Caged

It’s pleasant enough 

wandering these pathways

flanked by the tall rectangular cages, 

each protected by a steel door

with a security code.

Even pleasanter later, 

when the cages become 

walled enclosures of decorative brick, 

surrounding green spaces.

Intricate metal gates protect them

with a security code.

Occasionally a creature may emerge,

sometimes with barred teeth

and raised claws.

But mostly looking sad 

and out of condition.

Lost inside themselves.

Poor things.

Lost souls

searching.

Mostly though, I encounter them outside.

Moving purposefully to a destination,

not free to take random pathways, like me.

Or desperately heading back to their cages,

hoping there is no diversion 

which may leave them lost.

Leave them to encounter the

terror of the unforeseen

circumstances 

that might arise

from freedom.

Freedom 

to be lost.

Poor things.

Lost souls

in or out 

of their

zoo.

http://www.highpoint.edu/library/files/2016/06/2016-Apogee-Spring.pdf

How Will I Know You

How will I know you,
the man behind the mask.
I can recognise you
with the mask in place.

And sometimes it may slip and reveal ....
another layer, another mask, perhaps
masquerading as an unguarded comment
wearing stage clothes, even if naked.

You are in there somewhere.
But even though I peel off
layer after layer,
uncover
mystery after mystery
I still never find you.

First Published in Firewords Quarterly, Issue 6, 2016

http://firewords.co.uk/shop/digital/issue6

                            Through the Glass

Alice saw herself in her looking glass

and walked through

into a topsy turvy world where

everything was back to front and inside out.

She drifted into a dreamscape

of madness and unreality, 

without breaking the glass.

Uncut by the shards of her mirror 

or the place she entered into.

She had only to wake to make 

things the right way round again.

But walking through a clear glass,

a transparent window,

it would have been different.

Her reflection would float 

towards a place where everything 

seemed the right way round.

Where everything made sense

and added up sweet with reason.

A place without madness,

which looked easy to enter

and had no sharp edges.

Apparently.

But this glass forms an invisible barrier

to the other side and the life

that seduces and entices her.

And to get through she has to break the glass,

whose sharp edges cut her

and propel her crazily into a place

where she cannot wake.

A jagged, topsy turvy place 

where everything spins round wildly.

Where caricatures of humanity scream out

trying to make sense of it.

Front to back and outside in.

Everything is the wrong way round again.

Published in Silver Birch Press 2015 and Anomalie

http://www.versewrights.com/

VEILED

Lynn White

I wear my hair
like a veil
covering all.
Covering all that
is not already covered
and needs to be,
they insist.
But it is not enough.
I can still see 
when it parts
and still be seen.
I can still move
freely.
It is not enough,
they insist.
I need the mask
of the broad, blue
blindfold
to tether me,
they insist.
And I wonder,
will this be enough?

98

http://visualverse.org/

First published in Visual Verse, July 2016

Miss Pass

My first best friend was Susan.
We were inseparable.
Soon we would be starting school.
Starting at the same school.
It shouldn't be a problem.
But Susan was three months older
and this was a problem.
She must start earlier
and we would be parted.
Unthinkable!!
Such concern from our parents.
But all was well.
It wouldn't be a problem.
And all thanks to Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a wonderful woman
who understood the feelings 
of small children.
We could start together
and in the same class.
She was a shining example 
to teachers everywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.

But a few days later 
when we had settled in,
disaster struck.
We were to be in different classes.
Such tears and trauma
as we hugged and kissed
and said goodbye at our pegs
in the cloakroom
each morning and afternoon.
And all because of Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a stupid woman
who had no idea about the feelings
of small children
and should never have been allowed
to be a teacher anywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.





- See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6305#sthash.y92oq327.dpuf

Every Breath

It's interesting to consider that

every breath I take

has already been breathed by

someone else,

another person or creature.

Been part of their breath.

Perhaps that dog over there, 

smelly and hairy, 

licking it's own arse.

I would prefer not to have 

molecules of oxygen from it's breath

entering my blood stream, 

giving me life.

But there's nothing

I can do about it.

Have to take what comes.

Breath the air that's there

wherever it's been before.

Rebellion is not an option.

https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

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.

First published in Harbinger Asylum, Literary Review, October, 2015

https://treehousearts.me/

Excuse Me

The bus didn’t come.
The dog ate the cat.
The bath overflowed.
The egg exploded
in the pan.
It’s too hot to go out,
or too cold.
I’ve a pain in my head,
or my arse,
or my nose.
Excuses.
Excuses.
Please,
no more
excuses.
You don’t like your work,
or your spouse,
or your life.
But
no more excuses,
please no more
excuses.
You can
change all or some.
refocus what’s left.
But,
no more
excuses.
Please
no more
excuses,
excuses.
excuses.

https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

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.

http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/wild-fruit-by-lynn-white-wales.html

      Soundtrack

The music of my youth still sings to me.

Inside my head it still plays Dylan and Baez

as part of our song, our time, our places. 

Subversive music, coming from the streets.

Out of tune with the surround sound monotone.

Undermining it with a discordant challenge.

Harmony and discord, 

the songs of peace and love

sitting side by side with war and revolution.

Then as now they still speak to us, 

still sing in tune

The lyrical passion of the words, 

the movement music of  the songs, 

has crossed our time and space.

Melodies of movement 

which still can break our boundaries

and join us back together.

Moving rhythms which still excite

and words which dance for us.

These moving patterns on a page,

have make different music now,  

wrapped in our emotions and melodies

which have few boundaries 

and are timeless and placeless 

when in tune with changing times,

which for us, can be any time at all.

https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Hall/dp/0692739750/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1467208784&sr=8-2&keywords=Creative+Talents+Unleashed

Sunshine and Shadows

There are black clouds lingering over me.

