Friday, 31 August 2018


Where Is My Place
I creased the page
to mark my place,
but when I returned
the fold had disappeared
and I was unsure,
unsure
if I had found it.
I scratched my head and pondered,
was it really my place,
the place
I’d once inhabited in times past.
It didn’t seem quite right.
Perhaps I’d moved on too quickly,
turned over two pages instead of one.
Perhaps I should go back,
retrace my steps
rethink
where I should be.
Rethink
where I should look.
Rethink
where I should look to find
my place.
https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2018/06/17/anthology-release-essential-existentialism-the-meaning-of-life/

Wednesday, 29 August 2018

All of a Flutter
Here I come
all of a flutter,
a flapping frenzy of feathers
determined to find a space
in the cooing crowd.
A space that fits me.
A space befitting
a bird of a feather.
And now I’m ready,
red legged and pigeon toed ready
to strut my stuff with the rest.
We’ll take those tasty tourist titbits
with a bow here,
and a coo there.
We’re their strutting stars
shining iridescently
making their day
until our finale
when we rise
up as one,
all of a flutter,
a flapping fluttering frenzy
ready for the next audience.

https://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2018/08/11/all-of-a-flutter-by-lynn-white/


BLOGNOSTICS.NET
All of a Flutter by Lynn White Here I come all of a flutter, a flapping frenzy of feathers determined to find a space in the cooing crowd. A space that fits me....READ MORE

Tuesday, 28 August 2018


Summer in Gaza
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no water.
Metal rain.
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no sunshine.
Smoke rain.
Black rain.
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no life.
Death rain.
Life ending rain.
Death without life rain.
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no hope.
Deaf rain.
Deaf rain.
Deaf rain.
Death rain.
SPILLWORDS.COM
Spillwords.com presents: Summer In Gaza by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...

Sunday, 26 August 2018


The Hedgerow Fairies
Where have they gone,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats?
I used to see them sitting
under their leafy roofs
stitching their summer dresses
of poppy and mallow petals
with long silk threads
catching the summer sunlight
as the smiling spiders spun.
I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.
I used to see them collecting
armfuls of meadow sweet
to stuff their nighttime mattresses,
making doorways in their new
toadstool homes with sharp stones.
Maybe they’ve gone underground
to escape the passing cars and tractors.
Maybe they only come out at night now
and stitch and stuff under the moonlight.
I don’t know.
But I miss them so,
the hedgerow fairies
in their harebell hats.

LULU.COM
Buy The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, book seven by Aquillrelle (Paperback) online at Lulu. Visit the Lulu Marketplace for product details, ratings,…

Friday, 24 August 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.

Thursday, 23 August 2018


Dream Catchers
These hairy, feathery, stringy things
are supposed to catch my dreams,
but I don’t believe it.
I’ve hung them above my bed and
inspected them carefully in the morning
but I’ve never found a dream caught
in them,
Not even a tiny dreamlet.
No,
they’re just a trick,
a deception, to make me feel
I can capture them and relive them
when I want to.
But I can’t.
No one can ever go back to a dream.

No photo description available.

Tuesday, 21 August 2018


I’ll Climb Alone
I’m strong enough now
to climb alone.
I won’t allow
the creepers
and crawlers
and climbers
to hold me back,
to inch into me
like ivy covering a wall.
I’ll climb alone.
Go straight up
the bleached white staircase
shining through
the undergrowth
showing me the way
up and over.
Quickly now
before it encroaches,
before it overwhelms me.
Up and over.
I know I can do it.
I’m strong enough now.
https://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1278



Monday, 20 August 2018


My Sister Maud
I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.
I never knew her,
never even knew of her.
No one said.
Not our father,
or his son,
not my mother,
no one.
No one spoke.
All were mute for Maud.
She never grew old,
never even grew up.
And her little life
became engulfed in silence.
My father cried
when she died,
I know it now
more than eighty years later
I know it.
When there’s no one living
who knew her.
When there is no one left
to tell me her favourite games,
her hopes, her dreams.
All are gone.
I know it now.
I even have a photograph
so that I can see her,
picture her as she was.
And I won’t forget her,
won’t forget that
I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.
https://blueheronreview.com/blue-heron-review-issue-10-summer-2018/

Sunday, 19 August 2018

Passion in Place
Passion led us here
and we thought we would stay.
Our kind of place to love with a passion.
And we stayed.
And we stayed
with our passion.
And then passion
took us away.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1722360984/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1534255651&sr=1-2&refinements=p_27%3ASoodabeh+Saeidnia

AMAZON.COM
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...

