In This Space

Concrete and glass,
marble
and shiny stainless steel,
reflecting images
of distorted strollers,
shoppers
and coffee shoppers
passing each other by.

Walking purposefully
or aimlessly
footfalling
on the spotless tiles,
still damp
from their overnight
mechanical
wash and brush up.
Texting or talking
into phones
clamped to ears.

So much space.

No narrow streets
of tenements and courts
and terraces
with washing hanging
and children playing
or sitting on steps.
With women gossiping
to each other.
Human sounds and smells,
and animal too,
but working or wild,
not petted.

Carts on cobbles,
the sounds
and smells of industry.
Workshops, docks and factories
spewing noise
and dirt and dust
and fumes
to be mixed in
with the living
space.

A different place
for sure,
but,
in the same space.
So,
scratch the shiny surface,
lift the cheap veneer,
dig a little deeper.
Take up a tile
and scratch up
the dirt.
Sniff.
Look behind
the facades
of the people
and you will find
another place
and its people
living
in this space.

http://stepawaymagazine.com/

stepawaymagazine.com

STEPAWAYMAGAZINE.COM

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 try, won’t try.
How can I? What should I do?
Follow you from place to place?
Sit outside your house and chance
being turned away, by someone?
I don’t know where it is, in any case
and I don’t want to know.

So what’s it to be? A thread?
An occasional e mail to keep in touch?
I don’t think so!
Our lives are so distant in every way,
how to join them up?

The trick would be to store the memories
and leave behind the sense of loss.
Ditch the sadness.
But we’ve tried before. And failed.
And we’re running out of years.
If we meet a next time,
the chances are
we’ll be to old to care.

We need to achieve a modus vivendi,
that will at least allow
our lives to touch each other.
Nothing less?

And, in the next ten minutes!
I said.

http://harnessmagazine.com/poem-series-ten-minutes-fathers…/

Pure Gold

We were the pure gold people.
The golden generation of
bouncing baby boomers
who had it all,
the best music, the most fun
and the security and optimism
of a golden future.
Now we have had our golden future.
it is done.
Tarnished, cracking up, fragmenting,
turning to sharp dust and black mud.
And ashes, darker still.
We were there at the beginning
of the gold rush.
Now we’re at the end
and we know there will be no more
future.
The gold has melted away.
Only base metal is left
and even that is fragmenting,
turning to sharp dust and black mud.
And darker ashes already
to bury all those golden dreams.

https://literaryyard.com/2017/10/28/poem-pure-gold/

Beached

He’s standing on the beach
with a small suitcase.
Not sure if he’s coming or going,
if it’s an arrival or departure.
It’s unclear.

It’s unclear
if the suitcase is full
or if it’s empty.
Once he packed it full
of his dreams, but now
it’s unclear
if any remain.

If any remain caught
in the lining, perhaps.
Or if all have been carried away
and are gone forever on a storm tide,
or washed up and buried in the sand.
It’s unclear.

All that is clear
is the emptiness
of a long horizon.

http://www.thestraybranch.org/previous-issues/20-fallwinter-2017/

"The Stray Branch" by #20 Vol 17

Poetry by...A. Marie Kaluza, Abigale Louise LeCavalier, Adam Levon Brown, Ainsley McWaters, Amber Tran, Amy Jacoby, Andrew Hubbard, Ayaz Daryl Nielsen, Betty J. Sayles, Bradford Middleton, Claudia Messelod,I Cody Robinson, Daginne Aignend, Daniel de Cullá, Debbie Berk, Dr. Emily Bilman, Erren Geraud...

CREATESPACE.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

https://worcestershirepoetlaureateninalewis.wordpress.com/2017/06/20/world-refugee-day-in-poetry/

The Keys of the Kingdom

The kingdom had so many keys,
keys to its doors,
keys to its gold,
keys to its time,
keys to its secrets.
Nothing moved without a key.
Everything was controlled.
Nothing was free.
Then came the Great War of the Keys
and the kingdom collapsed.
Its doors stayed open,
its secrets exposed.
Its gold melted away.
Its locks grew rusty.
Time stood still.
All it had valued
rotted away,
decayed,
collapsed
into a heap
of useless keys.

First published in With Painted Words, February 2016

http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=986

End of the Season

The season of wrinkles
and over ripeness
has arrived
too soon.
Shriveled buds.
Fruits bursting open,
their seeds drying out,
beginning to crinkle
and wrinkle.
Beginning to split
and break.
Beginning to moulder
and dribble with damp.
Their past spring
a distant dream.
Or not remembered at all.
Faded
away
like the fresh shoots
of hopeful green growth.
Even the memories of the
florid, blowzy summer’s blooms
are fading.
Fading fast
and faster.
Perhaps this season of dry
dampness
has been here a while
and I haven’t noticed.
It’s been approaching
a long time.
Slow at first
imperceptible.
Speeding up, then
quickening.
But still
imperceptible
almost
unnoticeable
as everything
slows down
quickly.
So quickly
now.
I think that winter has arrived.
Darkness returned.
The season is over,
finished
lost
beyond returning.