Casting shadows.

Even though

there’s a big red sun above 

shinning down on me.

Warming my face.

Caressing me.

reminding me of other sunshine days

when the rays beamed more sweetly.

The clouds make today too close,

too hot,

yesterday too far away.

And the rays are stabbing me sharply.

Hurting me.

No longer warm and sweet

but hot and sour. 

Piercing me. 

Cutting me like icy splinters.

Because there’s cold there as well,

coming from somewhere.

This sun is too bright for me to see clearly,

too red and swollen,

like my eyes feel now.

Heavy.

Black with shadows.

So I’m waiting for the rain to fall.

Fall away.

Drop by drop until they’re empty and cold.

And I’m waiting for more cold days to come.

And I’m waiting for the empty clouds to pass 

and the sun to shine again

and warm me

if it can.

https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

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.

http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/

The Breathing Days

In the days when I still breathed,

the days before 

living took my breath away,

the days before 

I knew my soul was there.

I thought about this time,

this time of no light,

the forever night time

with no breath, no air 

to breathe.

Just dust and darkness.

And I pondered.

Would there be slow decay 

or fast.

Stillness or movement.

Now I know.

I know everything about

the dust and darkness.

But I can't tell you.

Not now

in these days 

of no breath, 

no air

to speak.

Only my soul can speak.

Can you hear me?

First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, July 2016

https://issuu.com/fragmentsofchiaroscuro/docs/fragments03_v07

English Language

Times change and language changes with them.
Lost now is the singularity of the second person,
recognisably archaic and unmourned in our time,
but controversial and contested as it declined.
Many heads were shaken at this innovation
in communication.

Words change in meaning, and in emphasis
so extreme obscenities become modest curses,
part of everyday speech and then positive adjectives
as time passes.

Sentences can now begin with ‘and’ and ‘but’
and no longer need to have a verb inside them.
So, new devices for emphasis and meaning form
as language and literature renews themselves,
clearly legible.

Commas can come before ‘and’ and
confusing apostrophes are dying out.
Colons and semi-colons are under threat.
They have lost their way with new generations.
The dustbin of history is open for them
to enter.

There they will join the ‘thous’, ‘alacks’ and ‘gazooks’
of our past, to be only remembered by scholars.
But relax, chill, German has already lost it’s future.
English may be next,
and these losses will also be mourned
by no one in our future.

First published in JACLR, July 2016

https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

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 by Silver Birch Press, Perfect Vacation Series, August 2015

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

Beauty Parlour

Step inside my parlour,

my pampering parlour. 

You will be remade, reborn,

stroked and smoothed,

petted and prodded,

cosseted and curled,

given the attention you deserve

as well as a new face

and shiny new hair.

In Pampers Parlour we’ll recreate you.

We’ll reboot your confidence

and give you a new chemistry

as we gloss your hair and lips.

As we shape your face

with new shadows and glows.

As we apply layer upon layer

of chemical shit topped by

nose retching fragrances.

You won’t know yourself when 

you step outside 

dolled up to perfection,

protected in your new mask.

And what then?

Will you go home 

and comb it all out

and wash it all off,

preferring, 

after all, 

the person,

with the old skin

and fresh air colour

to the new robotic doll.

The pampers product is 

designed to be disposable, 

after all.

Or will you keep it 

as long as you can..

Try not to move your new face.

Try not to upset your new hair.

Place a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign

on your forehead.

Keep it as long as you can.

Even if stinky and crusty,

you’ll still have your face on.

https://guidetokulchur.com/all-titles/

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.

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

                 Harmony

We began so well, so in tune,

catching the notes dropped by angels

and playing with them before they fell,

creating a perfect harmony.

But then, we started to miss a few notes

which fell, crashing into our rhythms,

disrupting the flow of our music, 

upsetting our harmony.

Just a few at first, 

but they violated our space,

causing us to miss our step and

almost fall ourselves.

Then, bar after bar came tumbling down.

Cascades of discords raining down between us.

No longer dropped by angels. 

Surely not?

Now we are finished and falling tunelessly.

Lost.

Loudly separated by discords.

Floundering in the storm.

Our past melodies out of reach,

devoid of  harmony.

https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Hall/dp/0692739750/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1467208784&sr=8-2&keywords=Creative+Talents+Unleashed

       Soundtrack

The music of my youth still sings to me.

Inside my head it still plays Dylan and Baez

as part of our song, our time, our places. 

Subversive music, coming from the streets.

Out of tune with the surround sound monotone.

Undermining it with a discordant challenge.

Harmony and discord, 

the songs of peace and love

sitting side by side with war and revolution.

Then as now they still speak to us, 

still sing in tune

The lyrical passion of the words, 

the movement music of  the songs, 

has crossed our time and space.

Melodies of movement 

which still can break our boundaries

and join us back together.

Moving rhythms which still excite

and words which dance for us.

These moving patterns on a page,

have make different music now,  

wrapped in our emotions and melodies

which have few boundaries 

and are timeless and placeless 

when in tune with changing times,

which for us, can be any time at all.

First published by Amomancies, Americana issue, 2015

https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Ha…/…/ref=sr_1_2…

        Don’t Go

When I’m with you

I feel I am whole.

Captured and completed.

Engulfed by you.

When you kiss me

all my fears disappear

in the kiss.

Where do they go?

I don’t know.

Do you wrap them round your tongue

and swallow them whole?

I don’t know.

I only know the comfort

I feel, such peace.

So don’t go.

Don’t go.

Please,

don’t

go.

http://montykessler.wix.com/http#!love-poems/c184j