Tourists Get the brochure, take a trip to visit the green fields of France or Belgium. And you can stay close or take an optional excursion. It's your choice. Well, there's money to be made. And you'll be moved to marvel at the spectacle of it all stretched out before you. The bright green fields over fed with mashed body parts and blood sucked out by vampires' fangs. Look, see the white teeth crossed in their rows upon rows and stand proud with respect. Snap, snap, click, click. Take a few pics to join to join those of last year's beaches, cathedrals and other art installations. Immortalised, lest you forget. Respect them in their death the ones who died for whatever the country. Respect them in death, The yes sir, no sirs of war and of peace. The ones with no choices. Remember them. And remember the vampires. They’re living still, as vampires will. Sucking the blood, stirring the pot and making the money. http://tuckmagazine.com/2017/08/25/poetry-980/ http...
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Maud I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. She never grew old, never even grew up. My father cried.. I never knew her, never even knew of her. But I know now. I have a photograph so I can see her, picture her as she was. And I won’t forget that I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. First published by Silver Birch Press in My Prized Possession Series, November 2016 http://harnessmagazine.com/poem-series-ten-minutes-fathers…/ https://www.harnessmagazine.com/poem-series-ten-minutes-fathers-son-maud/
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. Whe...
Grenfell - Graveyard of Dreams The blackened carcass remains, still standing where all else has fallen. A jagged tower, the bare bones of dreams standing still. Still as the dreams that were lost, stopped in their tracks. Standing still the graveyard of the lost , the lost dreams and dreamers. http://tuckmagazine.com/2017/08/25/poetry-980/ Online Political, Lit, Human Rights and Arts magazine Tuck Magazine 2017 Online Political, Lit, Human Rights and Arts magazine TUCKMAGAZINE.COM | BY TUCK MAGAZINE
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://heroinchic.weebly.com/bl…/poetry-by-lynn-white4440587 http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/poetry-by-lynn-white4440587
Where Am I? Where shall I sit in this place I don’t know. Which side of the aisle Should I be. Or should I be at the front conducting the ceremony like a lecture. I’ve done that often enough when I knew where I was. Or maybe I should stand at the back ready for a quick getaway. I couldn’t do that at my wedding, but if it’s my funeral I think that’s the best place for me. But is it? So difficult to know. http://visualverse.org/submissions/where-am-i-2/
Veiled 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? https://www.amazon.co.uk/…/1521758204/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_.o… https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1521758204/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_.oQyzbV8YG4PE The Big Book Of Poetry The Big Book Of Poetry AMAZON.CO.UK
Running Shoes Sometimes, some things become more than things. Become iconic. Seek to represent us. So even running shoes can make a statement about ourselves, about who we are or want to be. Simple pumps, designer trainers both attach a label to us to represent ourselves to ourselves. How we were, how we are, what we have become displayed for all to see. But still it’s not all. Somethings still are hidden. The wheres and whys, somethings are still in the running. Running, running smiling towards a greeting. Running fearfully away fast. Faster and faster turning the labels to dust. http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/ prompts Here's your prompt! Submit poem responses to: voxpoeticasubmissions@gmail.com. And if you have a photo or piece of artwork you took that you'd like us to consider as a Prompts image, send that as w... VOXPOETICA.COM
Perchance A Dream 'To sleep perchance to dream'. Who said that? Sounds so gentle, but there's a rub, a rough edge to it. Not the long deathly sleep, though but drifting away in night time slumber. It can take you anywhere. Take you to places you haven't been and may not want to go. Send you spinning, tumbling, raging, spiralling, crashing out of control to an indeterminate end, with demons and dragons as companions. Daytime dreaming is preferable, more gentle than it sounds fitted into a busy schedule. In wakeful dreams you can determine the beginning, at least, and invite the participants. Sometimes they may act out an old story with a predictable end, sometimes they can drift into a new story and then the demons may join in your daytime dreaming as well, perchance. VerseWrights 22 mins · It can take you anywhere. Take you to places you haven't been and may not want to go... ~from "Perchance a Dream," a new poem by poet Ly...
My Father’s Son I never knew my father’s son. Even though I met him once, or maybe twice, I never knew him. And then I met his son. Caught him miraculously in a net. Held on to him tightly. And, I found that he hadn’t left early, my father’s son. He’d waited for me, wondering, for a long time. And so I found him, my father’s son. When he was just ninety six, I found him. But I was too late to know him. At ninety five, he was already dead. So I never knew him, my father’s son. http://harnessmagazine.com/poem-series-ten-minutes-fathers…/ A POEM SERIES: TEN MINUTES, MY FATHER'S SON, MAUD - Harness Magazine Ten Minutes In the next ten minutes I have to go, and you can’t let me just walk out of your life again. Can’t let you! Can’t stop you, I said, and I won’t… HARNESSMAGAZINE.COM
Perfectly Imperfect It started when we stood hopefully, with our thumbs outstretched by an English roadside. We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia without maps or money, or sense of direction. And we made it to Italy. and swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe, because he said we could. And we swam and swam until two policemen came, (one very stern and one very twinkly), and said we couldn’t. Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on, or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies, or lie on the rocks until we were dry, in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace. This being the main street in Trieste. And we made it to Pec and lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with a water pump in the garden and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which made us very ill indeed. But the parties were good and the conversations interesting, Even though no one spoke English. And we learned to speak some Albanian, which was always handy. And we survived to sit thi...
