Poetry - Lynn White

Mirror, Mirror Mirror, mirror, tell me, who do you see? Is she white, snow white, whiter than white, fairer than fair. White as virgin snow unbroken by footprints, unblemished, unsullied. Or is her snowy white greying as time passes, picking up some of the dirt in passing. Maybe darker still in places as its whiteness decays and melts away. Tell me, mirror, who do you see? https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/mirror-mirror-poe…/

The Bucket Man I saw the Bucket Man today, Upside down, his head in his bucket, his arms folded tight to entertain the crowd. “It’s my living”, his sign says, “puts a roof over my head”. Such focus and fitness, such determination, such imagination, such creativity. Will it lead him him to a different place, one day, this man and his bucket? And what if his parents were wealthy and had sent him to Eton or Harrow, What then for the Bucket Man? Such focus and fitness, such determination, such imagination, such creativity. Would it lead to a different place for this man and his bucket? But he does well, it seems. And for every coin in the bucket there’s a ‘thank you’ and a thumbs up from an arm released from it’s fold. He’s a popular entertainer, on facebook now and Twitter. So, what if one day his head meets up with the treasure in his bucket? Will he kick his bucket away and pay to send his kids to Eton or Harrow, What then for the Bucket Man, would he still have his head in a buc...

The Hoopoes Are Back The hoopoes are back, even though the walls and holes they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders four years ago, when there was a housing boom and money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders three years ago, even though, there was no market for nests and no money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were washed away two years ago, as the walls which stopped the storm flow were destroyed by human nest builders, to prepare the ground for money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though their nesting places are hidden, buried under growing mountains of rubble brought by the human nest builders a year ago as there is no demand for human nests and no money to be made, except from rubble. Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them! The hoopoes are back! http://www.stor...

The Lighthouse I was a little crazy to buy the old lighthouse. I knew it at the time. But I wanted to be somewhere, somewhere where I could shine, shine lamps out into the vastness, shine like a beaming beacon. And it was so high. It matched my mood and then some. Higher than high. Higher than high. There was no housewarming. No one came. There was no one to come. So, only I could relish the exposure. Only I could walk round the top of the tower and look over the edge into the dark deep depths. Only I could see the swimmer, a mermaid, surely? waving. Or was she beckoning as she approached the mooring. Only I could come spiraling down. Come down from the heights to open the door, to run down the steps to the mooring. And then the lamps went out. http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=946

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Unicorn I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve always shunned   the spotlight, always feared it. Unlike the horses and dogs   who play the game,   perform, do what’s expected by their human providers,   by their audience. I’ve always been afraid   of being seen onstage just in case I was taken short and golden notes fell from my arse and made   rainbows brighter   than the spotlight, upsetting the lighting engineers. I think we’re all the same, we unicorns, shy creatures. That’s why we’ve   survived, hiding in dreams. http://www.pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/?platform=hootsuite

Dandelion Seed There's a dandelion seed caught in your hair. A fluffy wisp of white and grey hanging there, suspended in your frothy crown. A shimmering seed held like a star in a wiry halo made by the light. Blow it away. Perhaps you will, if I tell you it's there. Blow it away. But it looks so beautiful suspended there. I won't tell you. I'll just admire it's beauty as it hangs in your hair. Blow it away. No, I won't. It will leave soon enough. Best not to rush these things. Who knows where they will end up after all. https://www.ucm.es/siim/jaclr-volume3-issue2

Little Sister Lost I woke in the sunshine and salvaged my book from the damp grass. I stretched.. I looked around.. She wasn’t there. I looked behind the stone, then under it. A pretty blue mouse scurried from under, but no little sister. Then I thought  of the rabbit hole under the tree where the scraggy, stripy cat had spat and snarled at us  earlier. I found the tree and the rabbit hole. Was she down there? It was too small for me to go. I shouted down and scraped and scraped and scraped to make it bigger. A rabbit would do better with it’s big feet. A rabbit, like the one standing behind me with such big strong feet. Help me. Help me. He sniffed disdainfully and removed one hand  from the pocket of his purple fur jacket to brush the soil I’d splatted on his white velvet breeches. Such big strong feet for digging. Help me. Help me. Help me. He gave me his spade. I start...

Christmas Tree Trimming the tree was a Christmas Eve ritual in my family. Each year my cousin would come to help my mum. They would carefully take the glass baubles from the box that used to hold her big doll called Topsy. Then they would put them all in their special place in my family. “No the elephant doesn’t go there, that’s where the peacock should be and the Christmas pudding goes above.” Everything had it’s place on the Christmas tree in my family. There were shiny miniature crackers never to be pulled and curly, coloured candles never to be lit, for economy. No tinsel was allowed for that was cheating. Only baubles to cover the tree, hiding the green. The glass baubles had belonged to my cousin, so had the tree. And earlier, to her mother and granny, all in my family. The only family to fall out over trimming a tree, my cousin’s husband used to say with some truth, as every year the arguments as to which bauble should go wh...

End of the Season The season of wrinkles  and over ripeness has arrived  too soon. Shriveled buds.  Fruits bursting open, their seeds drying out, beginning to crinkle and wrinkle. Beginning to split and break. Beginning to moulder and dribble with damp. Their past spring  a distant dream. Or not remembered at all. Faded away like the fresh shoots of hopeful green growth. Even the memories of the  florid, blowzy summer’s blooms are fading. Fading fast and faster. Perhaps this season of dry  dampness has been here a while and I haven’t noticed. It’s been approaching a long time. Slow at first imperceptible. Speeding up, then quickening. But still imperceptible almost unnoticeable as everything slows down quickly. So quickly now. I think that winter has arrived. The season is over, finished lost  beyond returning. First published in Writers E...

Shadows I think I am less afraid of the dark than of the light. I can hide in the dark, seek comfort there. The light is a different matter. Exposing that which should be hidden. Shining into my hidden places and yours, exposing us to view. I am afraid to see these hidden places. Afraid of what the light will reveal in me and you. What lies beneath the skin is best hidden in the dark, lost in the shadows where it should be. I don't know what the light may reveal only that I'm afraid to see it. http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/themusesgallery.html