Sunday, 23 September 2018

Vera Lynn was a famous singer,
the Forces Sweetheart, no less.
My mother was Vera,
so I should be Lynn.
My mother liked things to be
But even more than
the correctness
of Vera and Lynn,
she abhorred diminutives.
They were definitely not
So I must have a name
which could not be shortened.
Joy was a contender, but,
just suppose that
I was a weepy child.
That name would not fit me.
For me it would not have been
She needn’t have worried.
But worry she did.
So, Lynn it was
and Lynn I am.
My legacy
from my

Friday, 21 September 2018

In Dreams
Do you dream in colour,

or are your dreams grey,

muted monochromes,

pale imitations of reality.

Are they flat almost featureless

in a blurred mist,

or are they stark

black and white.

No grey.

No doubt.

Are your sleeping eyes prisms

to reflect the outside in,

in a spectrum of rainbowed glory.

Or are you afraid.

Afraid to let it enter

your unconsciousness.

Afraid to set it free

to make a kaleidoscope 
of shades and tones

to recreate

a new reality

in glorious colour.

Do you remember?

Thursday, 20 September 2018


Don’t challenge his growls,
said the man with no face. 
Look down on the ground,
be humble, not brave.

Don’t cry if you fall,
the blind girl explained.
The field’s full of dog shit,
so don’t touch your eyes.

I loved my pet doggy,
the dead baby cries.
We all loved him so much
until the day that I died.

Wednesday, 19 September 2018

Not An Easy Chair
It used to be said
that a hard chair
straight backed
was best
for you.
Now though
they say
it’s ok
to lounge,
to slouch,
to curl up
in comfort
like a cat
at ease
in an easy chair.
But some chairs aren’t
for lounging,
or for comfort
or for sitting up
They have a design problem
that is not easy to resolve.
It takes determination,
a palette of positions
and maybe a drink
to find a way.
And some deep thinking
on the matter.

Monday, 17 September 2018

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
in a net.
Held on to him
And, I found
that he hadn’t left early,
my father’s son.
He’d waited for me,
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.

Sunday, 16 September 2018

Once It Was The Smoke
Once it was the smoke
that made me cough and splutter
every time I played a gig.
Nicotine flavoured oxygen
which made me long
for a respirator.
Now the problem is unseen.
The air looks pure
but I need a respirator now.
Perhaps I should play
under water
a new version
of Water Music.
There may be more oxygen there,
but I’ll take no chances.

Friday, 14 September 2018

All In Order
We built their cages.
We gilded them.
We listened to their croaks,
no one could call it song,
hear, hear, hear hear,
chatter chatter,
to order.
Order, order,
keep them in order.
Keep them stuffed
with food and drink,
we did that too,
keep them fed and watered.
No not watered
they won’t drink water
that would be out
of order.
Order, order.
Keep them controlled.
Don’t let them out.
Watch them
flapping their paper wings
to order.
Order order.
We should give them orders.
We pay the pipers,
they should sing for us
but they can only croak.
hear hear, hear hear,
chatter chatter,
for themselves.
We don’t have to listen.

​Welcome to the page for BEAT-itude, the National Beat Poetry Festival's 10 year anniversary book. Now available for preorder! We have two options for the book, purchase for pick-up at the festival...

Thursday, 13 September 2018

Read Snapshot by Lynn White on - home of Short Stories & Poetry - home of Short Stories & Poetry - Read Snapshot by Lynn White. Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events,...

Tuesday, 11 September 2018

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.

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 d…

Monday, 10 September 2018

Don’t Go
When I’m with you
I feel I am whole.
Captured and completed.
Engulfed by you.
When you kiss me
all my fears disappear
in the kiss.
Where do they go?
I don’t know.
Do you wrap them round your tongue
and swallow them whole?
I don’t know.
I only know the comfort
I feel, such peace.
So don’t go.
Don’t go.

The present book is the third volume of the bilingual series of poetry collection, Persian Sugar in English Tea. The anthology includes short poems, micro-poetry and haiku by 59 new and well-accomplished poets from Canada, USA, UK, Ireland, India, and other Asian, Middle Eastern and European coun...

Sunday, 9 September 2018

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.

Friday, 7 September 2018

Magic Words
They say you have a magic tongue
that can weave the words
from your mouth into tapestries
laced with gold thread.
Curl the words into scented ringlets
of flowers
formed by petals shining like
stars even in the sunlight.
I want to catch them and hold on to them
without any rearranging.
To soak myself in their perfection,
so I can keep them with me
when the magic turns dark
and the golden threads hard,
when you turn them to sharp steel.
They’re still your words with a kind of magic
twisted together by your tongue
but they have become
explosions of your anger and despair
but no longer falling
I’m going to catch them and hold them now
so that I can rearrange them
to what they were.

Thursday, 6 September 2018

To Break The Mould
She tried hard to break the mould
she that she could rise anew.
But it wouldn’t break.
She emerged
the same
each time,
cold as stone.
So she broke the stone.
Smashed the statue
with a hammer.
Broke it
in two.
After that,
it was easy to break the mould.