Unresolved I know that nothing will be resolved, there will be no solutions. So I will make no resolutions, not this year, not next. No, no more. I shall free myself from the unresolved, throw the past up in the air and not bother to catch it on the way down. I’ll laugh as it fragments, as it disintegrates, as it falls about my feet. I’ll kick it out of the way as I resolve to move on and leave the unresolved behind me. https://tropicalacedmagazine.weebly.com/magazine
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Tulips Gleaming globes of gold, and scarlet and pink, the brightness of their colours masking the shadows within and the blackness at their heart. Too soon their coloured shapes will fly away like birds of paradise glistening in the sunlight, petals of paradise. But these are transient beauties already in their death throes as they soar, ready for the dusk to dull their colour. Ready to decay, to become dust, while their black hearts grow fat on what lies beneath, like the black crows that feast on the bright flesh of below them. Surviving to live another day. Surviving to make seed for another year. https://eventhorizonmagazinecom.files.wordpress.com/…/issue… https://eventhorizonmagazinecom.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/issue-2-free-pdf.pdf
Not Like Us That was us, the uncool fans of Alexis Korner and the Chants, who squeezed into the damp cellar to watch the Steel Band at the Jacaranda and walked home after, singing, arm in arm through the Red Light District. Who danced and smiled and winked and thumbs upped each other over the shoulders of future boyfriends, who didn’t know it yet. Who went to parties at 26a and ended up always, sitting on the floor with men we didn’t like very much, sharing their spliffs and listening to turgid conversation with increasing hilarity. Then laughing, laughing, laughing till they left in despair and we could stretch out and sleep where we were. Who hid our friend in the wardrobe when her many times ex boyfriend came to call, with his wide smile and black umbrella. He knew she was there. Well, we told him. We liked him a lot and knew she did too. He wanted her back and she wanted him back, but she stayed in the wardrobe and they missed their opportunity. Not like us, Not us. ...
Buzzing I can hear the flies buzzing since I died. In life I could shoo them away, open a window to persuade them through, though usually they were too stupid to grasp the chance of freedom offered and escape. Now there is no window to be opened. This is a closed space. Eternal night. No possibility of freedom, or escape. Not for me. Not for them. http://www.thestraybranch.org/previous-issues/20-fallwinter-2017/ "The Stray Branch" by #20 Vol 17 Poetry by...A. Marie Kaluza, Abigale Louise LeCavalier, Adam Levon Brown, Ainsley McWaters, Amber Tran, Amy Jacoby, Andrew Hubbard, Ayaz Daryl Nielsen, Betty J. Sayles, Bradford Middleton, Claudia Messelod,I Cody Robinson, Daginne Aignend, Daniel de Cullá, Debbie Berk, Dr. Emily Bilman, Erren Geraud... CREATESPACE.COM
Skull The skull lies desolate on the bare mountain side. Just lies there among the rocks. Lies still with a few accompanying bones. Each day it decays as wind and rain weather it and destroys its form and substance so that it wastes away and fades into the landscape and decays. If it had come to rest lower down the mountain it would have sunk into the boggy peat moss and risen with hair and hide intact with, the cause of death discernible, with its last meal of grass or rabbit still there inside its stomach. Preserved by nature. Preserved or wasted. It all depends on where you fall. https://tropicalacedmagazine.weebly.com/magazine https://tropicalacedmagazine.weebly.com/
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 where were replayed in my family. So much stres...
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 it’s 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. https://treehousearts.me/…/poetry-am-i-dreaming-red-roses-…/
The Breathing Days In the days when I still breathed air, 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? VerseWrights VerseWrights is a community for those who enjoy writing poetry, and who want to post their work for others to read, experience, and comment upon. The site is open to all who write and wish to join.
In This Space Concrete and glass, marble and stainless steel, reflecting distorted strollers, shoppers, passing each other by, walking purposefully or aimlessly, footfalls on spotless tiles—still damp from their overnight wash and brush up— phones between fingers or clamped to ears. So much space. No glimpse of narrow streets of tenements, courts and terraces, washing hanging and children playing or sitting on steps, women gossiping. No sounds and smells of human life nor animal—working or wild, not petted. No rattle of carts on cobbles. No noise and dirt, dust and fumes of workshops, docks and factories, spewing into this living space. But scratch the shiny surface, lift the cheap veneer, take up a tile. Look behind the facades of the people and you will find another place and its people living in this space. https://thewildword.com/lynn-white/
Angels Wings I am pondering the nature of angels wings. Fluttery things. Gossamer like powdery moths or butterflies, fluttering by. Or, feathered like a bird's. Made to hover and soar. To glide on the thermals, higher and higher, heavenwards. Not tight skin and bone like bat's or scaly like dragon's. Prehistoric. Long before the birds and the flutterbies. But, after than the angels, later than those fluttery things. So did the feathers come first and fall to earth becoming scales on the way down. How far did they fall before they left heaven and hit the ground flying to metamorphose and make a scaly shell of skin ready to burst and open dustily. Powdered. Clothed. Scaled like moths in clouds of dust Not so different then in the scales of things, those powdered creatures those fluttery things, those angels wings. https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/writer-highlight-fe…/ Writer Highlight Featuring: Lynn White Angels Wings I am pondering t...
Dragonfly It was so beautiful, gleaming huge and iridescent gold and green and blue and black. With wings that should have been clear, filled with shining rainbows not like this, twisted at strange angles and dulled with sticky silk. Not stuck there waiting to be prepared for some spider’s supper. I held it gently and took it from the web. I carefully removed the sticky silk and saw the rainbows sparkle as they should, saw it’s eyes brighten and gleam with the prospect of freedom. It took a while, this disentanglement, a delicate task to free this fragile creature. And when it was ready, I opened my fingers and let it fly away. It bit me then. No parting kiss, but a bite that left a bruise. Such gratitude! HerStory Blog 14 hrs · || N E W P O E M || The newest poem is up on the blog this afternoon. Go check it out.
