The Spark

There’s always a spark.

The spark.

The flash that ignites the fire.

Just a glow at first,

then a blaze.

Flames shooting out

randomly,

choosing their directions.

Out of my control.

Out of all control.

Creating and destroying

as it will.

Lynn White: A Tale Of Height and Light

Lynn White

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. Read the poetry of Lynn White Read a profile of Lynn White http://www.versewrights.com/

That Was Us

That was us

who wandered through Europe without maps or money, 

or sense of direction.

Who got lost a lot, 

but didn’t get raped or murdered. 

So far as we can remember.

Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free. 

Who got up early (too cold to sleep),

and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere 

for the first time in many years.

Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried,

explaining carefully in languages we did not speak, 

why this was necessary. 

Who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French 

failed to understand the policemen’s demands,

‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’

Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared.

‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’ 

Sod off! 

That was us

who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe,

because he said we could.

And 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.

Who 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 fantasise 

about the ice cold mountain water streaming through the streets of Pec,

and even about the water pump in the garden. 

Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts and sandals 

and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy Andorra,

at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy voices and fat wallets,

inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us drinks and hot food,

to warm us up, they said.

No chance! 

No class traitors, us! Not us, 

Not us.

They’re not like us, 

these two old women in the mirror 

wearing our jeans and our smiles.

Not us, 

they can’t be us.

Not us.

Not us.

Michel

Traveling through northern France

with Michel driving.

The Beatles singing on the radio,

“Michelle, my belle”.

A sky of uniform grey,

dark, dark grey.

And then,

a surprise rainbow.

And then,

to one side,

a helicopter 

outlined black.

Mosquito like.

Black.

And then,

I bottled it.

I can still remember.

First published in Silver Birch Press, Song Series,

Reprinted in http://entropymag.org/variations-on-a-theme-michel/

In The End

In the end 

I’ll be like you.

Dust with

flakes of skin and bone

wrapped in long hair.

Teeth chattering

With no voice.

No sense of taste

or smell.

No reason.

In the end

we'll be invisible,

impenetrable,

anonymous,

figments.

But then, we always were

you and I,

we always were.

First Published in In Flight Magazine, Paper Plane Pilots, January 2015

Dream Catchers

These hairy, feathery, stringy things
are supposed to catch my dreams,
but I don’t believe it.
I’ve hung them above my bed and
inspected them carefully in the morning
but I’ve never found a dream caught
in them,
Not even a tiny dreamlet.
No,
they’re just a trick,
a deception, to make me feel
I can capture them and relive them
when I want to.
But I can’t.
No one can ever go back to a dream.

https://poetrybreakfast.com/

Revolution

Round and round, 

the grinning, gaudy horses 

galloping 

round and round

on the merry go round.

Round and round,

but the grins are faded now 

and the once bright horses 

drab and disheveled 

staggering and lurching.

Round and round 

on the treadmill 

of the merry go round.

Round and round.

Round and round.

Just one more revolution

and they'll be ready.

Ready

to bite the hands

that refused to feed them.

Round and round.

Round and round.

Only one more revolution,

to sharpen up the teeth. 

Round and round,

just one more revolution

on the not so merry go round.

Reprinted in Quail Bell 2016

First published in Ealain, Karma issue, December 2015

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-revolution

Summer in Gaza

In the rain of the rockets

there’s no water.

Metal rain.

In the rain of the rockets

there’s no sunshine.

Smoke rain.

Black rain.

In the rain of the rockets

there’s no life.

Death rain.

Life ending rain.

Death without life rain.

In the rain of the rockets

there’s no hope.

Deaf rain.

Deaf rain.

Deaf rain.

Death rain.

http://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/the-poeteer.html

A Grey Place?

This is a grey place, 

there's no denying.

Grey slate, grey granite,

grey houses built of both.

And it rains a lot, there's no denying.

Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain

falling greyly from heavy misty clouds.

But when caught by a sunbeam

it makes glistening slides 

shimmering across the slate 

and falls in bright white tails 

or snakes like silver

where the mountains leak it.

And spills heavily over rocks,

it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed 

cascades catching rainbows as they crash

then spitting them back out 

in a fine spray of colours.

And now there's no grey 

in the dark blue, black sky 

filled with gold and silver twinkles.

No grey at all in this place now,

there's no denying.

First published by Silver Birch Press in Where I Live Series 2015

Reprinted in Shades Of The Same Skin

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shades-Same-Skin-Donna-Sanders/dp/0692679871

Wild Fruit

I like the wild berries best.

Juice spilling over.

Bursting,

staining my tongue purple

or my lips red.

Each one a new sensation.

A little harder to come by,

than the bland clones,

the cultivars.

A bit more of a struggle.

And, it must be said,

not always sweet.

One never knows

with these wild fruits.

With each taste comes

a surprise.

Spit out the sour,

take in the sweet.

Such joy!

Oh yes!

the wild berries are the best.

First Published in The Dawntreader, Summer 2015

Ground Force Gaza

Another volley of stones.

It’s frightening.

Lucky we’re protected 

with our body armour.

Lucky we’re safe inside our tanks.

Frightening though.

So many stones.

