Turn Of the Tide We must wait for the tide to turn. It will carry us away wave after wave gathering up the debris which surrounds us sucking it up like so much dust getting rid of it all, everything going with the flow. We must wait for the tide to turn. It will bring us home leaving new things there with us. Bits and pieces. Leaving them for us to find so that we can take what we need everything we want. Or should we swim against the tide? See where it takes us. We could try. It couldn’t be worse. http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/
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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://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/writer-highlight-fe…/
Roundabout He picked us up near Torino, a dapper Frenchman with an impressive moustache. He was going to Nice. So were we! Such luck. One lift all the way from Torino to Nice. We settled back to enjoy the ride. We came to a roundabout. With gesticulations of frustration and twitches of his moustache, he missed the turning. We went round again and the next time, he missed it again. The third time we were ready to call out and point it out in good time. But with more expansive gesticulating and moustache twitching he still missed it. There were many roundabouts between Torino and Nice. We came to know them intimately. On arrival we were hugged and kissed in thanks for our help. Without us, who could say were he’d be. Not us, for sure! He invited us to accompany him to Monte Carlo the next day, if we would like to. Yes! We would like to! We turned up at the allotted time and place, but he never came. So, we never went to Monte Carlo. Possibly he never went there either. We imagine ...
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://www.amazon.com/dp/0692934758/ https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692934758/
Leaded Light The glass is cut, so carefully cut, so carefully arranged to break up the light as it reflects it. Smooth joints enhanced with curving strips of soft lead to fragment the light. Light cracked by lead, bright white or gilded by sunshine or bent into rainbows refracted to paint colours in reflected shadows to fall in straight shafts onto grey paving. The reflection is fragmenting as it falls breaking up the grey, so that even the shafts of multi-coloured illumination can make no sense of it. There’s no sense to be made. The paving is crazy now, simply crazy. http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/leaded-light-by-lynn-white http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/leaded-light-by-lynn-white
Alien They emerged from the cute blue eggs of our Blue Araucanas. With every one a cockerel when grown, we decided to have one for dinner. Under the grey blue plumage, the skin was blue, which was quite a shock, a little alien, but cooked it was fine, normal, as expected and the flesh was white, as expected. But when carved, the bones were blue, Disconcerting, off putting, a little alien. And now these red feathered birds have appeared as if from nowhere, their eggs pink. And when they hatched and grew, all were hens, each clutch carefully hidden, each batch of chicks larger then the last. A little strange, a little alien. And then, at last, there were cockerels. They were too many and too large, so we decided to have one for dinner. Under the red plumage the skin was pink, which was quite a shock, a little alien, but cooked it was fine, normal, as expected and the flesh was white, as expected. But when carved, the bones were pink, Disconcerting, off putting, more than a little...
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 ...
Sea Horse It was on the first day of our seaside holiday that I found him washed up, stranded, spat out by the sea and swimming alone in the rock pool. I had never seen a sea horse before, only pictures in a book. I used my shoe to fish him out and ran back quickly, one shoe on and one shoe off, before the water leaked out. I put him in the sink and watched him swim. He didn’t seem quite right. Or maybe it was the pictures that were wrong, or my memory. He couldn’t stay in the sink. My mother made that quite clear. So I found him a jar in the cobwebby shed and put him in that. I fed him on bits of bread, minced meat and mashed banana. He spat them all out angrily. I thought he would die from lack of food and my mother said he couldn’t come home with us. So I took him back to the waters edge and released him, gave him back to the sea. The next day I found him lying on the pebbles. The sea had rejected him, spat him out, just as he had spat out my food offerings. I carried him back,...
Tell It How It is “Tell it how it is,” the manager said, when she asked me to write the sign and design the promotional material. ”Something eye-catching and straightforward.” Well, I generally knew the owners, and the people who were once owners. I’ve lived here long enough, longer than she has. So I should know. Yes, I knew they were no longer with us. I didn’t know if their past possessions were antiques, or nearly new, or even used or slightly soiled. But I knew the one time owners, knew they were no longer with us. So I did as I was asked. It was a snappy caption, I thought. Certain to grab the attention of potential buyers. Yes, I always follow instructions, I explained at my next job interview and I know how to tell it how it is. https://visualverse.org/submissions/tell-it-how-it-is/
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. https://thebezine.com/portfolio/chill/ 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… THEBEZINE.COM
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. 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
On Our Watch If it had been on his watch, he would have seen, he would have given the alarm, would have been heard and catastrophe would have been avoided. She also was alert, but it was not her watch and no one heard her warnings. On their watch we would have heard the warnings. But it happened on our watch and we were sleeping. http://www.versewrights.com/
Follow Your Leader It’s so easy to be led, to become part of the audience to be seduced by powerful words, by the performance on the stage where leaders make followers. Followers who will follow, not herded like sheep but running, with the crowd, trying to keep up, seduced by the spectacle. Individuals aren’t allowed in the crowd and don’t want to be there. But, individuality doesn’t have the warm glow of follow my leader, the togetherness, the comradeship, the shouted slogans, the rousing tunes, the ceremony. It's for the few, the one offs, the weird, the misfits. And where is the crowd being led to? It doesn’t matter. They’ll go! https://www.amazon.com/dp/1978206569/ref=sr_1_1… Harbinger Asylum: Fall 2017 Harbinger Asylum is a literary and arts journal that seeks to bring the international poetry community to Houston poets, and Houston poets to the international community. We seek an honest range of ideas, expressions,… AMAZON.COM ...
Shaken Not Stirred These people here, those people there. What do they know. What do they care. What will touch their little lives, to move them, shake them, disarrange them. What will pinch them, wake them, make them sit up, stop their begging doglike, cringing. I don't know what it will take to shake them up, to make them fizz and pop out of their straight jacket. https://literaryyard.com/2017/10/28/poem-shaken-not-stirred/
Uniforms What shall I be, soldier, sailor, clown, maybe. Grey suit, or blue, tailored jacket, short skirt. Hippie, maybe. Now there’s a uniform! Everyone different, not conforming. But, wearing the same signs, the signifiers, of non conformity. The badges that identify those waving the flag, or burning it. Beads and bangles, shell suits, jeans, leggings, jeggings, posh frocks, taking us to our comfort zone, Finding for us the warmth we crave. A part or apart. Perhaps we are all figments as made up and tailored as the uniform we choose. Even when we change, it’s hard not to choose a uniform. https://literaryyard.com/2017/10/28/poem-uniforms/ Poem: Uniforms By: Lynn White What shall I be, soldier, sailor, clown, maybe. Grey suit, or blue, tailored jacket, short skirt. Hippie, maybe. Now there’s a uniform! Everyone different, not conforming. But, weari… LITERARYYARD.COM