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

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 beyond it’s edges,
into the reality outside, which is pressing in on me.
It excludes any coming together, any resolution as
it embraces me in it’s ripples and sounds.

Such sweet, watery sounds, cooly relaxing my spirit.
Shutting out the incoherent babbling outside.
But still, even as I put my hands over my broken ears,
I know it will find a way inside and overwhelm me,
in any case.

http://spillwords.com/river/

River written by Lynn White at Spillwords.com

Spillwords.com presents: River written by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...

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 TWOMay 2017,

https://www.freelitmagazine.com/magazine

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.

I worked there a full week during the school holidays
and earned two pounds, seven and sixpence,
not enough to buy my clothes there.
Come the winter custom diminished
and we Saturday Girls were sacked.
So I moved on from gowns to shoes.
Newmans gowns to Stylo Shoes,
both now long gone.

First published in Silver Birch Press ‘My First Job series’, May 2017

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/saturday-girl-poe…/

Saturday Girl, poem by Lynn White (MY FIRST JOB Poetry and Prose Series)

Saturday Girl by Lynn White Two days after my fifteenth birthday I walked proudly into Newman…

SILVERBIRCHPRESS.WORDPRESS.COM

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 drabness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall.

https://literaryyard.com/2017/05/10/poem-golden-people/

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.com/Books2

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.

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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 shouting would
cause to open.
A friendly passer by understood our plight
and clapped his hands loudly.
A man appeared with a bunch of keys,
enough to fit the locks of several streets.
Normality when Franco reigned.
He let us in with a smile.
He was ‘doux, comme la sucre’
my friend told him,
but he didn’t understand.

Forty years later we found the street.
The curved shop window gave it away.
It was all still there, though only in facade,
waiting for reconstruction.
It was our first Spanish room
and we were happy.
The facade of a memory that
is still there and remains:
‘doux, comme la sucre’.
And we understand.

First published in Blue Fifth Review, Poetry Special, May 2017

https://bluefifthreview.wordpress.com/…/poetry-special-fiv…/

Poetry Special – Five Poets (May 2017 / 17.4)

Poetry Special – Five Poets (May 2017 / 17.4) Robin Grotke is an artist and photographer living on the southern coast of North Carolina. Her inspiration is drawn from nature, people and cultu…

BLUEFIFTHREVIEW.WORDPRESS.COM