To Rest In Peace

They were men of the north
suitably suited
in black dense as new hewed coal
or dark grey shiny as wet slate
or, rarely, the midnight blue
of a northern night sky.
It was a formal occasion
this laying to rest
of the dull grey
past known,
of the bright red
future hoped for.
They laid them to rest
with broken flowers
petals crushed
with ashes
and dust.
It was a formal occasion
this laying to rest
in peace
or not.

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Leading the Way

The male will always lead,
so it’s been said,
a flamboyant rooster
strutting his stuff
while the fluffy bird-brained
females dutifully follow,
so it’s been said.

But, we say no
not here,
not now.
We’ll only follow
where we want to go.
We’ll let him stride on ahead,
strutting his stuff,
and make a diversion
for a little of what we fancy.
We’ll scratch up a juicy morsel here,
reach out to catch a flighty creature there.
We’ll have a nibble of this and a nibble of that.
And he won’t know,
he never looks back,
we know
so we’ll chuckle away
to ourselves
while he strides on alone,
unknowing,
strutting his stuff
thinking he’s leading.

We won’t be watching.
We won’t be following.
We’ll make out own way.
We’ll stray.

https://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2019/08/26/leading-the-way-by-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR0R3e5m7KStsjsC8WpWy6P8IHYKliOPrHXuQ9U6bO0vhdSN2fvqab0dfTo

Leading the Way by Lynn White The male will always lead, so it’s been said, a flamboyant rooster strutting his stuff while the fluffy bird-brained females dutifully follow, so it’s been said....READ MORE

BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Leading the Way by Lynn White

Leading the Way by Lynn White The male will always lead, so it’s been said, a flamboyant rooster strutting his stuff while the fluffy bird-brained females dutifully follow, so it’s been said....READ MORE

The Vase

The kitchen looked tired and worn
like my mother did,
the last time I saw her there.
I felt no nostalgia for it.
It was not my childhood kitchen.
It held no special memories,
I thought.
And then,
I saw the vase on the counter top.
My friend found it on the Kings Road.
Bought it and brought it home.
I’d asked her to buy me something,
a souvenir of swinging London.
She bought the vase.
I never much liked it.
Dark and bulbous,
it spent most of it’s time at my mother’s,
though she didn’t like it much either.
Then time stole it away,
took it from my memory,
erased it.
And now,
here it is again, sharp as ever
bringing the past home
as it stands empty
on the counter top.
It seems that her death
invested in it a poignancy
that it had not known before.

I took it home with me.

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Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love

All humans seek love. It is the basis of our existence, the song that makes life warm and meaningful. In spite of the daily anger and meanness with which we are encountered in today's heated political climate, an anthology that speaks of love is a strong protest and refusal to give in to the forc...

Where Equivalence Goes To Die

We soon found out that Native Americans
were the bad guys.
We watched the Hollywood portrayals
of the cowardly braves
deserving of death
and the brave, honest settlers
who rightly prevailed.
If propaganda is successful
it won’t even be recognised.
And successful it was for a long time.
That is not to say
that all ‘indians’ were good people,
that they never committed atrocities
or preached hatred and abuse.
But the power was so disproportionate
that they could be no equivalence.
The scales were already tipping over.
To pretend balance was possible
would be a distortion.

Then there were the Nazi’s.
No one now thinks that
their arguments
of superiority,
of paranoia and racism
should find an open ear.
But ears were open then.
Wide open.
And eyes were closed to
enslavement,
starvation
and death.
That is not to say
that all Jews, Slavs and gypsies were good people,
that they never committed atrocities
or preached hatred and abuse.
But the power was so disproportionate
that they could be no equivalence.
The scales were already tipping over.
To pretend balance was possible
would be a distortion.

And in South Africa, a new ideology,
separate development
for the benefit of each culture.
So it was justified
in the propaganda,
the dominant discourse.
And it found the open ears
of the powerful.
So segregated townships were created
and Bantustan homelands.
far away.
Separation, control,
humiliation, harassment,
impoverishment, exploitation.
That is not to say
that all the black people were good,
that they never committed atrocities
or preached hatred and abuse.
But the power was so disproportionate
that they could be no equivalence.
The scales were already tipping over.
To pretend balance was possible
would be a distortion.

