Transient 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 while the sun is still shining and smiling. For only as long as it falls, can the snow renew them when they melt away. https://www.createspace.com/7206291 "Metaphor Issue 7" by April Mae M. Berza Sergio A. Ortiz Terri Muuss Ann Christine Tabaka Drew Pisarra Michael C. Seeger Lena Ziegler Lynn White Adrian Ibarra Don Kingfisher Campbell Volodymyr Bilyk Gary Beck John… CREATESPACE.COM
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Dawn Chorus It starts with one. One skylark singing. One Carson warning. Then the robins and blackbirds join in. The early birds, like Carson. Then the wrens and warblers as the daylight warms them. Listen. Can you hear them? The warning calls are warming up as well, strengthening their numbers as the bird song dies away. Listen. Listen. Can you hear them? Listen. Don’t sleep. Don’t wait to hear the silence. http://www.theimmix.com/poetry/2017/5/2 3/dawn-chorus
River I look into the river and see myself in reflection. Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in it’s flow. I am constantly being moved and changed, but left stationary, moved but not moving on like the fishes and pebbles. Here I am, disturbed and abstracted, surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world, which leaves me unclear who I am and, more unclear about the solidity of my background and what is happening around me. I look into two worlds which are intermingling, becoming inseparable before my gaze. My own distorted image fades and breaks with the images behind and beyond me in the background of my life. This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion. For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside. I am in danger of being broken up and washed away. Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces, undecided, lacking definition. It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person, into the confusion and fragmentation ...
Washed Up So many dead people caught in the crossfire created by the the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. They lie dead where they fell. Flesh and blood transformed to fertilizer to nurture the seeds and grow the crops, in a future they will not see. Their bones decaying to dust to form the building blocks of homes they will never inhabit. Dying where they fell, over there, not here and not looking like us. Unseen or soon forgotten by us here. But the dead washed up on holiday beaches look like our flesh and blood. They’re wearing our clothes. They’re washing up to haunt us in the Old World. Then there’s the living, washed up alive and by any means necessary moving on to bear witness, if any one is listening. To bring the horror home to those who created it in the Old World. Bringing it home to the Old World, soon to the New. http://johnkaniecki.blogspot.co.uk/2017/05/washed-up-poem-by-lynn-white.html TURN A PAGE OR TWOM...
Invisible For a long time, such a long time, invisibility has ironed out the creases in my soul, so I can hide, so I can decide if I want to be seen. I was always hiding. But now invisibility hides me even from myself. It imagines my future as it has distorted my past, separated me from my history. But I cannot abandon it now, since I no longer know who I am. If I could make a new person to fit this moment, a new me for the now. Maybe then for a short time, I could step inside, find myself and no longer need invisibility. https://literaryyard.com/2017/05/10/poem-invisible/
Void There are dark misty spaces topped by the blackest clouds, so that I can’t see into them. I have always been afraid of the monstrous beings which may lurk there waiting in the dark. But now the mist is lifting, moving away. The cloud is becoming thinner, allowing the light to penetrate. Now I am even more afraid, afraid of the light, afraid that it may reveal not monsters, but the bare boards of emptiness. First Published in Foxglove 2017 https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/…/05/17/void-lynn-wh…/
Empty Chair You turned my head so many times I felt dizzy. I felt in a permanent state of dizziness my head spinning round full of sweet sayings, full of sweet thoughts Surrounding myself with hearts and smiley faces, happy faces turning to tears now, as the hearts turn blue and I stand, still dizzy, behind your empty chair http://visualverse.org/submissions/empty-chair/
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! https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/…/dragonfly-lynn-whi…/
Saturday Girl Two days after my fifteenth birthday I walked proudly into Newman Costumiers to begin my first job. It was 1960 and I would earn fifteen shillings, one shilling for every year, every Saturday. Knitwear and stockings were on the ground floor, all neatly stacked on shelves and in drawers. I didn’t work there. That was Enid’s territory - she of the bouffant hair and three inch stilettos. Above were the coats and above them dresses. All made in Britain, not China and so costing much the same as they would do today. Fifteen shillings didn’t go far. On the top floor was Alterations, two women stitching away with a nip or tuck here and a longer or shorter hemline there. No customer was allowed to escape without a purchase. We had to fetch the Manageress if they tried. She would offer inducements such as a price reduction or free alterations. Sometimes it was enough to secure a purchase, a tweak of the price, a nip or tuck here and a longer or shorter hemline there. ...