Friday, 17 August 2018


Rock Star
He looked mean and sullen.
Perhaps he thought it befitted his rock star image.
Or perhaps he thought it would distract from the acne,
which was a bit of a shock, to be honest.
He looked too ordinary to set any teen’s heart throbbing.
But he wrote “To Vicky” and signed his name,
which would have been fine apart from
the dribble of ink down the front of her dress,
her favourite pale orange shirt-waister,
saved up for from her mum’s Gratton catalogue.
He must have noticed, surely.
“Look what tha’s done”, she said
showing him the damage.
He gazed sullenly at the floor.
He may have been a rock star
but he had acne and a leaky pen,
and the damage should be acknowledged.
“Look what tha’s done”, she said more loudly,
only to still be ignored
by the rock star with the acne and the leaky pen.
So she followed him round the room
warning everyone of the hazard.
He may have been a rock star
but he had acne, really bad acne
and a leaky pen
and he really was mean and sullen.
She made sure everyone knew it.
That was how they both discovered that nobody liked his music any more.
https://literaryyard.com/2018/08/04/rock-star-and-other-poems-by-lynn-white/

Tuesday, 14 August 2018


Just Hair
First came the flowers,
then the song.
Then, in time
many songs
of hope
and love and peace
becoming
intertwined
in Hair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Then came the spikes
and streaks and shaves
of grungy aggression
and despair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Now there’s a medley
of coloured words.
The dark and bright
past
intertwined.
Revolutions dying
and being born.
Pasts intertwined
in the words
and in the hair.
http://voxpoetica.com/just-hair/?fbclid=IwAR0735fHOD_ZQ6Nnj7TB3bOeX5VnTOwgjIfwhJ7r_Bs8OYKz4FWOrnwT_tA

Monday, 13 August 2018


Face Space
Sometimes
he felt like a man with no face,
his face space occupied
by a swirling mist of confusion.
So he had to wait
for it to settle down
to see what emerged,
what to find his face for today.
Sometimes
it was exciting,
but only sometimes.
Sometimes
he wished for a blank space
that he could fill himself
with a Magritte apple.
Or maybe a luscious peach
would be self fulfilling.
Sometimes
he wished he could wear
the same face every day,
wake up with it in place
and know it would stay,
know what he would be
every day.

VISUALVERSE.ORG
Visual Verse: An Anthology of Art and Words One image, one hour, 50-500 words. The picture is the starting point, the text is up to you.

Friday, 10 August 2018


Journey
He’s standing on the platform
with a small suitcase.
I’m not sure if he’s coming or going,
if it’s an arrival or departure.
It’s unclear.
It’s unclear
if the suitcase is full
or if it’s empty.
Once he packed it full
of his dreams, but now
it’s unclear
if any remain,
caught in the lining,
perhaps.
Perhaps she will help him
find them
before they are carried away
and are gone forever
on this train
or the next.
Perhaps it will become clear
when the train leaves the station.
THEDRABBLE.WORDPRESS.COM
By Lynn White He’s standing on the platform with a small suitcase. I’m not sure if he’s coming or going, if it’s an arrival or departure. It’s unclear. It’s unclear if the suitcase is full or if it…

THEDRABBLE.WORDPRESS.COM
By Lynn White He’s standing on the platform with a small suitcase. I’m not sure if he’s coming or going, if it’s an arrival or departure. It’s unclear. It’s unclear if the suitcase is full or if it…