And now in Israel
the same game is being played,
separation, control,
humiliation, harassment,
impoverishment,
destruction, death
with the same justifications,
the same ears open
to the powerful,
closed to the oppressed
That is not to say
that all Palestinians are good people,
that they never commit atrocities
or preach hatred and abuse.
But the power is so disproportionate
that they can be no equivalence.
The scales are already tipping over.
To pretend balance is possible
would be a distortion.

So now we must wait
for some ears to be closed
and others to be opened
as history moves on
relentlessly.

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On A Sunny Sunday

It was a sunny Sunday,
a perfect day.
So he dressed them in their
Sunday best
and they went to the park
to play on the swings
and roundabouts.
My father.
My half brother and sister
on a sunny Sunday.
They were surprised
to meet her
as they walked home.
They were surprised
to see that
she was carrying a suitcase.
They were surprised
when she said goodbye.
They didn’t believe it
so they went home
to their new council house
to wait.
She never came back.
It had not been a happy home.
She could be violent.
But it was their home.
She never came back.
So they moved to his parents
where they were
only grudgingly accepted.
It was not a happy move
but it was the best he could do.
Sometimes on a sunny Sunday
she would leave the hospital,
escape in search of her family.
But they never found each other
again.

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Nightingale & Sparrow Literary Magazine is proud to present their third issue, heat. This volume features the poetry, creative nonfiction, fiction, and photography of more than 70 amazing creators from around the world. For this themed issue, Nightingale & Sparrow asked contributors to send "suns...

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heat: Nightingale & Sparrow Literary Magazine, Issue No. III

Nightingale & Sparrow Literary Magazine is proud to present their third issue, heat. This volume features the poetry, creative nonfiction, fiction, and photography of more than 70 amazing creators from around the world. For this themed issue, Nightingale & Sparrow asked contributors to send "suns...

COME FOR A SWIM

“Come for a swim,” they said
and I thought “why not?”
It would be a new experience for me.
I’d looked over from my field and seen the pool,
seen the children laughing and splashing
and moving through the water so easily.
What an adventure it would be!
I pushed through a gap in the fence,
ran right up to the edge
and jumped!
I hadn’t expected to sink.
The children hadn't sunk.
What will happen if I go lower?
Already my feet don’t touch the ground,
if there is any ground under this water.
“Come for a swim,” they said,
I should have tried to fly
I’m sure pigs can fly.

https://visualverse.org/submissions/come-for-a-swim/

Eye Contact

Look at me.
Hey, look at me.
I’m here
I’m real,
a real person
and I like you a lot.
You’re really special.
Hey look at me,
look into my eyes.
Look at me!

How the fuck
can I look at you
when you keep
kissing my eyes closed!

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/anthology-release-…/…

This Time

Before my time,
they used to line the streets
with the heads 
of the defeated stuck on pikes,
heads
which rotted away in time
leaving only the pikes
standing empty.
This time
too little remains to separate
heads from bodies,
there’s too little left
to identify the defeated.
Winners and losers are all
remnants
in the rubble of the city.
If there are survivors
they could take empty helmets
and set them on pikes
instead.
The pikes would
rot away first
this time.
But there’s too little left
and there’s no one
to do it
and
no one
left
to see it
this time.

https://www.peachvelvetmag.com/summer-19

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summer '19 | Peach Velvet Magazine

A Change of Focus

They were being herded now
bleating pleas
like the blind sheep
of past times.
Herded
by those they’d lionised
those they’d cultivated
as heroes
or victims
now metamorphosed
into triffids in khaki
and all it took was a change
of focus.
Triffids in khaki
poking
and prodding.
They could see them now
in focus
as they stumbled
supported
squatted
sometimes
bleating
their pleas
to the deafened.
They could see now
see themselves
see that they’re victims of
them
them and
their old blind sheep
selves
all it took was a change of focus
and in a flash
they’re
blinded
by the light.

BLOGNOSTICS.NET

A Change of Focus by Lynn White

A Change of Focus by Lynn White They were being herded now bleating pleas like the blind sheep of past times. Herded by those they’d lionised....READ MORE