ground as we try to retrace our steps back to where we once were. https://www.journalofexpressivewriting.com/post/new-times-
The Spider She hangs suspended like a puppet dancing to the tune of the wind. Blown this way, blown that, buffeted, but only briefly. Then she takes control like a mistress puppeteer. Knowing she is powerful and free. Free to spin her silk and weave her web as she wills. Or so she thinks. But it’s an illusion. She’s trapped. Trapped and wrapped by her dna as securely as any fly. Her patterns are pre-ordained pre-programmed destined to be repeated millennia after millennia in her genes. And there’s nothing that she can do to change it. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_waysoflooking.html
American Dream We were such special people then, the two of us, flying high above the rest 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 cinemascope of endless possibilities. But other people were unimpressed. They had no wish to touch the angels, or reach the stars, even if they could. They looked down towards us, not up, fulfilled and sacred to each other, with a specialness unknown to us. We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices. Did not see the fractures of their dreams, or of ours to come. But now we have become the rest and know that we were not so special then. But just practicing for a life that would elude us as dreams remained dreams in cinemascope. Dreams which became decayed imaginings growing dusty with time and fading, as ordinariness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall. https://manilalitmag.com/a-poem-by-lynn-white/
Nutty Days are shortening now it’s November so I have longer for dreaming and 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. Someone or something gave me a blue umbrella to protect me from the showers. But on the ground, ankle deep acorns beech and hazels were overtopping my boots. I saw no squirrels, only their dreams of nutty profusion. https://poetrywivenhoe.org/2024/11/day-701-nutty-white/