One Last Time

Before the trees begin to fall
I’ll take a walk
through the woods
one last time,
hear the leaves glistening
and shaking
in fear of what is to come
some are already fallen
lying
dying,
it’s the season for it
after all.
I’ll see the light shining
lighting on the leaves of grass
that push soft spikes of green life
in between the fallen
see the light shining
through the trees
one last time.
It lights up the white crosses
chalked on the trunks
as it passes by
too many white crosses
all ready
to mark the graves
of the fallen.
It’s the season for it
after all,
always the season for it
one more time.

https://www.amazon.com/Endlessly-Rocking-Poem…/…/ref=sr_1_1…

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AMAZON.COM

Endlessly Rocking: Poems in Honor of Walt Whitman's 200th Birthday

These poems honor the memory of Walt Whitman as we consider his legacy 200 years after his birth. Whitman's work is revisited in an outpouring of literary energy as these poems were written in response to, in the style of, and as a tribute to the poet himself.

Entertainment

As usual,
it was one tank that drew the crowd
down in the museum’s aquarium.
It was not the tank with pike
gawping threateningly,
their teeth barred
in anticipation
and hope
of attracting an audience.
No,
though there was a monstrous pike in it,
swimming with it’s mouth wide open.
But it’s mouth was open wide
in wonder,
in wonder at it’s strange environment.
Well,
it’s not often that a pike gets to swim
in a drawing room
furnished from times past.
It’s eyes bulged
with the strangeness of it all.
But
it was a crowd puller,
though still not enough
to satisfy such an audience,
the pike reflected,
as it considered the strangeness
of it’s very un-fishlike companion,
the young girl costume dressed
to match the drawing room,
standing there dreamlike
or maybe drugged,
steadying herself
with the chair.
Perhaps earlier she was seated,
when the water was lower.
but now she has to stand.
The water is already
up to her waist
and rising slowly.
The audience gets larger,
their eyes bulging fishlike
as they gawp at the spectacle.

They call it entertainment.
So it goes.

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/…/SirensCallEZine_Feb…

Lakeside

When I was a child Lakeside
was my favourite family outing.
I loved the freshness of the cool air, 
the grey bleakness of the water
and the windblown beach
that seemed to go on for ever.
I would roll up my pants
and race my sister to the water’s edge.
We’d dare each other into the water.
We knew it would be cold
too cold to let it wet much of us,
too cold to stay wet for long
but we loved the comfort of the thick towels
that would be wrap us round like blankets
afterwards.
We loved it like a perversion.
We loved it all.
I’m sitting there now
all these years later
perversely
overwhelmed
and overdressed.
I hadn’t reckoned on global warming,
hadn’t expected to see people swimming
in the warm blue water,
lying on the beach
in the sunshine,
hadn’t expected that
I would be
so overwhelmed
and so overdressed.

https://mercurialstories.com/…/…/19/volume-2-issue-7-heat/8/

MERCURIALSTORIES.COM

Volume 2, Issue 7: Heat

Last summer, the heat was a killer. Every day, the news reported more causalities of the brutal heat wave, old people, young people, people who worked outside, played outside. A first grader died d…

Wrapped

They were wrapped like nuns
but too young for nuns,
or perhaps like babies
but too old for babies.
Shrouded in sepia
tinted sadness
they stood
unposed
for their picture
with the dog,
a black dog
a hang dog
the Black Dog
threatening
to engulf them all.

http://www.ekphrastic.net/…/ekphrastic-writing-challenge-re

Brushstrokes For Alfredo Fuentes Pons The niños play in the dark, singing mañanitas or humming. The earth’s colours are young again in their faces. Because reality...

EKPHRASTIC.NET

Ekphrastic Writing Challenge Responses: Fidelio Ponce de Leon

Brushstrokes For Alfredo Fuentes Pons The niños play in the dark, singing mañanitas or humming. The earth’s colours are young again in their faces. Because reality...

Such Nonsense

We had a new teacher,
a student still in college.
He read us a long poem. 
I listened carefully trying
to make sense of it.
It was funny.
Was it meant to be funny?
or was the laughter of derision,
to what sounded like nonsense.
Laughter seemed allowed
and that was unusual.
School was not a place for fun.
Well, maybe it was nonsense
but I loved the imagery
and the colours of the words.
I asked if 'pea green' was
the colour of mushy peas
from the chip shop,
or was it those in pods
fresh from the garden.
Nothing was clear,
but it was fun.

https://en.calameo.com/read/005408697656c2478a577

https://en.calameo.com/read/005408697656c2478a577?fbclid=IwAR0T3pIiAGAr7vYWx3RfUUTObQzLSYpCIaVhgjmVH6KntDBzCb9T4FQkr3I

Carrot Fantasia

Marx thought he knew all
about the contradictions of capitalism.
He understood the imperative to modernise
and analysed it’s effects.
He knew about monopolies
and cartels and exchange.
And that
modernisation would lead to
cost cutting
and job losses
and resistance
from those workers affected.
But with self check outs the resistance
has been from customers not workers.
Marx could never have imagined
that it would be self checked “carrots”
that would kick the keystone away
and start the edifice falling.
No, Marx never knew
about “carrots”.