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. http://www.versewrights.com/
A New Meeting No symbiosis. No reciprocity. And then.. You spoke to me. A smile on your lips and a sadness behind your eyes to match my own. I could see it, recognise it. I knew it well. “Hello you”, I said. “Hello me?” A gesture, a question in your voice, laughter caught in the back of your throat and eyes that smiled. Momentarily. At least momentarily understanding. First published in Breadcrumb, May 2017 http://breadcrumbsmag.com/
Green Dragon Does the ghost believe what he's seeing as the green dragon floats by breathing rainbows from flower filled puffs of breath. Would you believe it? Would I believe it? After all, this is not the usual sort of dragon whose fire filled breaths register alarm. But alarm registers, never the less, as this is not the usual sort of dragon and none of us are sure what will happen next. http://www.poetry-leaves.com/events
Golden People We were the golden people then, flying high above the rest, shimmering like the arrogant angels we saw playing way above the clouds. We could almost touch them with our arms outstretched as we danced our way through a youth of endless possibilities. But the grey people were unimpressed. They had no wish to touch the angels, or reach the stars, even if they could. They looked down to us, not up. Laughed and shook their heads at our strangeness and waited for our dreams to fracture as theirs had done. We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices. Did not see their once golden dreams split open and rot away, consuming them in the decay. Now we have become grey like the rest, tarnished and knowing that we were not so golden, even then. Just practicing for a life that would dull our shine as our dreams remained dreams. Dreams which became decayed imaginings growing grey and dusty with time and fading. Like them, we were consumed in the rot of our dreams as dra...
A Rose For Gaza Gaza is a garden full of roses. Stone roses. Rock roses. No petals to crush and bruise to release their fragrance. Only dust. Dust and the stench of death. No green space left. No sweet tranquility, peace or quiet. No escape. No garden of Eden here. No gateway to paradise. Rubble and rock roses. So I shall plant a rose for Gaza in my green space, in my tranquil garden. I won’t bruise it, just gently sniff its fragrance and hope that one day fragrant roses will bloom again in the garden of Gaza. What else can I do? https://www.amazon.com/Peace-Poems-Mr-John-Kan…/…/1544631308 https://www.amazon.com/Peace-Poems-Mr-John-Kaniecki/dp/1544631308
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. http://www.versewrights.com/
It’s a Worry He bottled up his worries, his fears, and sealed them in securely. Put them inside a bottle firmly corked. Then he thought, suppose they grew agitated and, expanding with the heat produced forced the cork free from the bottle, releasing all those fears and anxieties to reoccupy his being. It was another worry for him to ponder and fret about. He knew a screw top bottle would have been better, would have kept them confined more securely. Too late now though, to have that thought done is done. The best ideas are, always too late. Past has always passed. And then, another thought came to him, so timely. Maybe he could he transfer them, move them to the bottle with the screw fastening and screw them up tight without letting them out of the bottle. Without letting them escape. Without giving them freedom, freedom to invade his soul, his dreams, his being his reason for being. Such a risk though. Such a worry. http://www.reddashboard.com/Books2 http://www.reddashboard.co...
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. https://treehousearts.me/ …/poetry-by-lynn-white-dandelion-…/ https://www.treehousearts.me/2017/02/22/poetry-by-lynn-white-dandelion-seed-end-of-the-season-and-in-the-end/ TreeHouse Arts on WordPress.com TreeHouse is a place where artists can come to celebrate all forms of art. TreeHouse hosts blog posts and works of fiction, poetry, art, photography, films, and music from up-and-coming artists. TREEHOUSEARTS.ME
Eye Contact Look at me. Hey, look at me. I’m here I’m real, a real person and I like you a lot. You’re really special. Hey look at me, look into my eyes. Look at me! How the fuck can I look at you when you keep kissing my eyes closed! http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1290451?__r=26454&s=w amomancies | amomancies vol 3 issue 2 The May 2017 of amomancies, the glossy poetry and beauty photography journal. MAGCLOUD.COM
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://www.lulu.com/…/…/issue-i/ebook/product-23008295.html… Issue I by The Borfski Press (eBook) — Lulu IE Buy Issue I by The Borfski Press (eBook) online at Lulu IE. Visit the Lulu Marketplace for product details, ratings and reviews. LULU.COM
Spanish Room We were pleased when the smiling nun shook her head. They were full, the lorry driver told us. He was disappointed. He thought we’d be safer in the out of town convent than in the city. He’d grown concerned for our safety on our long journey through France. He was nice - ‘doux, comme la sucre’ my friend would often tell him. But he didn’t understand her accent. He said his lorry wouldn’t fit the narrow streets, so we took a cab to the pension he knew. Our first Spanish room and we were happy! The tiles were cool, if dusty. We covered the TV. We didn’t need it. Two single beds pushed together with one mattress to make a ‘cama matrimonial’, normality in Spain. The owner was nice, ‘doux, comme la sucre’ my friend told him. But he spoke no French. We shopped in the corner shop with it’s curved window and explored the streets of clubs and cafes and bars and lively people enjoying the night. And then we returned home. Home to a locked door that no amount of banging or ...