Such big rocks lobbed 

by such little people.

We’re not allowed to kill them

if they’re under twelve.

And orders are orders.

But it’s difficult to tell

sometimes.

Could be worse though.

Could be in a war zone

with phosphorous flying

and armour piercing shells

doing more then scratch the paint.

We could be fried alive in our tanks

then.

But now,

here,

only us can do the frying.

First published by Vagabond Press in The Border Crossed Us - An Anthology To End Apartheid, October 2015

http://www.vagabondbooks.net/p/blog-page_13.html

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.

reprinted in Piker Press 

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6268

The Circus of My Dreams

In the circus of my dreams
the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up,
flashing their rainbowed hooves,
pointing with their golden horns,
with their unique golden horns.
Then, ridden by Leprechauns,
they’re dancing round and round
the circle of the ring.
Kicking up the gold dust ground
from their droppings into
shimmering sawdust.



In the circus of my dreams
there is a rainbow.
A rainbow which has painted
their hooves with it’s light
as they climbed their way up
and slid their way down
to the crock of gold at the end.
Time for the little people to dismount
and mould the gold into hearts of love.
Time for the unicorns to use the gold
to nurture and replenish
their golden horns, their unique
golden horns.

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger 'Leprechauns and Love'

http://www.pilcrowdagger.com/issues/

Sweet Heart

He’d seen it glint earlier

when a shaft of light hit

the open box.

He kept watch till they left.

Back now, still watchful.

Turn his head this way,

then that. 

No cats.

No humans.

Upturned the box 

and seized his prize

glinting gold among the dull

browns and creams.

Carried it off.

Then carried it home,

a home now fit for his new lover,

his sweet heart.

But he didn’t unwrap it.

Didn’t discover the greater prize

lying under the surface glitter.

Didn’t find the jewel 

of sweetness in the centre.

Soon life dulled the surface glitter,

screwed it up.

And  the sweet heart 

melted in the warmth,

Melted into sticky goo.

Melted away as

sweet hearts do.

In Quail Bell - Unreal  http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-sweet-heart

Ten Minutes

In the next ten minutes I have to go, 

and you can’t let me just walk 

out of your life again.

Can’t let you! Can’t stop you, I said,

and I won’t try, won’t try.

How can I? What should I do?

Follow you from place to place?

Sit outside your house and chance 

being turned away, by someone?

I don’t know where it is, in any case

and I don’t want to know.

So what’s it to be? A thread?

An occasional e mail to keep in touch? 

I don’t think so!

Our lives are so distant in every way,

how to join them up?

The trick would be to store the memories

and leave behind the sense of loss.

Ditch the sadness.

But we’ve tried before. And failed.

And we’re running out of years.

If we meet a next time, 

the chances are

we’ll be to old to care.

We need to achieve a modus vivendi, 

that will at least allow 

our lives to touch each other.

Nothing less?

And, in the next ten minutes!

I said.

First published in Leannan, Lovers issue 2015

http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Leann%C3%A0n/Art/?

Separate Development

We must develop separately, you and I,

you on your side, me on mine.

The wall between us

unscalable,

impenetrable,

unfathomable.

They built it so.

We must undermine it, you and I,

you on your side, me on mine,

Burrow beneath  

the rocky foundation,

scratch away,

one stone at a time.

Wall fall down.

First published in The Miscreant, Issue 8

http://miscreantmagazine.com/2016/04/02/two-poems-8/

http://www.withpaintedwords.com/

     Am I Dreaming?

Is this a dream, a mirage?

I could be sleeping.

I was looking out on trees

with rooks calling and nesting

when I started to eat 

my picnic.

But am I asleep now?

The trees are dancing,

but no longer trees.

Young people from another time

are dancing to the music,

swaying to the music of the crows.

No longer crows though,

but fiddlers and singers

making raucous music

for the dancing.

So am I dreaming?

The cheese is real though,

and I’m still eating.

I’m still chewing the bread 

and drinking the wine.

And I can feel a stone

against my back, 

digging into me.

I’m sleepy now though.

Will they be there when I wake?

Or will I come back into life

to see the trees and rooks 

as I clear away my picnic

and pack up.

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-am-i-dreaming

Beached

He’s standing on the beach

with a small suitcase.

Not sure if he’s coming or going,

if it’s an arrival or departure.

It’s unclear.

It’s unclear

if the suitcase is full 

or if it’s empty.

Once he packed it full

of his dreams, but now

it’s unclear

if any remain.

If any remain caught

in the lining, perhaps.

Or if all have been carried away

and are gone forever on a storm tide,

or washed up and buried in the sand.

It’s unclear.

All that is clear

is the emptiness 

of a long horizon.

First published in Paper Planes Inflight Magazine, Spring 2016

http://inflightlitmag.com/issues/issue7/

Lotus

If in the afternoon I come upon a land

and find the lotus blooming there,

I wonder if I will recognise it’s flowers and fruits.

I wonder if I will remember it’s story.

And in the evening, after sniffing the fragrance

of the flowers and tasting the fruit,

will I have forgotten

to wonder.

First published in The Miscreant Issue 8 

http://miscreantmagazine.com/2016/04/02/two-poems-8/