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       Maud I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. She never grew old, never even grew up. My father cried.. I never knew her, never even knew of her. But I know now. I have a photograph so I can see her, picture her as she was. And I won’t forget that I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. file:///Users/davidmarks/Downloads/Up!%20February%202024%20Edition.pdf
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  St George And The Dragons A long time ago St George killed all the dragons in England. All of them, the black ones,  the green ones and the white. He killed all the dragons in Sweden and in the Middle East. He killed all of them, the black ones, the green ones and the white. But the red dragons defeated him, hid in the rainy Welsh mountains. Leapt out and ambushed him. Bent his sword with the heat of their fire. Ate up his horse, so that he had to run away, slipping and sliding over the wet rocks, into the muddy dense wood in fear. Yes,  the red dragons defeated him and left him hiding in his cave, in fear. So,  come for a walk with me. This is the dragon’s country. They are very shy these days, even though St George is long gone and they have nothing to fear. Come for a walk with me and I will show you dragons when I find them. I know that it’s only a matter of time. https://edgeofhumanity.com/2024/02/19/st-george-and-the-dragons/
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  Help Me Over Help me. Help me over. Help me cross. I can see the sky   framed by debris, by rocks, by wire, by dereliction. Framed   by sharpness and impenetrable barriers. I want to see it clear, clear and unblemished creamy white and pink and blue. Help me see it. Help me over. Help me cross. I want want to see it framed by trees, I want to see the rocks become flowers   again. Help me. Help me over. Help me cross   to the place where the birds are singing breaking up the sky with flight. Does it still exist, this place? I must think so. Help me find it.   Help me. Help me over. Help me cross https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2024/02/19/help-me-over-by-lynn-white/
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  Caged Birds Singing She asked me why the caged birds sang. I couldn’t tell her, not for sure. No mate will arrive this year, just like last year. I wonder if they remember, perhaps they still live in hope.  She asked me if they heard the bombs falling and if they felt fear. I couldn’t tell her,  not for sure. Perhaps peace will arrive this year, unlike last year. I wonder if they remember peace, perhaps they still live in hope as we all do here  where the bombs never stop falling.  She asked me if they knew they brought us comfort. “I think that’s why  they still sing,” I said. https://newversenews.com/
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  Luck Of The Irish The Irish love their horses. It’s a long tradition which survives city living among young working class people in parts of Dublin, people seemingly like me. They take them along the streets, into supermarkets, on buses, even up in the lift to their new home  on the balcony of an apartment. The stories are legion. And the Irish love their stories. But I was not like them. I couldn’t be part of that story. I find horses just too big, too strong, too high from the ground. Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid I’d take a tumble from the saddle or be nudged and trampled into the sand. I was sure that it was only  by the luck of the Irish that I survived. Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish. But I know for certain now that when I join that wild eyed horse on the balcony the luck of the Irish is bound to desert me. https://4fpcityliving.blogspot.com/search?q=lynn+white
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  This Place The buildings line the street of the city. Such bright colours lining the street a living place. But if I should transform the cars, into their metal box shapes. If I should paint out their windows and doors,  and the windows and doors of the buildings in the street, it would leave me  with coloured squares and rectangles dividing blue from green or white with no life left there. No place, no place for me no place for life at all. https://4fpcityliving.blogspot.com/search?q=lynn+white
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  Rhythms Of Time Rhythms  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. City living 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 rhythms of time washing over me now. https://4fpcityliving.blogspot.com/search?q=lynn+white