Thursday, 29 October 2020

 

https://www.newreadermagazine.com/download/houdini?fbclid=IwAR1C8T30xGIB7CJC4jpZsQL9RJtKCsnd7_1mF9-AhznTQ01_uNJZIGp18nY



Wednesday, 28 October 2020

 Trick Or Treat


They’re spilling like jewels 

from the child proof jar,

multicoloured,

sugar coated,

‘Eat Me’

treats.

Or are they tricks?

Try them

and you’ll find out 

soon enough,

just suck them,

and you’ll see.


http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_October2020.pdf




 The Suitcase

Back then, we had a theory.
We thought that a suitcase
was easier to get into cars
than a rucksack and thus,
drivers were more likely
to pick up hitchhikers
with a small suitcase.
It worked like a dream
and it carried our dreams.

Yesterday
I came across our old suitcase
buried in a heap of debris in my attic.
It was battered from it’s long journeys
and even longer vacation.
Its clothing was torn
exposing its cardboard credentials.
I haven’t opened it yet
so it’s unclear
if it’s still full
or if it’s empty.

Once we packed it full
of our dreams,
but now
I wonder
if any remain,
caught in the lining perhaps,
or if they’ve all have been carried away
with our lost memories
or buried in the debris
of the past.


https://thepangolinreview.wixsite.com/mypoetrysite/issue-14-8-january-2020?fbclid=IwAR1ak_eHa7rhaXF5Q9lCJXse57Ct5JQAus3bPDigNE_r-uFqD1_fMFTXIjg




Monday, 26 October 2020

 Spider


She hangs

suspended,

like a puppet

dancing

to the tune

of the wind.

Blown this way,

blown that,

buffeted,

but only briefly

before she takes control

like the mistress puppeteer

she is

powerful

free

to spin her silk

to 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

pre-ordained

pre-programmed

destined 

to be repeated 

millennia 

after millennia

in her genes.



https://issuu.com/freshwaterliteraryjournal/docs/2020journalmockup-2



Sunday, 25 October 2020

 Ripples


Ripples of time

gathering pace.

Working up to the wave 

that crashed into me, 

propelled me forward

and now sucks me back.

Thirteen decades.

Back.

To a place beyond my imagining,

so tidy now after the crash.

Gentrified now.

Rippling gently.

But before,

in my father’s time.

There was beer mixed mud

and crowding children.

And smells of horses

and metal.

Working.

Fire and metal work.

Children who 

would leave behind

the mud,

and country 

smells,

for the dust

and smog.

For the city grime.

Streets and factories.

More fire and metal.

Bigger.

Grander.

And what then?

Still poor.

What then?

What secrets lie in those ripples

of time

washing over me

now.


https://freeverserevolution.wordpress.com/2020/10/25/sunday-best-ripples/



 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.


https://ephemeralelegies.com/2020/07/08/i-remember-my-father-by-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR0MdqNQtLDFWPDRT3s2RQ_2pDHXOQdgKG5PLmfwJ1y3eC-vRmaA8hste3Y



Friday, 23 October 2020

 Perfectly Imperfect


It started when we stood hopefully, 

with our thumbs outstretched

by an English roadside.

We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia

without maps or money, 

or sense of direction.


And we made it to Italy. 

and swam off the rocks, 

with a man we’d met in a cafe,

because he said we could.

And we swam and swam until two policemen came, 

(one very stern and one very twinkly),

and said we couldn’t.

Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,

or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies, 

or lie on the rocks until we were dry,

in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace. 

This being the main street in Trieste.



And we made it to Pec and lived 

in a house ‘typique du Turque’ 

with a water pump in the garden

and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, 

which made us very ill indeed.

But the parties were good and 

the conversations interesting,

Even though no one spoke English.

And we learned to speak some Albanian, 

which was always handy.

And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, 

dusty roadside and fantasize 

about the ice cold mountain water 

streaming through the streets of Pec,

and even about the water pump in the garden. 


And we made it back home.

We had got lost a lot, 

but hadn’t got raped or murdered. 

So far as we can remember.

What perfection.



https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/summer-2020---on-the-road?fbclid=IwAR00HKFIeDPBRdEldNDVWeuhwaRzFzL9Zrq62YPiizJ_FpdFSs9_v9lpVZo