Rebirth I’m ready for the birth of a new day. Ready for a pink dawn to rise and break full of possibilities, as the light takes over from the dark and the day is born again. And I shall follow the road towards the light, and leave the dark behind, again. But I have found that the dark always follows. Catches up with me, as if it were the past. If I hurry maybe I’ll escape it this time. Maybe I’ll catch the light and hold on to it and not let it break again. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Within-Darkness-Light…/…/B0761BGHKN Within Darkness & Light - A Collection of Poetry A collection of poetry reflecting upon the darkness and light of life that exists within this world of ours.What makes you want to shout out and share your emotions? Express your darkest times or your happiest moments? Let… AMAZON.CO.UK
Gloria I called the doll Gloria. I no longer know why. My father bought her for me on a trip to the seaside, on my first trip to the seaside. I was bored with the endless sand and the cold grey sea and with the effort of pretending to enjoy myself on my expensive treat, at the seaside. We went to a toyshop after and my father bought me the doll. I called her Gloria. I no longer no why. Perhaps it was the name he suggested. Or maybe my mother suggested it when I couldn’t decide. I don’t remember. But I remember the doll. She had real hair that I could comb. But it turned out to be plastic, nylon, I think. And after I had combed it a few times, the whole lot came off leaving her bald. Yes without her wig she was bald, my Gloria. https://visualverse.org/submissions/gloria/
Void There are clouded spaces so dark I can’t see into them. I have always been afraid that monstrous beings may lurk there, waiting. But now that the cloud is lifting, moving away, I am even more afraid, afraid of the light afraid it may reveal the bare boards. https://thewildword.com/lynn-white/ https://thewildword.com/lynn-white/ Lynn White - THE WILD WORD Lynn White's poems 'Void' and 'In This Space' THEWILDWORD.COM
Crossing Over Running downhill, on and on, the orange sun bearing down on me. Scorching me, burning me up until I come to a river cold with ice. Icy water flowing too fast. Too fast. Faster than I can run. Flaming under that bridge. A bridge to somewhere from here, from where I am. But where is here or there? And is the bridge real or a bridge of dreams. Or, a bridge for my dreams, leading nowhere. If I cross over will I plummet into the nowhere on the other side. Shall I try? Or shall I stay here running looking for the light until I find it. First published in Ramingo Magazine, Issue 1, 2017 https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue/dp/0998847658/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511617834&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Ramingo%27s+Porch
A Wish Come True When he was very young he was told that if he wished hard enough, his wish would come true. Later, much too late, he was told to be careful of his wishes, that sometimes they came true and were regretted. He often thought back to the tricycle, to how he tried to ride it over too rough ground and learned that even the most stable of things can topple and result in calamity. He no longer makes wishes now he knows. https://poetrybreakfast.com/…/a-wish-come-true-a-poem-by-l…/ https://poetrybreakfast.com/2017/12/05/a-wish-come-true-a-poem-by-lynn-white/ A Wish Come True – A Poem by Lynn White A Wish Come True – A Poem by Lynn White POETRYBREAKFAST.COM
One Day One day I’ll see through the mist. One day I’ll find you again and uncover what I let slip away and become lost in the fog and the forest. One day I’ll stop searching and greet the mist with a smile and watch it fade away before it envelops me. One day I’ll greet the sun again as the mist clears one day at a time. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Within-Darkness-Light…/…/B0761BGHKN https://www.amazon.co.uk/Within-Darkness-Light-Collection-Poetry/dp/1975631307 A collection of poetry reflecting upon the darkness and light of life that exists within this world of ours.What makes you want to shout out and share your emotions? Express your darkest times or your happiest moments? Let… AMAZON.CO.UK
Turn Of the Tide We must wait for the tide to turn. It will carry us away wave after wave gathering up the debris which surrounds us sucking it up like so much dust getting rid of it all, everything going with the flow. We must wait for the tide to turn. It will bring us home leaving new things there with us. Bits and pieces. Leaving them for us to find so that we can take what we need everything we want. Or should we swim against the tide? See where it takes us. We could try. It couldn’t be worse. http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/
Help Me Over Help me. Help me over. Help me cross. I can see the sky framed by debris, by rocks, by wire, by dereliction. Framed by sharpness and impenetrable barriers. I want to see it clear, clear and unblemished creamy white and pink and blue. Help me see it. Help me over. Help me cross. I want want to see it framed by trees, I want to see the rocks become flowers again. Help me. Help me over. Help me cross to the place where the birds are singing breaking up the sky with flight. Does it still exist, this place? I must think so. Help me find it. Help me. Help me over. Help me cross https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/writer-highlight-fe…/
Roundabout He picked us up near Torino, a dapper Frenchman with an impressive moustache. He was going to Nice. So were we! Such luck. One lift all the way from Torino to Nice. We settled back to enjoy the ride. We came to a roundabout. With gesticulations of frustration and twitches of his moustache, he missed the turning. We went round again and the next time, he missed it again. The third time we were ready to call out and point it out in good time. But with more expansive gesticulating and moustache twitching he still missed it. There were many roundabouts between Torino and Nice. We came to know them intimately. On arrival we were hugged and kissed in thanks for our help. Without us, who could say were he’d be. Not us, for sure! He invited us to accompany him to Monte Carlo the next day, if we would like to. Yes! We would like to! We turned up at the allotted time and place, but he never came. So, we never went to Monte Carlo. Possibly he never went there either. We imagine ...