Sunday, 30 June 2019

Blow It Away
I’m thinking
that every grain of sand
represents some part 
of my life
as I lie wet on my towel.
I’m thinking
that every speck
has some meaning,
some significance
for me.
And now
I’ve shaken them up
to dry them off
I’m watching them float away.
Float away
likes motes in the sunshine
leaving me
ready to begin again
with a clean towel.

Friday, 28 June 2019…/do…/scrittura_magazine_issue_16_summer_…

Wednesday, 26 June 2019

It was so beautiful,
gleaming huge and iridescent
gold and green and blue and black.
With wings that should have been clear,
filled with shining rainbows
not like this, twisted at strange angles
and dulled with sticky silk.
Not stuck there waiting
to be prepared for some spider’s supper.
I held it gently
and took it from the web.
I carefully removed the sticky silk
and saw the rainbows sparkle as they should,
saw it’s eyes brighten and gleam
with the prospect of freedom.
It took a while, this disentanglement,
a delicate task to free this fragile creature.
And when it was ready,
I opened my fingers and
let it fly away.
It bit me then.
No parting kiss,
but a bite that
left a bruise.
Such gratitude!

Tuesday, 25 June 2019

On The Inside
The circles are in such a tangle
it’s impossible to explore them
impossible to see what’s inside
impossible to plumb their depths
the coloured threads of a life
So I’m left with the outside
which is much simpler
much clearer
much duller
less colourful
and yet still
even when things are straightened
and appear clear
I can’t make sense of them
can’t manage to join the dots
and the dashes
and the tangles are more beautiful
which seems to be important.
The colourful threads of a life
intertwined round and round
on the inside of my head.

Sunday, 23 June 2019


They had a reputation for reliability

but there’s always an exception to the rule.

Mine was the exception

with an inclination 

to come to a halt

for no reason,

just a whim.

It was worse after it was fixed,

it’s tappets adjusted

or perhaps renewed.

It became so afraid of stalling 

that it was reluctant even to start.

One part of the car park was on a slight slope.

I got to work early to make sure of my place.

I switched on the engine,

gave it a push,

leapt inside

and put it into gear.

Usually that did the trick

and the engine spluttered into life.

No way will I let anyone fix tappets

on my car again.

Thursday, 20 June 2019

Dirty Hands
Gloves will protect you
from the dirt in the ground
as you pot and dig and prune.
Gloves will protect you
from the bugs in the bathroom
and the unclean creatures
invading the scratches of your hard labour.
But nothing will protect you from your dirty work
the kind that leaves dirt on your soul not your hands.
Nothing will protect you from that.
It will soil more than your hands
as it engulfs you, covers you
even when invisible.
You know
and its stench will stay with you
You know
that you’ll never feel clean again.

Dirty Hands Gloves will protect youfrom the dirt in the groundas you pot and dig and prune.Gloves will protect youfrom the bugs in the bathroomand the unclean creaturesinvading the scratches of your hard labour.But nothing will protect you from your dirty workthe kind that leaves dirt on your soul n...

Sunday, 16 June 2019

In Flames
Gather round!
Gather round
the hearth
it’s a cosy place
if the fire is burning
and we’ll keep it burning
never fear
the flames.
Gather round
to watch them flaring
back to life
and lapping
from the once cooling embers,
watch the shapes and shades
a living fire.
Gather round,
gather round!
We’ll keep it burning
the home fire
let yourself
be hypnotised
be mesmerised
by the flickering flames,
waving and dancing.
Listen to them
as they crackle
and scream
as a living fire must.
Gather round,
never fear
the cold
we’ll keep it burning
the home fire
with new life.
Gather round.

Download our released issue here. New Reader Magazine is a quarterly journal for fresh, brave new voices in literature, culture, and the arts.

