Friday, 30 March 2018


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

Thursday, 29 March 2018


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.

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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Wednesday, 28 March 2018


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.

Tuesday, 27 March 2018

Friday, 23 March 2018


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

Thursday, 22 March 2018

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.

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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Tuesday, 20 March 2018


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


Monday, 19 March 2018


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

Saturday, 17 March 2018

Thursday, 15 March 2018

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.
A poetry and flash fiction blog.
NIGHTGARDENJOURNAL.BLOGSPOT.COM

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Tuesday, 13 March 2018

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.

Monday, 12 March 2018

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.
First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, March 2018

Sunday, 11 March 2018

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.

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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Friday, 9 March 2018

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/

Thursday, 8 March 2018

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

Wednesday, 7 March 2018

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/the-unreal/poem-such-fun-by-lynn-white

Monday, 5 March 2018

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/

Sunday, 4 March 2018

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/portfolio/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

Friday, 2 March 2018

April In Paris

We set out in two groups,
Three of us from Manchester,
two from Sheffield,
hitching our way to Paris
in the spring.
Sometimes we would see the others
by the roadside
and we would wave animatedly
to make sure the driver understood,
in case more of us could be squeezed in.
It usually worked and
we arrived
in Paris all
together.

We found the recommended hostel near Laumiere,
but were a little disconcerted to be
met with a closed door
covered in signs which read
‘FULL’ in every known language.
But we went in anyway.
‘Of course we’re not full
at this early hour’, we were told.
‘Anyway, no one is ever turned away’.
They were planning a demonstration,
a rehearsal for May 1968,
but of course,
none of us knew that then.
We could join if we wished,
but of course,
we were too early,
even for the rehearsal.
It was only April.
Just three days
in April
in Paris.

Later, we did our best to be helpful.
Yes, that was us who, with wide eyed innocence
and impressively bad French
Failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
until our new friends with the nice smiles
and no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
No chance. We would sleep easy in our beds.

We got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floor of the hostel
for the first time in many years.
Then we sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone,
until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not speak,
why this was necessary.

It was a long three days our April in Paris.
It felt like it lasted for ever.



First published in Ramingo Porch, Issue 2 2018https://

www.amazon.com/dp/0998847674