Friday 31 January 2020

Sister Millicent
The teapot was full catering size
perfect for the church function
where I first met Sister Millicent.
She was balancing it on her head.
Her eyes were uplifted
so were her lips.
It was her party trick.
I didn’t know nuns did such things.

By Lynn White The teapot was full catering size perfect for the church function where I first met Sister Millicent. She was balancing it on her head. Her eyes were uplifted so were her lips. It was…

Thursday 30 January 2020

can you hear them?
The sounds that went before
the wall was built.
I can hear them.
Not the wall builders,
no, not them,
but others who also
don’t want to see
what lies beyond.
What lies on the other side.
Others who will build walls
in the future.
But listen,
we can hear them.
Listen for when the cracks appear,
then push.

Tuesday 28 January 2020

The Place Where The Stars Are Buried
I’m on my way to the place
where the stars are buried
under a roof of rain.
I won’t get lost.
I’m following the silver snail
trails and the muddy pools
with the little shimmers of spangles.
When I get there - to the place
where the stars are buried.
I shall dig a little, dig
just enough to let
a glimmer of light out.
Just enough to let
the love sparkle and
sizzle in the light
before it burns.

Sunday 26 January 2020


Penwen was thoughtful.

He’d heard that numbers of dolphins

had washed up dead 

with pieces of plastic in their bellies.

And not the ubiquitous micro

but chunks,

big chunks.

He shook his head and pursed his lips.

He knew that dolphins were mammals

and that mammals were said to be

the most intelligent of sea creatures,

yet they ate plastic!

He shook his head and pursed his lips.

Sometimes plastic bits had been blown into his pond

and he’d tested them for food worthiness

and spat them straight out,

so tasteless and with a tough unpleasant texture.

He’d rather eat raspberries,

well, perhaps not raspberries,

but fish food,

yes, he’d rather eat fish food.

He wouldn’t let his human friends know 

that this was an option though.

He was concerned about Brexit 

and wanted to make sure that 

their stockpile of chocolate biscuits

was adequate to see him through.

When they gave him a luscious big piece

he always gave them a big wet kiss in return.

They seemed to like it

and really it was no trouble,

they were so sweet.

They’d told him that he was very old

and that the oldest goldfish

had lived for forty four years.

He shook his head and pursed his lips.

He didn’t think he was quite there yet,

but one thing he knew for certain,

when he did eventually sink into 

the big pond in the sky,

no post-mortem would reveal 

plastic pieces in his belly.

Or raspberries.

Image may contain: ocean, sky, cloud, outdoor, water and nature

Friday 24 January 2020

It’s pleasant enough
wandering these pathways
flanked by the tall rectangular cages,
each protected by a steel door
with a security code.
Even pleasanter later,
when the cages become
walled enclosures of decorative brick,
surrounding green spaces.
Intricate metal gates protect them
with a security code.
Occasionally a creature may emerge,
sometimes with barred teeth
and raised claws.
But mostly looking sad
and out of condition.
Lost inside themselves.
Poor things.
Lost souls
Mostly though, I encounter them outside.
Moving purposefully to a destination,
not free to take random pathways, like me.
Or desperately heading back to their cages,
hoping there is no diversion
which may leave them lost.
Leave them to encounter the
terror of the unforeseen
that might arise
from freedom.
to be lost.
Poor things.
Lost souls
in or out
of their

SPILLWORDS.COM presents: Caged, a poem written by Lynn White, who lives in North Wales. Her writing is influenced by issues of social injustice ...

Thursday 23 January 2020

My Place
I creased the page
to keep my place,
but when I returned
I was unsure,
if I had found it.
Was it really my place,
the place
I’d once inhabited.
It didn’t seem quite right.
Perhaps I’d moved on too quickly,
turned over two pages instead of one.
Perhaps I should go back,
retrace my steps.
Maybe then I’ll find my place.

Wednesday 22 January 2020

I Was Not Like Her
I was not like her,
the girl in the picture
looking out
No I was not like her
not me
not then.
I wore the gloves in summer
that my mother bought me
the classic cut clothes
that she had always
wanted to wear
even allowed my hair to curl
as it wanted to
as she wanted it to.
No I was not like her,
the one in the picture
not then.
But when I broke free
made myself up
wore minis
or long skirts
controlled my curls
with an iron in hand
I think
I became her

Tuesday 21 January 2020

Daisies Unchained
We buried our dreams beneath
a wreath of daisies
freed from their chains
to mark the grave
for each daisy death
to hide them
for ever,
someone has the key
that will release them
and make them

Sunday 19 January 2020

Frankie’s Creation
It was a childhood hobby
carried out first
on the kitchen table
then in his room,
his shed,
his workshop.
He left childhood behind
but never moved on from his hobby.
Meccano and Leggo had their time
but Frankie left them behind
and began his collection
of bits and pieces
that might be useful
a bit of wood or metal,
plastic, nails, screws, rivets, wire,
Frankie kept them all
for his creations
his men and machines.
The boats and planes and trains
had had their time long ago.
Now it was the human form for him,
not the outer veneer
but what lies under the skin.
He studied the complex joints
and carefully fitted their metal muscles
and wired them with nerve-like fibres.
All that was needed now was the skin.
Carefully Frankie began to put it in place.
Soon his creation would raise its head
and open its eyes,
then it would be ready,
ready to go.

Friday 17 January 2020

Feed The Flames
Gather round
the hearth
it’s a cosy place
if the fire is burning
and we’ll keep it burning
never fear
the flames
a living fire.
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
feed the flames.