Thursday, 30 June 2016


Every time
we listen,
a little piece
of her heart
cries out.

First published by CTU in Poetic Melodies, July 2016

Wednesday, 29 June 2016


The sun is standing still for them
Standing still for the streams of dreamers.
Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere
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

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

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, I am.
Wouldn’t be fair to have another.
I’d be making comparisons.
He was so meticulous.
If he was taking something to bits
he’d make a drawing first
so he could put it back together.
No wouldn’t be fair.
Fancy us both picking up 
on that woman last night.
Yes, you can see who’s boss
in that marriage.
No, wouldn’t be fair to have another.

Living alone and loving it,
that’s what I am.

First published in Clockwise Cat, Clockwise Rain, June 2016
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.

Saturday, 25 June 2016

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.

Friday, 24 June 2016

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 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.

And we made it back home.
We had got lost a lot,
but hadn’t got raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
What perfection.

First published by Silver Birch Press, Perfect Vacation Series, August 2015

Tuesday, 21 June 2016

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

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
of it.

But not all.
Not enough.
So even now I feel tethered.
After all this time of leaving
her behind,
I remain
of my

Monday, 13 June 2016

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
A welcome voice,
in the chorus,
in tune with the rest.

First published by Silver Birch Press, in My Imaginary Skill series, June 2016

Saturday, 11 June 2016

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
without his pipe 
without his crown,
so unsure of 
his own
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, 2016

Ripples of time
gathering pace.
Working up to the wave
that crashed into me,
propelled me forward
and now sucks me back.
Thirteen decades.
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.
Fire and metal work.
Children who
would leave behind
the mud,
and country
for the dust
and smog.
For the city grime.
Streets and factories.
More fire and metal.
And what then?
Still poor.
What then?
What secrets lie in those ripples
of time
washing over me

Sunday, 5 June 2016

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
held on to it.
I held it
the past held
for another moment,
our past,
and then I freed it
to fly
like a bird.

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, May 2016

Saturday, 4 June 2016

I shouldn’t have done it.
I’ve always shunned
the spotlight,
always feared it.
Unlike the horses and dogs
who play the game,
do what’s expected
by their human providers,
by their audience.
I’ve always been afraid
of being seen
just in case
I was taken short
and golden notes
fell from my arse
and made
than the spotlight,
the lighting engineers.
I think we’re all the same,
we unicorns,
shy creatures.
That’s why we’ve
in dreams.
First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, January 2016

Thursday, 2 June 2016

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