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  Father and Sons No, they don’t want to visit, perhaps afraid they may be asked   to help out   with something, a little job   around the house, with anything really for the old man. No, they don’t want to call, perhaps afraid to listen, perhaps afraid they may be asked to think of someone   not themselves. or hear news not good. No, they don’t want to visit, perhaps afraid of the possibility of buying a lunch, when their company   alone should be enough, who knows if they think at all. No, calls stay unanswered. Perhaps in case of an emergency, the inconvenience of an emergency, so best not to answer   that call. Well, now it’s over. Finished and done. The end, in this world. Only immortality wrapped in a poem   remains. https://manicsylph.com/lit-ezine-vol-10-p-7-poetry-father-and-sons/
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  The silent fish  are screaming https://smolspoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
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  The Expert Shot I’m an expert shot. I can hit a child’s head   every time when I’m following orders and sometimes when I’m not. I’m an expert shot. I can hit a surgeon’s hand every time when I’m following orders and sometimes when I’m not. I’m an expert shot. I can hit a young man’s balls every time when I’m following orders and sometimes when I’m not. I’m an expert shot. I can hit a footballer’s foot every time when I’m following orders and sometimes when I’m not. I can do other things as well when I’m ordered and even when I’m not. https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2026/06/the-expert-shot.html
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  Silenced It’s all you can hear now the journalists are silenced. It’s all you can see now the placards are forbidden. It’s all you can hear now Other voices are silenced. It’s all you can see now the flags are forbidden. Truth lies buried in silence. https://poetrywivenhoe.org/2026/06/day-1298-silenced-white/
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  Blowing In The Wind It was a windy day in a windy city a long time ago. A sudden flurry made me into the vortex and I was surrounded by sheets of paper caught up and blown from a doorway. When it had settled,   I collected a few. They were letters applying for jobs dated about fifty years ago, I forget exactly when. All were hand written   in the most beautiful cursive scripts. I could visualise the care with which nibs had been dipped in ink, the concentration in the touch of pen to paper. These were the stuff of unknown dreams. The names are long forgotten now but I wonder what became of them, those ghosts of a past who touched my life in a flurry of wind only to be blown away. https://coldrambler.blogspot.com/2026/06/blowing-in-wind-by-lynn-white.html
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  White Moon Perhaps the dark time was passing even before the moon  scoffed  then swallowed eating up the dark and leaving a ring  of white moonlight for breakfast and spatters of spewed out stars, with baked slivers of silver thinly spread on sliced white bread for lunch. https://www.mockingowlroost.com/blog/dark-time-passing-white-moon/
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  No Skidding Swirling and curling like muted ringlets of tie dyed hair unbraided and free. Silent psychedelia   in waiting   for   a voice in waiting for colour   to come later.   Later. One step at a time dancing swirling, not skidding. https://www.lulu.com/shop/sueann-wells/hope-is-humanity/paperback/product-e7nz7mz.html?q=Hope+is+Humanity&page=1&pageSize=4
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