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Showing posts from March, 2018
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Giants It takes a giant to take hold of the sun and wrap it up like a lantern antler shaped, and hold it there shining gold. There were such giants once, so it is said. They would light the way of travellers, guide them through the darkness and shine a light for all of us, guide our way, so it is said. It is said that we killed them all. Even though it is difficult to kill a giant. We worked out ways to do it, worked out ways to kill them all. So now we just have only the sun and now it shines less than before. Now we have no giants to capture it and wrap it up like a lantern. Now we have no lantern to guide us through the darkness anymore. http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php… http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1245 Read Giants by Lynn White on www.withpaintedwords.com - home of Short Stories & Poetry WITHPAINTEDWORDS.COM Comments Write a comment...
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As The River Flows The river flows by but doesn’t carry me with it as I sit solidly on the bank side watching my reflection fragmenting and reforming. It can’t carry away my reflection either, can only move it around, destroy and recreate it with a bit of a breaking backdrop which, on reflection tells me little about where I am, or who, or why. It leaves me behind. It always will, unless I enter and let it float me away. First published in New Reader Magazine, March 2018 https://www.newreadermagazine.com/download
The Circus of My Dreams In the circus of my dreams the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up, flashing their rainbowed hooves, pointing with their golden horns, with their unique golden horns. Then, ridden by Leprechauns, they’re dancing round and round the circle of the ring. Kicking up the gold dust ground from their droppings into shimmering sawdust. In the circus of my dreams there is a rainbow. A rainbow which has painted their hooves with it’s light as they climbed their way up and slid their way down to the crock of gold at the end. Time for the little people to dismount and mould the gold into hearts of love. Time for the unicorns to use the gold to nurture and replenish their golden horns, their unique golden horns. https://btwnthelines.com/ Between the Lines Publishing BLP's bookshop offers something for everyone. From an anthologies challenging traditional norms and stereotypes in folklore and literature to a cozy mystery with characters who will wra
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Snowman We rolled the snow to make a jolly body to the soundtrack of your cascade of laughter. And as we did, a couple walked by, she said “hello,” like her joy was blowing bubbles. She gave us a pipe to put in his mouth, but he could blow no bubbles from it, which was a shame. But with his jaunty hat and bright scarf he mirrored her joy and your laughter as he stood on his icy dais, before both of you melted away. http://breadcrumbsmag.com/
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https://issuu.com/…/docs/scrittura_magazine_issue_11_spring_ https://issuu.com/scrittura_mag/docs/scrittura_magazine_issue_11_spring_
Lost In The Ice The ice sheets came down little by little at first, layer upon layer, but relentless. That was the last time and there were no survivors to tell the story. The mysteries and secrets were buried, lost in the ice. No one stayed to describe the forests standing still clothed in silver spangles, dressed as if for Christmas, shining with sparkling baubles, or their last survivors in the whitened landscape, wearing their silver ball gowns ready for their final dance before they too joined the buried branches and bones the mysteries and secrets now covered over in new white sheets. Buried. Waiting to reveal themselves, to tell their stories when the ice receded, waiting, waiting, only to be washed away in the thaw. First published in Spider Mirror, January 2018 https://www.spidermirror.com/b…/poetry-2-poems-by-lynn-white
Heart’s Desire She said, I was her heart’s desire sometimes she meant it I think sometimes I felt it too. But now I feel empty of desire I feel only strangeness holding her heart in my hand. I feel it pulsating with life. I feel the blood flowing like tears, while she lies still, so still, empty. Emptied of desire, like me. Only wonder. Only I wonder what will happen next. https://btwnthelines.com/ Between the Lines Publishing BLP's bookshop offers something for everyone. From an anthologies challenging traditional norms and stereotypes in folklore and literature to a cozy mystery with characters who will wrap around your heart. If fantasy is more your style, check out R.E. Fisher's latest offering. Authors seeking to pub... BTWNTHELINES.COM
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Stripy Jerseys There were a lot of ragwort plants around the library. Some were bare of leaves and covered with orange and black stripy jersey caterpillars. Others were lush and green with leaves and devoid of caterpillars. As usual the family planning strategy of the cinnabar moth left much to be desired. I began to transfer them carefully from the leafless to the lush. I stood back to admire my achievement, momentarily disconcerted when a rather stern looking stranger asked what I was doing. I explained. “Huh”, she said, “I’ve been doing the same over the other side. I though it was only me who does this.” It was a strange way to begin a friendship but it lasted all her life. I think maybe I should go to the grave in the woodland, where her body lies and scatter a few ragwort seeds. Maybe the moths will come each year and make a living memorial. She would like that, I think. First published in New Reader Magazine, March 2018 https://www.newreadermagazine.com/download
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Dumbing Down Words have power. The generals know it. The dictators know it. Know they must stop the flow of words. Arrest it. Arrest the poets, the singers and songwriters, the graffiti artists, the comedians, the speakers and shouters. Make them dumb. Words have power. So we must swallow them in fear as they rob us of our culture. As they make us dumb. Dumbed down. Dumb. First published in Anthology of the Mad Ones, Weasel Press, 2018 https://www.vagabondsink.com/vol7 Vagabonds | Volume 7
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http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/1422780?__r=116913 Actually a collage using paper, tissue, fabric and acrylic, they got that wrong!
