Janis Every time we listen, a little piece of her heart cries out. First published by CTU in Poetic Melodies, July 2016 https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692739750/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_awdo_z89Cxb1FSV4WV
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Dreamers The sun is standing still for them Standing still for the streams of dreamers. Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere else. From somewhere that has become nowhere. Dreaming of escape. Dreaming of a future, any future. Dreaming of better things to come. Dreaming of the life they once had. Dreaming of normality, whatever that means. Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. Dreaming of returning when the sun comes up again, if ever it does. First published in Expound, Issue 6, June 2016 http://expoundmagazine.com/issue-6/
Living Alone and Loving It I’m living alone and loving it, that I am. I had a good ‘un though, but wouldn’t want to train another. Takes years to train ‘em. That couple last night, what a one she was. You could see who was boss in that marriage. Ain't it funny that you picked up on it as well! I don’t like the shows, though. That magician was terrible. Worst I've seen. Mind you, magicians are old hat, In my opinion. Still, better than sitting on our own watching the telly. I think we only watch it out of boredom, being on our own. I wouldn’t want another, though. Well, I had such a good ‘un, it would’t be fair. Couldn’t believe it when she said: “I told my first that I’d divorce him if he got a pot belly and look what I’ve ended up with!” Must have hurt him! No equal partnership that! You could see she was boss. Fancy you picking up on it as well. Must have hurt him. Living alone and loving it...
The Place Where The Stars Are Buried I’m on my way to the place where the stars are buried under a roof of rain. I won’t get lost. I’m following the silver snail trails and the muddy pools with the little shimmers of spangles. When I get there - to the place where the stars are buried. I shall dig a little, dig just enough to let a glimmer of light out. Just enough to let the love sparkle and sizzle in the light before it burns. https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Circus-Age-Miracles-12/dp/1534600221/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1466611347&sr=1-10&keywords=midnight+circus
The Company of Butterflies In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and fly without boundaries. Flutter by and then rest in the sunshine and drink sweet nectar and dream and dream. In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and soar over fragile rainbows. Then stop in a fusion of colour to taste the gold at the end of my flight of fancy. In the company of butterflies I am boundless. https://algebraofowls.com/2016/06/24/the-company-of-butterflies-by-lynn-white/
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...
Motherly Love Monday, June 20, 2016 Lynn White I have spent a lifetime trying to break away, trying to break out, trying to find myself. Always on the edge, always on the outside, not quite a part, of it, not quite a beatnik, or a mod, hippy, or punk. I was early to realise that what she wanted me to be was what she had wanted for herself, about her, not me. I wanted to escape such love. I thought I could escape. I thought I had escaped. And I did, surely I did escape some of it. But not all. Not enough. So even now I feel tethered. After all this time of leaving her behind, I remain unsure of my own.
Part Of The Chorus “If I lived inside my dreams I could be most anything”, sang Ray Davies. It sounds personal when he lists the things he could have been, but I think it may be universal, a list of similar dreams that belongs to us all. Top of mine would be to sing. Not a singer on stage. On stage I’d be a dancer, or actor, No, I’d just be part of the audience, part of the chorus, in tune with the rest. joining in the Happy Birthdays - not God Save the Queen, though, that would be a step too far. But ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ at a football match would be cool. Just part of the chorus, able to meet the eyes of the rest without embarrassment. No one nudging me to sing more quietly. No one concerned that my discords would distract them from their tunefulness. A welcome voice, in the chorus, in tune with the rest. First published by Silver Birch Press, in My Imaginary Skill series, June 2016 https://sil...
Cabbage Dreams I am dreaming my cabbage dream. I’m peeling off the outer leaves to find what lies hidden beneath. Looks much the same as the outer leaf, a little less battered and crinkled but fundamentally the same. Now for the next layer. There’s a drop of water shining full of light and something darker, more solid, the leavings of some hidden creature. Another layer reveals the holes and the sleepy caterpillar dreaming... without his pipe without his crown, so unsure of his own identity, much less mine. If I peel off layer after layer until I get to the heart of it, will I understand where I’ve come from and be able to unpack the dream, find the pipe and put the pieces together, make sense of the cabbage, crown the king. First published in Poetry Breakfast, June 11, 2016https://poetrybreakfast.com/2016/06/11/cabbage-dreams-a-poem-by-lynn-white/
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://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2016/06/11/shades-of-the-same-skin-lynn-white/
Caught In A Moment Of Time Last night at the theatre I saw you again, your smile in a face so much younger. And I caught the moment stilled in shock and held on to it. I held it and the past held for another moment, our past, and then I freed it to fly away like a bird. First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, May 2016 http://pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/
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. First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, January 2016 http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/themusesgallery.html
After The End The sideboard was full of magazines. Not whole magazines but pages torn from them. Pages of recipes. Meals never eaten. Exotic desserts never attempted. Guest never invited or entertained. At least the furniture had been used, had had many years of use. The clothes had been worn, the pictures admired and enjoyed. But the recipes were the saddest thing. So many of them for so many people who never came. First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016 http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white