Tuesday, 30 April 2019

Above It All
I need to be out of the fray,
above the drama
and the darkness,
look down on it all,
be part of the scarlet sky
and the jagged skyline.
I will climb so high
that I’ll have no way back,
no wish to go back
only to stay
above it all.
About This Website
Above It All is a poem written by Lynn White and shared with The Ugly Writers for the theme Inner Strength for the month of April.

Sunday, 28 April 2019

Off With His Hair
“Off with his hair!” Cried the Red Queen.
“I don’t think that’s quite right,” said Alice.
“It should surely be, off with his head”.
The Red Queen’s frown deepened.
She didn’t make mistakes.
It was a well known fact.
Never the less…
She shouted to Jack
who was reclining lazily as usual.
“Which is correct, hair or head?”
“Well, you are quite right, of course
as everyone knows.
But consider..
As all strength flows from hair to head,
Cutting off his hair may make it unnecessary
to cut off his head
even though all around are losing theirs.”
“Of course”, cried the Red Queen.
“Off with his hair!”
“They’re as mad as hatters” thought Alice.
But she didn’t say so,
Just in case an unfortunate judgement was made.
One couldn’t be too careful in a mad world.
Off With His Hair by Lynn White “Off with his hair!” Cried the Red Queen. “I don’t think that’s quite right,” said Alice. “It should surely be, off with his head....READ MORE

Friday, 26 April 2019

Smoking Gun

I know I’m no angel
but I’m not a devil 
I said.
They said 
I would cause a sea of blood
and it does look a bit like that
I think the sea may be the sky
and the blood a red moon glow,
I’m unsure,
but I know it’s not me who held
the smoking gun.
it’s just a cigarette.
I know I’m under age
but that’s all it is
a cigarette
which lit up the sky 
and bloodied the sea,
made them both red

and gave me a halo.

Jenn Zed: Ekphrastic Challenge Responses- Poetry

Thursday, 25 April 2019

It’s a rare thing to see,
a fox in a field of pink,
a fox in
a field
of foxgloves.
He looks up and sniffs them.
He could put his nose right inside
if he chose.
But he doesn’t.
He could slip each paw
in turn
the pink glove,
but he doesn’t
choose to.
Why would he,
unless he knew
the connection,
the link,
the identification.
But he doesn’t
know it.
he just sniffs the air
and moves on.

Wednesday, 24 April 2019

Puff Of Smoke
I remember the children’s party.
There was a magician.
I’d never seen a magician before.
He waved a stick called a wand
and a puff of blue smoke came out,
like magic.
And hidden in the smoke were flowers,
real flowers
showing through a gap in the smoke.
Since then
I have discovered that some people
can usually find a gap in the smoke
where the light shines through,
like magic.
Puff Of Smoke by Lynn White I remember the children’s party. There was a magician. I’d never seen a magician before....READ MORE

Monday, 22 April 2019

"Listen" by Lynn White |Praxis Magazine for Arts & Literature

Friday, 19 April 2019

up tight
seeing straight ahead
into the dark,
the grey,
the black.
loosen up
see the blue behind.
loosen up.
You can see it now
if you look.
You can feel
the brightness
that lay hidden.
reveal all.
You’ll feel better for it.
Unzipped by Lynn White Closed up tight focused seeing straight ahead into the dark, the grey, the black....READ M

Thursday, 18 April 2019


I can hear the flies buzzing
since I died.
In life I could shoo them away,
open a window
to persuade them through,
though usually they were
too stupid
to grasp the chance of freedom
offered and escape.
Now there is no window to be
This is a closed space.
Eternal night.
No possibility
of freedom,
or escape.
Not for me.
Not for them.


Wednesday, 17 April 2019

Annabel And The Artist
Annabel had been a Social Worker
for a good many years.
She’d seen it all, 
or so she’d thought.
And then she met the artist.
Neighbours had reported concerns,
but were somewhat vague
about the problems.
She called round anyway.
Annabel was like that.
She was old school,
didn’t work to rule.
The artist’s house was large
and a bit crumbly, dirty and decrepit,
rather like the artist herself, Annabel thought
and she didn’t chance the cup of tea, when offered.
There were paintings stacked up everywhere
and, in the corner of one room,
a large whitish sculpture.
It towered upwards
almost up to the ceiling.
Annabel walked round it pondering
it’s strange shape and texture.
The artist laughed, saying,
“That’s not a sculpture!
Years ago I had a dog
and never got round
to house-training it.
That’s dog shit!
I piled it up.
It went dry,
then solid,
then whitish
over the years!
And here it still is.”
Back at the office
Annabel reported,
there was no cause
for concern.
Time passed.
The artist died.
And today,
her only known sculpture, ‘Untitled’,
is being installed as the centrepiece
of her exhibition.
Annabel smiles.