http://poetrypacific.blogspot.co.uk/…/2-poems-by-lynn-white…

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.highlandparkpoetry.org/themusesgallery.html

Suffocating

I am being suffocated by this society,
pushed into a corner until
I can't breath any more.
Pressed up against
the other screamers,
the can't breathers.
Crying out.
I am not being suffocated under
the weight of immigration.
Or even the armlocks and bullets
of police out of control.
No, I am being suffocated by
the vile venom of normality
or what has come
to pass for it.
By indifference,
by dishonesty,
by power
used to
abuse.
What will it take
for us to learn
how to distort
this normality,
how to smother
this sickness
and heal
us all.

http://tuckmagazine.com/2017/08/02/poetry-947/

http://tuckmagazine.com/2017/08/02/poetry-947/

Tuck Magazine 2017

Online Political, Lit, Human Rights and Arts magazine

TUCKMAGAZINE.COM

Pool

I have a small pool
out there.
Not dark like night, but
full of pale milky light.,
and shimmering smoothly,
rippleless.

It's not deep either,
hardly more than
a footfall.
Just deep enough
to hide my dreams
without them drowning.

http://www.versewrights.com/

VerseWrights

VerseWrights is a community for those who enjoy writing poetry, and who want to post their work for others to read, experience, and comment upon. The site is open to all who write and wish to join.

VERSEWRIGHTS.COM

Am I Dreaming?

Is this a dream, a mirage?
I could be sleeping.
I was looking out on trees
with rooks calling and nesting
when I started to eat
my picnic.

But am I asleep now?
The trees are dancing,
but no longer trees.
Young people from another time
are dancing to the music,
swaying to the music of the crows.
No longer crows though,
but fiddlers and singers
making raucous music
for the dancing.

So am I dreaming?
The cheese is real though,
and I’m still eating.
I’m still chewing the bread
and drinking the wine.
And I can feel a stone
against my back,
digging into me.

I’m sleepy now though.

Will they be there when I wake?
Or will I come back into life
to see the trees and rooks
as I clear away my picnic
and pack up.
https://treehousearts.me/…/poetry-am-i-dreaming-red-roses-…/

https://www.treehousearts.me/2017/10/11/poetry-am-i-dreaming-red-roses-and-the-lighthouse-by-lynn-white/

A Grey Place?

This is a grey place,
there's no denying.
Grey slate, grey granite,
grey houses built of both.
And it rains a lot, there's no denying.
Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain
falling greyly from heavy misty clouds.
But when caught by a sunbeam
it makes glistening slides
shimmering across the slate
and falls in bright white tails
or snakes like silver
where the mountains leak it.
And spills heavily over rocks,
it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed
cascades catching rainbows as they crash
then spitting them back out
in a fine spray of colours.
And now there's no grey
in the dark blue, black sky
filled with gold and silver twinkles.
No grey at all in this place now,
there's no denying.

http://www.thestraybranch.org/previous-issues/20-fallwinter-2017/

"The Stray Branch" by #20 Vol 17

Poetry by...A. Marie Kaluza, Abigale Louise LeCavalier, Adam Levon Brown, Ainsley McWaters, Amber Tran, Amy Jacoby, Andrew Hubbard, Ayaz Daryl Nielsen, Betty J. Sayles, Bradford Middleton, Claudia Messelod,I Cody Robinson, Daginne Aignend, Daniel de Cullá, Debbie Berk, Dr. Emily Bilman, Erren Geraud...

CREATESPACE.COM

Dream Lovers

I am in love with an imaginary person.
A Hollywood image flickering
on the straight line of my horizon,
a mirage created by my dreaming,
as all lovers are.
Then transposed to sit on top of flesh and bone,
stuffed into a skin, which doesn’t quite fit,
as all lovers are.
Some parts I hide inside.
Others are in the forefront of my imagination,
filling out the skin, adding more flesh to the bone.

I live in a soap opera stuffed full of imaginary people
with imaginary lives
interspaced with commercial breaks.
It’s more satisfactory,
easier than engaging with the dangers and tedium outside.
Even so, love can still hurt me, but not as badly.
Imaginary events are more controllable.
So it’s more satisfactory.
I can change the situations that trouble me
without stepping outside,
without exposure or failure.

The real world is hard and
it’s people even more transitory than
the mirage lovers
who flicker in and out on the screen behind my eyes.
Are they the same for you, these soap opera people?
The mirage lovers
of your reality and imagination.

http://spillwords.com/dream-lovers/

Rock Pool

Just a small gap in the cliff side,
dry and bare,
unremarkable.
Then in came the sea;
a high tide
washing over,
leaving
a little
salt water.
Like a pool of tears
filling the gap,
temporarily
bringing it back to life.

https://allthesins.co.uk/2017/10/12/issue-5-is-live/

Issue 5 is live

From contemporary to future to mindscapes, Issue 5 reimagines and challenges how we think of landscapes.

