Saturday, 30 March 2019

Brenda’s Turtle
When I was a child,
Brenda’s turtle walked
into the hot, hot embers.
No one knew why.
So badly burned
we thought him ready
for an easeful, sleepy death.
“No, no” said the vet,
“very resilient, turtles,
could live to be a hundred.”
I would like to tell you
that he made the hundred,
but he’s not quite there yet,
though he still seems happy enough.
About This Website
THEDRABBLE.WORDPRESS.COM
By Lynn White When I was a child, Brenda’s turtle walked into the hot, hot embers. No one knew why. So badly burned we thought him ready for an easeful, sleepy death. “No, no” said the vet, “very r…

Thursday, 28 March 2019

They Thought It Time

They thought it time
to build a cathedral
with gothic towers
reaching
into the clouds.
It seemed time
but as it rose
the dry ground crumbled
and cracked around it
leaving only a few
distorted stones
behind.
It had seemed like time
but it was too late,
much too late
the cracks were already open
the foundations had fractured
and there was no one to watch
as it floated away
with the clouds.

https://eventhorizonmagazinecom.files.wordpress.com/2019/03/issue-8-w-covers.pdf

https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/


Wednesday, 27 March 2019

https://gallery.mailchimp.com/e2c7528f98e8fa3c893c6c12d/files/7faf8ba1-7c6d-44bc-878b-81a0f99736f7/Printed_Words_March.pdf


Tuesday, 26 March 2019


My Old Blue Pumps

I kept them on,
my old blue pumps.
You see,
I could see a broad band
of sharp shells
and pebbles
and other flotsam
between me and the sea
so I kept them on,
my old blue pumps,
until I’d crossed over.
I eased them off carefully
but even so the sharp sand
grazed my heels.
Never mind,
the sea would sooth them,
wash away the pain
with the ingrained sand.
And it did
as I swam.
But at the end
they were no longer waiting for me
on the shoreline,
my old blue pumps.
No longer waiting when I emerged
healed and refreshed,
no longer waiting
but captured by the sea
and washed away with the rest.



https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/


Friday, 22 March 2019

A Disappointing Day
If they hadn’t asked her
to smell the nice scent.
If she hadn’t remembered
the scent from before.
There would have been
no screams, no stamping
up and down on the trolley.
The nurse would still
have her cap on
and the doctor would have
no fist or feet marks
on his white coat,
no red hand mark
on his pale cheek.
There would have been
no shock, horror reports
to those who had put away
Red Riding Hood
and were waiting
anxiously for news
of their little girl.
But they did ask her.
They did ask her.
The scent wasn’t nice.
She knew it.
And there was no ice cream
afterwards either.
They’d lied about that
as well.
A disappointing day.

Thursday, 21 March 2019


Every Cloud

Every cloud has a turquoise lining
sparking in caught sunlight.
You can see it 
even though
your eyes 
are tight shut 
against the light
you know it’s true
you can see that it is
even though your eyes
are shut tight against the light.
Believing is seeing
after all.


https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/



Wednesday, 20 March 2019

Curly Cashews
That’s what it said on the packet,
‘curly cashews’.
But right now,
I would like a straight cashew
for a change,
had enough of those that are curly.
So I asked
in the Health food shop.
I asked in several Health Food shops.
Some very strange looks were forthcoming,
but no straight cashews.
I don’t give up easily.
I searched on Google.
Perused Amazon.
Lots of cashews,
but in the photos all were curly.
Looks like I will have to become a plant breeder,
a hybridiser to satisfy this need,
fast becoming an obsession,
for a cashew that has no curl or curve.
I believe someone has developed a straight banana,
so in time, who knows what there will be.
BLOGNOSTICS.NET
Curly Cashews by Lynn White That’s what it said on the packet, ‘curly cashews’. But right now, I would like a straight cashew for a change, had enough of those that are curly....READ MORE