Into The Light I’m living through the time of night without end. The time when everywhere is transformed into the underworld. When everywhere is transformed into that dark place, deathly dark. Only the dark gods and the creatures of death can live there, those who need no further sustenance, who gave up on the light above. I won’t give up. I’m ready for the birth of a new day. Ready for a pink dawn to rise and break full of possibilities, as the light takes over from the dark and the day is born again. I shall follow the road towards the light, and leave the dark behind, again. But I have found that the dark always follows. Catches up with me, as if it were the past. If I hurry maybe I’ll escape it this time. Maybe I’ll catch the light and hold on to it and not let it break again. https://nightgardenjournal.blogspot.co.uk/ Night Garden Journal A poetry and flash fiction blog. NIGHTGARDENJOURNAL.BLOGSPOT.COM Lynn White Poetry Show M
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Inappropriately Dressed I wasn’t dressed for snow, or clouds, or wind, or for walking at all, if I were be honest. But sometimes you just have to give it a go and trudge through the clouds, kick up the snow in passing, challenge the wind with the size of your hat. It wouldn’t dare to blow it away, would it? Sometimes you just have to don your dark glasses and stride out to the sun, regardless of snow, or clouds, or clothes. Sometimes you just have to go. https://visualverse.org/submissions/inappropriately-dressed/
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Favourite It’s such a wonder! So no wonder that the unicorn is my favourite. Well, they never eat their fellow creatures, or trample them under hoof. They don’t require the speedy dispatch of rain forest acres to meet their culinary needs. Those in my garden don’t eat the plants and happily allow me to garland them with flowers fresh each morning and allow the myriad of insects to alight and feed on them without so much as a flick of the tail or a toss of the head. Such a wonder. When out on a walk there is no need for lead or muzzle. They don’t chase the sheep or greet passers by with a growl or take a hefty bite from an ankle or calf, or shit on the street or path. Truly a wonder. And they inhabit my dreams with smiles. https://www.amazon.com/Pilcrow-Dagger-February…/…/1986076210
The Empty Room When I was small my grandparents occupied the empty room - all eight of them. I know now that my great grandparents must have been there before. But I hadn’t heard about great grandparents. I knew about grandparents because other children had them, though I never knew mine. They were always in the empty room. They left only to make way for my father. My mother joined him later. later still my brother displaced them. He’s there still, but fading. But then, he always was a flimsy figure, hardly more real than my grandparents. It’s still locked to me. I still can’t get in. But I will one day when my brother leaves. I don’t know when, though. Don’t know how soon that will be. https://btwnthelines.com/ Between the Lines Publishing BLP's bookshop offers something for everyone. From an anthologies challenging traditional norms and stereotypes in folklore and literature to a cozy mystery with characters who will wrap around your heart. If fantasy is
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The Chase Table chatter. Laughter, quirky smiles. And then our glances held, suddenly. Moments passed. She spread her hands, arms outstretched. A helpless gesture  of excuse me, what can I do? So up to me. Too complicated. But.  I want to know more. Look this way again. I want to know you. So, look.  Look this way. But no, no luck. Talking now, head turned away. Then, smiles all round. Mouth upturned, eyes dead, leave taking smiles. Walking away. Turn! Turn! No turn. No backward glance. Not for me,  it seems.. But I know.. so turn, turn. No turn. So clumsy. Chair upturned. Excuse me. Apologies. Due haste. Well, never a gain without a chase, I know. https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2018/03/08/honorable-mentions-of-the-contest/
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Dandelion Seed There's a dandelion seed caught in your hair. A fluffy wisp of white and grey hanging there,  suspended in your frothy crown. A shimmering seed held like a star in a wiry halo  made by the light. Blow it away. Perhaps you will, if I tell you it's there. Blow it away. But it looks so beautiful suspended there. I won't tell you. I'll just admire it's beauty as it hangs in your hair. Blow it away. No, I won't. It will leave soon enough. Best not to rush these things. Who knows where they will end up after all. http://www.lulu.com/shop/http://www.lulu.com/shop/aquillrelle/the-aquillrelle-wall-of-poetry-book-seven/paperback/product-23529738.html
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Such Fun It was such fun to jump in autumn puddles, that made mud spatters on my red wellies and pale, sun starved legs, in weather too wet to kick up the leaves that lay swept soggily into piles. And when winter came, such fun to leap into snow drifts that came over the tops of my red wellies and my extra socks as I tested the deepness of the snow and the slipperiness of the ice slide. Come the summer rain, I tried on my red wellies but they had grown too small or me too large, so I got my feet wet when I jumped in the stream. Such fun, but I missed my red wellies. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/…/poem-such-fun-by-lynn-wh… http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-such-fun-by-lynn-white
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Suspension I have already suspended gravity and moved outside. Outside of myself. Outside of my world. Now I need to work out how to reach out. Reach out and catch my world before it floats away into nothingness or is swallowed up by the sun. Eaten. Consumed. Melted away. I am so small, I am giving up hope. I need to learn how to move in suspension. How to control my movement. How to grow large enough to make a catch. I feel too small, ever smaller. Dissolving. Fading. Moving away. Unable to make it. Unable to make a catch. First published in Literature Today, Escape issue, 2018 https://www.amazon.com/dp/1984292633/
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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. https://thebezine.com/po…/to-the-passing-of-the-nightingale/ https://thebezine.com/portfolio/to-the-passing-of-the-nightingale/ 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 habita… THEBEZINE.COM