The Company of Butterflies In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and fly without boundaries. Flutter by and then rest in the sunshine and drink sweet nectar and dream and dream. In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and soar over fragile rainbows. Then stop in a fusion of colour to taste the gold at the end of my flight of fancy. In the company of butterflies I am boundless. http://spillwords.com/the-company-of-butterflies/ https://spillwords.com/the-company-of-butterflies/#:~:text=com%20presents%3A%20The%20Company%20Of%20Butterflies%2C%20by%20Lynn,is%20influenced%20by%20issues%20of%20social%20injustice%20
Unicorn I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve always shunned the spotlight, always feared it. Unlike the horses and dogs who play the game, perform, do what’s expected by their human providers, by their audience. I’ve always been afraid of being seen onstage just in case I was taken short and golden notes fell from my arse and made rainbows brighter than the spotlight, upsetting the lighting engineers. I think we’re all the same, we unicorns, shy creatures. That’s why we’ve survived, hiding in dreams. https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692934758/ https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36026575-civilized-beasts Civilized Beasts: Volume II Animals Beautiful, Brutal Poetry in Motion So many are endangered Yet the Wildlife Conservation Society Fights on their behalf This poetry menagerie joins the cause Civilized Beasts is a poetry for charity anthology. Poets and… AMAZON.COM
Give Me A Hand Many offered to give me a hand to paint the man red. They thought the town would be next, but they were mistaken. The background was to be in a different palette, darker, more sombre. I asked them to wear gloves. That way I knew I could preserve their memory like the long dried up palette, peeling their outer skin like the gloves. Like the gloves, I hung them all out to dry. http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems4/category/lynn-white Category: Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries... SCARLETLEAFREVIEW.COM
To The Passing Of The Nightingale Where are the songs of spring? Where are they? Well, Mr K, they are harder to find than they were in your day. Gone with the nightingale, Gone with the meadows, the hedgerows, the woods, The habitats lost, destroyed. Destroyed like the food that people call pests. Predated. Predated by farmers, one way or another, the countryside’s guardians, that’s what they say. The spring singing has ended, almost over and done. Aye, you might well ask, Mr K The singing is not as it was in your day. http://heroinchic.weebly.com/bl…/poetry-by-lynn-white4440587 http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/poetry-by-lynn-white4440587
Chill I close my eyes and listen to the birds. I can’t name them, but it doesn’t matter, I can still feast on their song. Song, well some sing beautifully, others need to learn. I sympathise with them, I can’t sing either, but there’s no shame It doesn’t matter. There’s no one to hear me if I join in. http://moonmagazine.org/lynn-white-chill-2017-08-04/ http://moonmagazine.org/lynn-white-chill-2017-08-04/ Lynn White | Chill - The MOON magazine I close my eyes and listen to the birds. I can’t name them, but it doesn’t matter, I can still feast on their song. MOONMAGAZINE.ORG Boost post
A Long Walk It's been a long walk with no sign of escape. A long walk and a deep walk. Every step I sink deeper. Deeper and deeper, as I tire and drag my feet as the white snow crystals give way and reveal the darkness beneath. But I can see the forest on the horizon and I'm getting close. But it's not the first time I've seen a forest on the horizon and it hasn't ended. The snow fields have continued. Deep, deep, deeper and deeper. Will this time will be different and bring me to a new horizon. Or will sink yet deeper until the darkness engulfs me with no escape. No end in sight. https://literaryyard.com/2017/07/20/poem-a-long-walk/ https://literaryyard.com/2017/07/20/poem-a-long-walk/ Poem: A Long Walk By: Lynn White It’s been a long walk with no sign of escape. A long walk and a deep walk. Every step I sink deeper. Deeper and deeper, as I tire and drag my feet as the white snow crystals gi… LITERARYYARD.COM
Like Alice I’m too big. I’m too small. I can’t I fit in, fit into this, rabbit hole world, any more than I did the other, the above ground world. Both can’t be wrong, can they? It must be me that doesn’t fit, that can’t be made to fit into them. Me that’s wrong. Both worlds can’t be wrong, can they? https://www.amazon.co.uk/Down-Rabbit-Hole-Tracy-Seiden/dp/1945791330 "Down The Rabbit Hole" by Seiden et al. Tick tock says the magic clock In a language that's part of the soul Get in line for the gate You don't want to be late For your trip down the rabbit hole... Our everyday lives are filled to the… CREATESPACE.COM