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…

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

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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 wrap around your heart. If fantasy is more your style, check out R.E. Fisher's latest offering. Authors seeking to pub...

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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/

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...

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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

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
• 
  

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

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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/

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 more your style, check out R.E. Fisher's latest offering. Authors seeking to pub...

BTWNTHELINES.COM

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/

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

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

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/

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