Turning to Ice

Snowflakes lit by sunbeams
blowing gently,
fragile as shadows
making rainbows in the sun.
Smiling in the soft light.
So soft.
So soft.
Catch them quickly in your hair
to melt them.
Time has past and
they're already harder now,
even though the sun
is still shining and smiling.
Blindingly bright.
Crunchy crystals.
Jewels
glistening still.
Shining like diamonds,
but harsh
in the sunlight
while it lasts
Cooler now as
the light starts fading.
The surface is melting.
Shiny where the sun
still catches,
but fading,
giving way to ice.
Losing it's smile.
And we're skidding, sliding
beyond control.
slipping away,
blinded by tears of ice.

http://spillwords.com/turning-to-ice/

https://spillwords.com/turning-to-ice/

Soul Searching

Will I find you shining still
among the sharp pinpoint stars
gleaming gold and silver?
Or shall I search the ocean
and find your spirit
buried down there
amongst the sand and pebbles?

Perhaps I should comb the beach
raking through it’s silver grains
and broken shells.
Only your restless soul could
have washed up briefly there.
You never liked beaches with
their sandwiches of sandy bites
and the boredom of sun seeking.
No you wouldn’t stay there.
I wouldn’t find you there.

You were always the deep one,
so maybe I should look deeper,
deep into the blue black night
beyond the white milkiness
into the sweet soft starlight.
There would be a place
for your soul to hide
and I could join you
and rest a while,
a long while
with you

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/writer-highlight-fe…/

On the Edge

I’m standing on the edge,
on the rim
of the perimeter,
on the outside, looking....

I’m not sure where I’m looking,
outwards over the horizon
or inwards to the inner depth,
the inside of something.

The inner void or the outer space.
Face or about face.
But there’s no confusion.
Both faces are the same,
I think...

Can somewhere be full
of emptiness?

http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/poetry-by-lynn-white

http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/poetry-by-lynn-white

May Queen

They crowned her the queen of May,

the little girl.

Chose her for her purity. 

Pure and white and smiling.

Unblooded.

Golden curls

held by red ribbons,

and entwined with flowers

topped with sweet smelling may.

Spring is here,

you see.

New shoots springing into life,

so we’re ready to be

reborn and ready to play

the game.

Ready for the circle.

Ready to go

round and round again.

Like the dancers she watches

weaving their ribbons round

the maypole.

The maypole phallus they’ve planted 

in the ground and

bedecked with ribbons.

Red and white.

Red and white ribbons of menstrual blood 

and semen.

Round and round

She watches from her throne.

Round and round.

Then come the Morris Men.

Bells jangling their presence.

Sticks clashing with their power.

Flags waving

to announce 

their virility.

They crowned her the queen of May,

the little girl.

A crown of sweet blossom

and hidden thorns.

https://thewomaninc.com/2017/03/23/may-queen/

First Published by Community Arts Ink, Reclaiming Our Voices, 2015

Waiting

I’m not waiting for ageing or changing,
for growing,
restoring, or
recreating
the mask.

I’m not waiting for structures to collapse
and reform
and reshape
and remake
themselves
from the ruins.

I’m not waiting for the revolution
in thinking,
in acting,
in feeling,
to happen
when the walls finally fall.

No.
I’ll dig the tunnels.

Then I’ll wait.
Wait for you
to scramble through
to greet me
then we’ll be away,
through
with our waiting.

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

Release

I could have come home sooner,
Made the journey home.
but that home would not have been my home.
I could have joined you sooner,
but you would have to leave your home
and join me in a place
that could never be our home.
So I stayed.
I stayed
and stayed.
I stayed
longer.
As long
as it took
for you
to come home
and become the person
that you once were.

First published in Writers Ezine, March 2017
http://mag.writersezine.com/

https://issuu.com/writersezine/docs/march_2017_issue

Bury Me Deep

Bury me deep in the tall meadow grass
and bury me deep in your arms.
Lie with me here in the sun ripening flowers
where the blue of the sky hides the clouds.

Bury me deep in your cool white sheets
and kiss my eyes and my mouth.
And as the warmth of your body flows in to mine
I’ll bury you deep in my arms.

Oh, bury me deep beneath darkening skies
and hold me close to your heart.
And buried deep with our love complete
we’ll sleep covered over in stars.

But the future lies with us heavy and dark.
It has bitter sweet memories of now.
With the tastes of the past buried deep in our love
the tastes of the future are sharp.

I can see both the stars and the blackness of night,
the blindness and brightness of love.
The past and the future cast shadows of time
so bury me deep in your love.

And bury me deep in the tall meadow grass
and I’ll bury you deep in my arms.
And lie with me here in the sun ripened flowers
where the blue of the sky meets the clouds.

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-bury-me-deep-by-lynn-white

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-bury-me-deep-by-lynn-white

Reach Out

Where are you?
There was a time when
I knew where to find you,
knew the places and spaces
you inhabited
in my dreams,
in my day
and night
dreams.
You would be waiting there,
waiting to be found,
waiting to come
to me.
Now
it's harder to find you,
to recognise your shape and form.
You are becoming fragmented and ephemeral,
floating forms in a damp mist.
Reach out.
Hold on
to me.
Don't pass me by.
It's such a long time since you left,
perhaps it's me who's letting go,
me who has forgotten how to reach you.
Forgotten to reach out to you.
Reach out.
Hold on
to me.
Don't let me fade
away.

First published in Visual Verse, March 2017

http://visualverse.org/submissions/reach-out/

Letting Go

I dreamt I saw you.

Perhaps I did see you

in the distance of my 

imagination.

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,

as if you

were a bird.

First published in Literature Today, Feb 2017

The Brooch

We sat on the dirty stairs 

holding hands and looking sad.