Friday, 14 June 2019

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel
They all said the same,
that the light
at the end 
of the tunnel
had been switched off.
She didn’t believe it.
Who would do such a thing?
So she went in search of it
wended her way along
the long dark tunnel
until she saw it
just a speck at first,
a glimmer of
from the outside in
while leaving the dark
Perhaps they were right
someone had turned it off
She scrambled up towards
to the end of the tunnel
and searched for the switch.
She found it
turned it on
and then
all was bathed in light
flooded with bright white light
but still she saw nothing
nothing hopeful
just emptiness
bathed in light,
in blinding light
so bright
so blinding
she fell back
into the dark
into the emptiness of the dark.
The Light At The End Of The Tunnel They all said the same, that the light at the end of the tunnel had been switched off. She didn’t believe it. Who would do such a thing? So she went in search of …

Thursday, 13 June 2019

The door was unexpectedly locked.
He found an open window
and climbed in.
He found her
on the bathroom floor.
He tried to revive her
but she was already
“I’m sorry for your loss,” they said
but the greatest loss was hers,
the one who was
He knew then that irony
was still alive.

About This Website
The door was unexpectedly locked. He found an open window and climbed in. He found her lying on the bathroom floor. He tried to revive her but she was already dead. “I’m sorry for your loss,” they …

Wednesday, 12 June 2019

A Rose For Gaza
Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape.
No garden of Eden here.
No gateway to paradise.
Rubble and rock roses.
So I shall plant a rose for Gaza
in my green space,
in my tranquil garden.
I won’t bruise it,
just gently sniff its fragrance
and hope that one day
fragrant roses will bloom again
in the garden of Gaza.
What else can I do?

SPILLWORDS.COM presents: A Rose For Gaza, written by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...

Tuesday, 11 June 2019

Washed Up
So many dead people
caught in the crossfire
created by the the money men, 
the arms traders,
the super ego-ed politicians.
They lie dead where they fell.
Flesh and blood transformed to
fertilizer to nurture the seeds
and grow the crops, in a future
they will not see.
Their bones decaying to dust
to form the building blocks
of homes they will never inhabit.
Dying where they fell,
over there, not here
and not looking like us.
Unseen or soon forgotten
by us here.
But the dead washed up
on holiday beaches
look like our flesh and blood.
They’re wearing our clothes.
They’re washing up to haunt us
in the Old World.
Then there’s the living,
washed up alive
and by any means necessary
moving on to bear witness,
if any one is listening.
To bring the horror home
to those who created it
in the Old World.
Bringing it home to the Old World,
soon to the New.

Sunday, 9 June 2019

They were returning
to their spaces at tables
left only ten minutes ago,
he from the cloakroom to the left,
she from the cloakroom to the right.
They paused together at the open door
and saw him leaning back,
a half smile on his face
slightly bemused
just a little fascinated.
She was leaning forward,
elbows on table,
hands gesturing
to help her explain
the complexity
of the issue.
She sat back.
He asked her something
they couldn’t hear
but they saw it all,
saw her vigorous nods
and more explanation.
Saw her stand briefly
to demonstrate her meaning
then sat back down again.
They saw it all.
He was nodding now
then suddenly
he leaned
forward to take her hands,
her clenched hands folded in his
as he smiles
smiles and speaks.
They still can’t hear,
only see as they move
to retake their spaces
but think they could be lost.
They looked up,
to see them.
In ten minutes they’d been forgotten
and they knew they were lost.
Lost by Lynn White They were returning to their spaces at tables left only ten minutes ago, he from the cloakroom to the left....READ MORE

Friday, 7 June 2019

Where Am I?
Where shall I sit
in this place
I don’t know.
Which side of the aisle
Should I be.
Or should I be at the front
conducting the ceremony
like a lecture.
I’ve done that
often enough
when I knew where I was.
Or maybe I should stand at the back
ready for a quick getaway.
I couldn’t do that at my wedding,
but if it’s my funeral
I think that’s the best place
for me.
But is it?
So difficult to know.

Thursday, 6 June 2019

In her dreams she would go to the ball.
She’d meet her prince.
and dance with him
so unforgettably
that he would search for her later,
search until his lost love was found again.
With a poetic little spell and a wave
of her wand the fairy godmother
made her dream come true.
We read it!
We heard it!
We know it!
Well, we know that
the ball gown and transportation were sorted
but who the fuck
taught her to dance?
Cracked ankles..
crushed toes..
bruised feet..
these things
might have led to
a different outcome.
Maybe the glass slippers were magic
and carried her, step perfectly
in time with the music.
But we should have been told
even in a fairy story,
in a fairy story
we should have been told.