Tuesday, 19 March 2019

River
I look into the river and see myself in reflection.
Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in it’s flow.
I am constantly being moved and changed,
but left stationary, moved but not moving on
like the fishes and pebbles.
Here I am, disturbed and abstracted,
surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world,
which leaves me unclear who I am and,
more unclear about the solidity of my background
and what is happening around me.
I look into two worlds which are intermingling,
becoming inseparable before my gaze.
My own distorted image fades and breaks
with the images behind and beyond me
in the background of my life.
This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion.
For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside.
I am in danger of being broken up and washed away.
Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces,
undecided, lacking definition.
It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person,
into the confusion and fragmentation beyond it’s edges,
into the reality outside, which is pressing in on me.
It excludes any coming together, any resolution as
it embraces me in it’s ripples and sounds.
Such sweet, watery sounds, cooly relaxing my spirit.
Shutting out the incoherent babbling outside.
But still, even as I put my hands over my broken ears,
I know it will find a way inside and overwhelm me,
in any case.

Sunday, 17 March 2019

Old Reds
Molly was a red,
her politics even redder than her hair.
She met in the city centre pub
every Tuesday night
with the three Tommys,
a Gramscian Tommy,
a New
and of course,
Tommy the Trot.
Every Tuesday night
they met and argued
about the Spanish Civil War.
They’d been doing it for years,
decades in fact
every Tuesday night
their voices undiminished by age
growing louder and louder
as the Guinness worked it’s magic
spilling over a little as fists banged the table
every Tuesday night.
But the new Landlady was no respecter of age,
“Youse come in here disturbing the peace again
next Tuesday and yer all banned”, she cried!
“Well”, said Molly ,“that’s not very comradely!”
Quietly,
at last they all agreed.

https://mercurialstories.com/2019/03/17/volume-2-issue-4-red/2/

Saturday, 16 March 2019


Every Breath

It's interesting to consider that
every breath I take
has already been breathed by
someone else,
another person or creature.
Been part of their breath.
Perhaps that dog over there, 
smelly and hairy, 
licking it's own arse.

I would prefer not to have 
molecules of oxygen from it's breath
entering my blood stream, 
giving me life.
But there's nothing
I can do about it.
Have to take what comes.
Breath the air that's there
wherever it's been before.
Rebellion is not an option.



https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/2019/03/15/every-breath/?fbclid=IwAR0Ti2urTchsHmz35UUBxKeZlCpUtxEA1Lt-5978aznShjQPijnDG0AK_ic


Wednesday, 13 March 2019

The Empty House

It fascinated us as children,
the empty house in the countryside
where we walked the neighbour’s dog.
Why was it empty?
Who had lived there?
We imagined secret passages
leading to priest holes,
walled up dead bodies
and buried treasure.
No one knew.
But we knew
that the dog was reluctant to go near
and we had heard that dogs were sensitive
to the spirit world.
So we knew
it was haunted.
That ghosts lived there,
spirits of the past.
We dared each other to enter
through the broken window.
Maybe we broke it first,
but I don’t remember that.
In the end we all went in,
leaving the dog outside.
But there was nothing.
Just a house.
Empty.
Ordinary.
Not spooky.
Just empty.
I passed it today,
all these years later.
There’s no entering now.
Police tapes surround it.
Maybe the dog knew
that the ghosts were of the future,
not the past.

https://sinfronterasjournal.com/2019/02/28/issue-23-is-out/

Friday, 8 March 2019

Mermaid
It was the change in her hair she noticed first
growing now like harsh thin weed
but attached
firmly
attached
and inedible.
She tugged at it
but the pain was too great
to separate it from her head.
And then her scales
began to disappear
her beautiful shiny scales
washed away with her gills.
Her brothers and sisters
and the rest of the school
swam around her still
but she couldn’t hear them,
couldn’t understand
what they were saying.
The art of communication
had been lost
washed away
with her gills.
What was she now?
Neither fish nor fowl.
Fowl,
where did that come from?
She ran her fingers over her skin,
still smooth
unfeathered
up to now.
She waited
waited to see what would emerge.
Then the next wave came
and carried her
to the beach
so she crawled along
the sharp sand
uncomfortably
on her swollen belly
until she found a rock
and clambered up
then slithered down
algaed slime
into a recess
a safe cave
a haven
with a shallow pool
left by the tide,
a birthing pool
she thought
and she knew
that the next tide
would bring her sustenance
while she waited to see
what would emerge.
ODDBALLMAGAZINE.COM
Photography by Joe Linker.