ALLTHESINS.CO.UK

Red Roses

I thought they’d furnish our bed,
the red roses you gave to me.
I threw away the hard stems
and the thorns,
just kept the soft
sweet smelling flowers.
But the flowers disintegrated,
fell apart,
like our love,
mirroring our love,
those red petals.
And now I lie alone
cushioned by rose petals.
Spreading petals like tears,
like falling tears.
Red tears bleeding
from the bloody thorns
I thought I’d discarded.
https://treehousearts.me/…/poetry-am-i-dreaming-red-roses-…/

Beach Combings

On each beach they’ve been different.
at home there, though
washed up gently by lapping waves
or thrown by high seas.
Now they’re at home
in my house.
Each beach together.
Pretty shells from a bay in Minorca,
where the sea was freezing
and the sun bright hot above.
I remember the exhilaration of my swim there.
Then there are the large curving shells
dived for in Sochi by the son of a Russian family
who became good friends.
Captured memories now.
Those bits of wood from a Scottish loch side
now decorate the wall behind this computer.
Remember those midges? Oh my!
And now all joined by these from the Basque Country.
Beautiful oysters that seemingly tried to swallow stones.
Beautiful oysters decorated with barnacles and wormy fossils.
Now lying on the slate of my hearth.
I’ll remember that beach with the waves lapping gently
and the first sight of something strange.
Half hidden.
I remember.

http://visualverse.org/submissions/beach-combings/

Frogs That Can Fly

Three ravens flew over loudly
croaking.
The frogs below were intrigued.
“How do we fly?”, they croaked
in reply,
“how do we fly?”
“How do we swim?”
croaked the ravens down
to them.
“If you fall from the sky
we’ll teach you to swim,”
together and loud the frogs croaked
in reply.
“So tell us, please, won’t you,
how do we fly?”

Frogs That Can Fly

poetry, flash fiction, microfiction, online journal, literature, , mark antony rossi, ebooks, kindle, ibooks, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, nook

ARIELCHART.BLOGSPOT.COM

Expectations

I had never been to the seaside.
I knew what to expect, though.
I had a book about it.
There were lots of pictures of rock pools
and the strange creatures living there.
My favorites were the hermit crabs.
I was looking forward to those the most.
I had a little bucket to collect them in.

But there were no rock pools,
at this seaside.
Just flat sand with a thin distant line
of cold grey sea.
Why?
No one said.

I found some shells
to put in my bucket.
I liked the tiny pink ones best.
But most were broken
and not worth collecting.
Why?
No one said.

No shells, no hermit crabs, but
they showed me how to put damp sand
into my miniature bucket.
with my miniature spade
and how to pat it down
and tip it out to make ‘sand pies’.
I was supposed to like doing this.
Why?
No one said.

They gave me some paper flags
on thin wooden sticks.
I could stick them in
the top of my sand pies.
I was supposed to like doing this.
Why?
No one said.

I thought I’d save up my flags
until I’d climbed the mountain
at my auntie’s.
When I got to the top
I’d arrange them into my initials
so everyone would know I’d been there.
I started to practice this.
But they said the mountain
was a slag heap, not a mountain
and therefore out of bounds.
Why?
No one said.

We stayed on the beach a long time.
Then we went to a toy shop.
My father bought me a doll
with real hair, they said.
But it was made of nylon.
I called her Gloria.
That was the best bit.
but nothing was
as it had been
inside my head.

http://herstryblg.com/poetry/2017/6/21/expectations

Expectations

I had never been to the seaside. I knew what to expect, though. I had a book about it. There were lots of pictures

HERSTRYBLG.COM

Candles

How many candles must I light
to commemorate all the dead souls,
all the lives wasted in wars without end.
So many that candle making has become
a profitable industry.
The more deaths,
the more candles.
Will there be anyone left
to light a candle for me?

http://www.poetsinnigeria.org.ng/…/across-the-oceans-ii-is…/

ACROSS THE OCEANS II (ISSUE 7)

ACROSS THE OCEANS II (ISSUE 7) Three Poems by Lynn White CANDLES How many candles must I light to commemorate all the dead souls, all the lives wasted in wars without end. So many that candle makin…

POETSINNIGERIA.ORG.NG

The Purple Boat

The purple boat sank.
There was no explanation.
Our father made us three,
blue, green and purple,
from sheets of coloured paper,
blue, green and purple.
We thought they were hats
at first
and ran around
holding them
on our too large heads.
But he said they were boats
and showed us how to sail them,
pushing them from the side
with long twigs
until they made
a small bright flotilla,
blue, green and purple,
in the glass clear water.
And then the purple boat sank
leaving only
the blue and the green.
A sad flotilla,
of blue and green
in the glass clear water.
There was no explanation.
But I think, most likely,
it was spied by some creature below,
who,
loving the colour purple,
grasped it
and took it below
to make it her own.
But I don’t know.
Now
I have found
that life is often like that.

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

http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1180

Read The Purple Boat by Lynn White on www.withpaintedwords.com - home of Short Stories & Poetry

WITHPAINTEDWORDS.COM

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 tranquillity,
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://issuu.com/whirlwindreview/docs/whirlwind_11_w_cover

Whirlwind #11

Our three year anniversary issue featuring poetry and artwork celebrating resistance.

ISSUU.COM