A Question of Place

‘Who the fuck is Alice?’

said the March Hare

inhaling hard.

‘She’s rather large’

said Dormouse

coughing

as the smoke ring engulfed him.

‘I find her quite intimidating, actually,

not the little girl I expected.

Really, I hope Hattie

doesn’t invite her

to the party.

I don’t think she would

quite fit in.’

‘You’ll sleep through it anyway’,

said the White Rabbit consulting his watch.

‘It’s time. We should go.’

The March Hare lit another cigarette.

‘We should all change places

if she’s there’ said Dormouse.

The March Hare blew out more

smoke rings.

‘Who the fuck cares if she fits in or not,

in a mad world no one has a place.

Hatter knows that.

He’ll be asking her questions.

He knows the place of madness.’

‘All in good time’,

said the White Rabbit consulting his watch.

‘He’ll ask her who she is’.

‘There’s no answer to that’ said Dormouse.

‘No one knows who they are’.

March Hare lit a cigarette.

‘If she can’t answer Hatter’s question,

then she has no place.

There’s no answer to that’.

‘In time there’ll be an answer.’

said the White Rabbit.

In time we’ll know our place.

In time we’ll know the answer to who we are.

Then times will change again’.

First published in Tittynope Zine, 2017

https://tittynopezine.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/tittynope-zine-2017-tittynope-zine-pdf.pdf

In Tune

It is still the music of my youth that sings to me.
Inside my head if I want it to.
It became part of my time, part of my song.
Subversive music, coming from the streets.
Out of tune with the surround sound monotone
 and undermining it with a discordant challenge.

Harmony and discord, the songs of peace and love
sitting side by side with war and revolution, then as now.
They still speak to me, still sing in tune,
the lyrical passion of their words,
the movement music of the songs
has crossed my time and space and become
melodies of movement which still break my boundaries
and join me back together.
Moving rhythms which still excite me, still cross cultures,
still annihilate my time and space with their poetry.

Words also dance for me, moving patterns on a page.
They have their own music, their own rhythms to dance to,
their own poetry and lyricism, even if not set to music.
Their inspiration is also wrapped in emotions and melodies
which have few boundaries and so are both feared and celebrated.
Are timeless and placeless when in tune with changing times,
which can be any time at all.

http://magazine.thebluenib.com/issue/issue-8-31st-july-2017/

https://themagnoliareview.wordpress.com/2017/09/22/lynn-white-interview/


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THE MAGNOLIA REVIEW

Lynn White–Interview

by Suzanna and Writing: One word at a timeSeptember 22, 2017

I generally write at home using the computer. I usually write a first draft fairly quickly, then I edit and edit over a period of days, weeks or months! I have a small notebook in my bag to scribble in if I get an idea while out.

I started writing in my teens and have written from time to time since then, but especially over the last 5 years.

I don’t really think about my audience, though it’s important that I have one. I would like my work to reach a wide range of people. I’m often surprised by who likes a particular poem.

All sorts of things inspire me to write—people, places, events memories…Sometimes ideas flood in, others not, but I can usually write to a prompt.

I love to be in the open air. I like gardening and wildlife. I love dancing and rock and blues music.

I think any aspiring writer has to find their own path. Creative writing groups help some by giving prompts and confidence. It’s important to read and learn from the writing that you like. Then have a go and try submitting the pieces you like best.

Check out Lynn’s work in the issue, Volume 3, Issue 1.

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Brenda's Turtle

When I was a child,
Brenda’s turtle walked
into the hot, hot embers.
No one knew why.
So badly burned
we thought him ready
for an easeful, sleepy death.
“No, no” said the vet,
“very resilient, turtles,
could live to be a hundred.”

I would like to tell you
that he made the hundred,
but he’s not quite there yet,
though he still seems happy enough.h

ttp://voxpoetica.com/brendas-turtle/

Nuts

Last night I dreamt

a squirrel's dream.

It must have been a squirrel’s.

Possibly red, possibly grey,

but definitely a squirrel’s.

There were so many nuts.

They were falling from the sky

like heavy rain.

I had to put up my blue umbrella

to protect me from the showers.

And on the ground,

ankle deep acorns

and hazels

were overtopping my blue boots.

But I saw no squirrels,

only their dreams

of nutty profusion.


http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2017/09/three-poems-by-lynn-white-autumn-rain.html?spref=fb

Cabbage Dreams

I am dreaming my cabbage dream.
I’m peeling off the outer leaves
to find what lies hidden beneath.
Looks much the same as the outer leaf,
a little less battered and crinkled
but fundamentally the same.
Now for the next layer.
There’s a drop of water
shining full of light
and something darker, more solid,
the leavings of some hidden creature.
Another layer reveals the holes
and the sleepy caterpillar
dreaming...
without his pipe
without his crown,
so unsure of
his own
identity,
much less mine.
If I peel off
layer after layer until
I get to the heart of it,
will I understand where I’ve come from
and be able to unpack the dream,
find the pipe and put the pieces
together, make sense of the
cabbage, crown the king.

https://www.createspace.com/7363268

Screwed Up

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.

https://www.createspace.com/7436729

Autumn Rain

Vertical, or horizontal, autumn rain falls from heavy misty clouds,

but when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides

shimmering across the rock and falls

in bright white tails or snakes

like silver where

the mountains

leak it.

...........................

http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2017/09/septemberoctober-2017-issue-36.html?spref=fb

Flash

They don’t have the flash

of gaudy summer,

but the winter seeds and trees have 

a poignant beauty of their own.

Shapely.

Sculptural.

Poised,

posing for the camera.

They don’t have the nectar

to entice the sugar lovers,

but there’s food

in their seeds,

made

ready for spreading

and rebirth

in another place and time.

They don’t have the flash

of gaudy summer

but see them

glisten

and sparkle

with wet spiders webs

and jewelled

water drops

to light up the dark days.

And later,

glisten

with sugar like

frosty coating.

Still shapely.

Sculptural.

Poised and ready

to face the inevitable

decay.

http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/…/septemberoctober-2017-…

http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2017/09/septemberoctober-2017-issue-36.html?spref=fb

Indiana Voice Journal : September/October 2017, Issue #36

With this issue, we're sending thoughts, prayers, good vibes, and positive energy to our poetry editor, David Allen as he recovers from surgery, and…

INDIANAVOICEJOURNAL.COM

Who Am I

When did I last know who I am?
I wonder if it when I was a child,
when I made up stories 
from my imagination.
Was I separate then
from the imaginary children
with imaginary parents
and imaginary friends.
knowing
where my story began
and where I ended.
I don’t remember.

Perhaps the story ended before I began.
Perhaps the two began together.
Perhaps they may end together,
separately
or eternally
entwined, 
inseparable.
I cannot say.
I never could.

Did I ever know who I am?

https://www.amazon.com/…/1549526618/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_Zs…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549526618/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_ZsCUzbQ4B4WZ3

[Insert Yourself Here]: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry

[Insert Yourself Here]: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry

AMAZON.COm