https://en.calameo.com/read/005408697656c2478a577

Summers Survivors

It’s that season of mists again.
The season of damp decay,
of naked trees,
of fallen leaves
ready to be walked through,
kicked up,
thrown around,
admired,
pressed,
preserved
for prosperity,
for the future.
The season of mists
which blurs the landscape,
as it strives to cover the nakedness
of the trees,
as it hides
the future
which will surely emerge.
Maybe this time
the future
will be orange
like the oaks now,
the summer’s survivors,
the last of the clothed trees,
clothed in orange
now.

https://blognostics.net/…/…/summers-survivors-by-lynn-white/

BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Summers Survivors by Lynn White

Summers Survivors by Lynn White It’s that season of mists again.The season of damp decay, of naked trees, of fallen leaves ready to be walked through....READ MORE

Shrouded

They’re shrouded in mist almost
as dark as the shrouds
they wear to cover themselves,
to cloak themselves
for their journey.
Shrouds like dusty abayas
uniformly grey,
shapeless,
bloodless,
formless,
lifeless
grey.
Only their mouths still red,
stained by their final feast.
The feast of what was left.
And now there’s nothing,
nothing any more.
No more.
Nothing.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthology-Askew-006-…/…/ref=sr_1_5…

Buzzing

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
opened.
This is a closed space.
Eternal night.
No possibility
of freedom,
or escape.
Not for me.
Not for them.

https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/buzzing-by-lynn-white/

https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/buzzing-by-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR08NMl7VYB7samd_Kg1IV3SKN1o2rY6JG3VcYPnYpWm0vUTnnCuBgbeC0M

Making History

Ever since I was a child
they always told me that
I would go down in history.
It’s still too early to know
if they are right.
But I am still to write a poem
that will bring me fame
or paint a masterpiece
that causes people
to stand and gaze
in awe
as it hangs on the gallery wall.
I’ve never been much of an actor
and, to my great regret,
I never could sing in tune.
But a few nights ago,
I had a dream.
I was living in an Old Folks Home
and was upset about something.
In the way of dreams,
I couldn’t remember what
on waking.
But I did remember the protesters
outside,
(well I could always organise a demo,
I learned it first in Primary School),
and the newspaper interviews
in response to the letters I’d written,
(well I was always good at the
‘letters to the editor’ stuff).
I remembered the headlines
locally and nationally
and the fuss.
So at least I made history
in my dream!
The thought amused me
and I related the dream
to my friends.
I thought they’d laugh,
but they didn’t.
They sat there so serious
all nodding
their heads.
They could see it happening,
they said.
So perhaps there is still time

for me
to make history.
Perhaps there is always time
for any of us
to make history.

https://blognostics.net/…/…/20/making-history-by-lynn-white/

BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Making History by Lynn White

Making History by Lynn White Ever since I was a child they always told me that I would go down in history. It’s still too early to know if they are right. But I am still to write a poem that will....READ MORE

Entertainment

As usual,
it was one tank that drew the crowd
down in the museum’s aquarium.
It was not the tank with pike
gawping threateningly,
their teeth barred
in anticipation
and hope
of attracting an audience.
No,
though there was a monstrous pike in it,
swimming with it’s mouth wide open.
But it’s mouth was open wide
in wonder,
in wonder at it’s strange environment.
Well,
it’s not often that a pike gets to swim
in a drawing room
furnished from times past.
It’s eyes bulged
with the strangeness of it all.
But
it was a crowd puller,
though still not enough
to satisfy such an audience,
the pike reflected,
as it considered the strangeness
of it’s very un-fishlike companion,
the young girl costume dressed
to match the drawing room,
standing there dreamlike
or maybe drugged,
steadying herself
with the chair.
Perhaps earlier she was seated,
when the water was lower.
but now she has to stand.
The water is already
up to her waist
and rising slowly.
The audience gets larger,
their eyes bulging fishlike
as they gawp at the spectacle.

They call it entertainment.
So it goes.

https://oddballmagazine.com/poem-by-lynn-white-3/

https://oddballmagazine.com/2018/10/17/poem-by-lynn-white-3/

Artwork by Sally Deskins.

ODDBALLMAGAZINE.COM

Poem by Lynn White

Artwork by Sally Deskins.

Goldfish

Her favourite foods were prawns and chocolate.
I wondered if she would be fooled
by torn pieces of plastic
heavily disguised.
She ate them eagerly.
And then
spat.
Spat them out
her look of disgust clearly expressing her thinking,
‘I’m not one of them brain dead sea fish, you know!
Oh, and cut out the raspberries,
I’m not a fuckin’ blackbird either!’
Then she blew a few bubbles,
swished her tail
and went in search of tadpoles.

https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/

How Will I Know You

How will I know you,
the man behind the mask.
I can recognise you
with the mask in place.

And sometimes it may slip and reveal ....
another layer, another mask, perhaps
masquerading as an unguarded comment
wearing stage clothes, even if naked.

You are in there somewhere.
But even though I peel off
layer after layer,
uncover
mystery after mystery
I still never find you.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1730805620

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1730805620?fbclid=IwAR0S4WO7Zvm8h_TzajVztbWXjhylDV3QiRAC8yEgpMjtO-vWWJx5aaCQqBU