His name was Ralf

and tomorrow at

"la bonne heure"

he was

leaving Paris, 

going home to Geneva.

He gave me a brooch made of metal,

two hands breaking a rifle in two.

I pinned it on my jacket,

the black leather one

that was stolen

some years

later.

I bought a new jacket,

also black leather,

also stolen 

later.

I could have bought a new brooch,

identical to the one I had lost.

But I never did.

I couldn't replace the connection lost.

Lost

when I lost

the brooch.

First published in Silver Birch Press, Lost and Found Series, March 2017

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/the-brooch-poem-b…/

The People Are Sleeping

The houses are sleeping now,
lit only by moonlight.
The lights are turned off
until the dark morning.
All are tucked up cosily
under soft duvets.
Work is finished,
homework completed and forgotten,
games packed away.
All can dreaming sleepy dreams
undisturbed
till they wake tomorrow
and the new day begins to play
it’s familiar tune.

The houses are sleeping now,
lit only by moonlight,
smokey still from the storms of dust,
almost dark, unrelenting
darkness.
Lights out for ever.
All lying in a bed of rubble.
All finished, done,
beyond disturbing.
All dreams ended.
No waking tomorrow.
No more tomorrows
for them
as the new day plays it’s old tune.

The people are sleeping still
as the coins are tossed,
the dice are thrown,
the cards shuffled
and the game
of chance
resumed.

First published in Armageddon Issue, Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2017

http://pilcrowdagger.com/

A Fictional Account

This story is fiction.
Made up.
Made up like a face.
First the base,
the foundation,
then the shadows and highlights,
the blushers and sparklers,
the reds and the blues
to add interest and shape.
Then lines for emphasis.
Black,
thick night time black,
outlining the fiction.

So, there was a base
for this fantasy.
There was some foundation.
Even a made up story
has some links
with reality.
A spark from a dream,
an inspiration
from experience,
mine, or yours, 

or someone else’s.
Something written,
something sung.
A word, a phrase, a line
from someone’s life,
their fantastic real life,
or imaginings.
becoming real
in the telling,
when the make up
is removed
and the secrets
are revealed
between the lines.

http://www.lulu.com/…/true-…/paperback/product-23068717.html

Regrets

Regrets are best forgotten,
laid to rest in peace or
in restless confusion.
Dump them with the other debris,
the detritus of the past
no longer needed.
They will be taken away in time,
disposed of
in the future,
by the future.
Displaced by more things
to regret
and forget.
And by more things to keep
and remember.

First published in Setu, February 2017
http://www.setumag.com/20…/…/Popular-Setu-February-2017.html

Flight Of Fancy

Fly with me my fancy man

and I’ll take you to places 

that you haven’t been,

but only if that’s what you fancy.

We’ll flit over mountains flapping our wings 

on our magical flight of fancy.

We’ll hover above cities of silver and gold,

and stopover wherever we fancy.

Come fly with me, my fancy man,

and find a little of what you fancy.

But hold on tight as we climb up

close to the sun, then go 

sliding down moonbeams

avoiding the planets, way over the spires

and the earth towers, over the clouds,

right out of the rain showers.

There’s no plain sailing for us in my fancies.

Then hold on tight as we start speeding down, 

down under the clouds in our fancy

we’re still tripping the light fantastic.

But we’re frantic to find our fantasy land

at the end of our flight of fancy.

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-flight-of-fancy-by-lynn-white

Breaking The Ice

It needs strength to break the ice

when it’s frozen as solidly as

silence.

Or so I thought.

It needs strength to break the ice,

to break the mould and

reform.

Or so I thought.

But just suppose,

the ice gives up it’s power

and allows the colour 

to break through, bright

so the delicate flowers can form,

can bloom, can flourish fragile.

Will they then open up

through the self shattered ice,

and melt the frozen silence

to make a space,

an opening

for a warmth,

that will shatter

the now thinning ice?

I think so.

http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php…

Now and Then

Now the clouds are pressing down

making everything grey,

everything misty. 

It’s impossible to discern which way

people are facing.

It looks like everyone

is facing both ways,

so it is impossible to know who to follow,

impossible to know which path to take,

which is the good and which is bad.

Then, in the old days

it was all so clear.

This was the way.

These were the good guys,

the brave guys with the guns,

sending out their scouts 

from the circled wagons

of peaceful pioneers

in search of a better life

in the vast empty land.

Protecting them from 

the bad guys,

the savages,

the cowardly braves

with the bows and arrows 

and scalping knives.

It didn’t always go to plan.

But the cavalry usually

arrived just in time.

And the good guys 

always won

in the end.

Didn’t they?

First published in Setu, February 2017

Thoughts on Swallowing a Butterfly

Butterflies,

such a fragile incarnation

of what went before.

Warriors, according to the Mayans, 

dead warriors ready

to be transformed,

transformed into butterflies.

Butterflies, 

surely too fragile 

to make warriors,

too easily destroyed

in their new metamorphosis.

But  they can wait

for their next transformation

So take care if you swallow a butterfly.

Butterflies,

vigorous egg layers

that can reproduce themselves,

warriors,

mutating again to find

new ways to fight back,

to invade the invaders,

enslave the enslavers,

exploit 

the new possibilities.

So take care if you swallow a butterfly.

And I can wait.

I have been waiting a long time

to see Henry Kissinger choke

on a butterfly.

I can wait.

Perhaps there’s still hope 

that the butterflies

will worm their way inside

and destroy them all.

I can wait.

So take care if you swallow a butterfly.

First published by Vanguard Press in Rise Anthology, 2017

http://www.vagabondbooks.net/

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

http://go.epublish4me.com/februarymarch_2017_issue_sneak_peek/10092674#