Poetry - Lynn White

  A Bucketful Of Dreams I’d always loved rainbows. I knew that the sunlight made them so I watched the rain showers eagerly waiting.for the sun to shine again. Then I was off   in search of gold. I wondered   what form it would take, a heap of coins or golden pebbles or perhaps bars like chocolate   wrapped in golden foil. I would soon find out. I took my bucket and followed   the long and winding roads, the steep and rocky roads, I forded streams and leapt ditches and always I was too late, only in time   to watch,   the rainbow fade away. But this time was different. I was there! I really was! I sat down, and exhausted with excitement fell asleep. When I woke the rainbow had vanished and the sun was blindingly bright. I looked in my bucket and there it was! Gold filling my bucket with light. I carried it home carefully. https://issuu.com/poetryzine/docs/over_the_rainbow

  In Flight They’re fleeing like broken butterflies stalked by their nemesis from a former life. https://issuu.com/poetryzine/docs/over_the_rainbow

  Dragonfly 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! http://wildamorris.blogspot.com/

  Cotton Fields Fields of cotton as far as the eye can see, row upon row of soft white balls always thirsty the plants and people, always hungry the plants and people. A crop so thirsty it can dry up a sea in socialism. A crop so hungry it can starve a people in capitalism. A crop so needy it can render sterile the land forced to grow it. A crop so demanding it can destroy, enslave and exploit wherever it goes. Its softness hides a heart of steel. But still it’s natural. Always natural. Only natural. https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/2021/04/27/cotton-fields/?fbclid=IwAR0IM1iR446OLbKPvovan5baAasnyeh7axLRbjVlRj0iKvdDG8enJ7TMVnM

  Roundabout He picked us up near Torino, a dapper Frenchman   with an impressive moustache. He was going to Nice. So were we! Such luck. One lift all the way from Torino to Nice. We settled back to enjoy the ride. We came to a roundabout. With gesticulations of frustration and twitches of his moustache, he missed the turning. We went round again and the next time, he missed it again. The third time we were ready to call out and point it out in good time. But with more expansive gesticulating and moustache twitching he still missed it. There were many roundabouts   between Torino and Nice. We came to know them intimately. On arrival we were hugged and kissed in thanks for our help. Without us, who could say where he’d be. Not us, for sure! He invited us to accompany him to Monte Carlo the next day, if we would like to. Yes! We would like to! We turned up at the allotted time and place, but he never came. So, we never went to Monte Carlo. Possibly he never went there eithe...

 https://www.poetry-leaves.com/online-exhibit

  A Familiar Story It’s a familiar story well told and many of us can identify with some part of him - Odysseus the escapee, Odysseus the wanderer, the adventurer, the explorer the leaver of a past life and embracer of the new. We’ve all desired to sail away   in boats that fly as quick as thoughts and at some point we’ve all   ate the sun god’s cattle and paid the price. We’ve all described our relationships as “complicated,” or wanted to. It’s a familiar story well told. Each landing was a new challenge in a newly discovered land inhabited by Other people, Other creatures monstrous beings to be vanquished by superior swords or stolen to serve   as housekeepers or herders, to be made into fish food if they resist.   It’s a familiar story well told. Then there’s the women the temptresses with their beautiful voices weaving with shuttles made of gold. Beautiful voices   but dangerous mouths enticing us with their cupid lips. And there’s always others, the on...

  Holding My Breath It looks as though the historians of today have finally caught up   with their nineteenth century colleagues and discovered that fresh air is rather good for treating   and preventing infectious diseases.. Even politicians have noticed and now have a new slogan to promote the discovery in Britain. Britannia rules again. Not long now before they ‘discover’ that the isolation hospitals of history were pretty cool in preventing cross infection and might have saved one in five people from Covid infections in England.   That’s the number acquired by hospital in-patients, the number acquired by out-patients being unknown. It seems that hospitals can be very dangerous places. More dangerous maybe than bars, or cafes, or schools, or even crowded metros. So I don’t expect to have to wait long for this discovery. Shall I hold my breath? Maybe not, no matter how fresh the air is. https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/2021/04/12/holding-my-breath/

  Out-Spoken I didn’t silence easily, not even as a child I spoke first and listened later to the embarrassed laughter or pourings of outrage from adult mouths. I resisted my mother’s attempts to quieten me, I knew it would ruin me, arrest my development, curtail my growth, my flowering. So I was ready for you   when you tried. Yes, you tried. But by then I was ready, I knew who I was, knew too much altogether and there was nothing we could do   about it. I had already spoken out. http://withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1521

  Crowned The king is dead! Long live the king! The crown of thorns, the cut to the heart in the end there was no end, so it's said. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-easter-challenge

  Inappropriately Dressed I wasn’t dressed for snow, or clouds, or wind, or for walking at all, if I were honest. But sometimes   you just have to give it a go and trudge through the clouds, kick up the snow in passing, challenge the wind with the size   of your hat. It wouldn’t dare to blow it away, would it? Sometimes   you just   have to don your dark glasses and stride out to the sun, regardless of snow, or clouds, or clothes. Sometimes   you just have to go. https://pondersavant.com/2021/04/08/inappropriately-dressed-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  I Was Not Like Her I was not like her, the girl in the picture looking out scowling defiant rebellious. 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 yes I think I became her then. https://pondersavant.com/2021/04/08/inappropriately-dressed-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  Leaving Home The van departed fully loaded, I stood there   empty handed and took a last look round the house   where I’d once been happy. I felt empty now, like the house, empty rooms and faded dreams. I was on my own now, going solo. I walked briskly away. I didn’t look back. https://pondersavant.com/2021/04/08/inappropriately-dressed-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  It’s Behind You Sometimes you just can’t see it however closely you look, a case of the wood hiding the trees with the elephant there in the room.   For safety's sake you need to take a wider view three hundred and sixty degrees if there’s no audience to shout it out. Get ready to run. https://visualverse.org/submissions/its-behind-you/

  To Luisa Casati Even when her hair was aflame with orange they would never call her ‘Ginger’. Ginger was her choice   sometimes. Like the snakes. Did anyone shout “snakes alive” with shock when they saw her living jewellery? I wonder. I wonder how they reacted to the emerald sparks from her burning fires. With wonder I think always with wonder. How else could you view her alive as a work of art. http://box5887.temp.domains/~blackmy8/issues/?fbclid=IwAR1W-vOMS8JkEbCzX-CCLW2-_2YAuiGj0H7oLVc6Ug8br6Q3aj6KQBJpDOQ

  Saturday Girl Two days after my fifteenth birthday I walked proudly into Newman Costumiers to begin my first job. It was 1960 and I would earn fifteen shillings, one shilling for every year, every Saturday. Knitwear and stockings were on the ground floor, all neatly stacked on shelves and in drawers. I didn’t work there. That was Enid’s territory - she of the bouffant hair and three inch stilettos. Above were the coats and above them dresses. All made in Britain, not China and so costing much the same as they would do today. Fifteen shillings didn’t go far. On the top floor was Alterations, two women stitching away with a nip or tuck here and a longer or shorter hemline   there. No customer was allowed to escape without a purchase. We had to fetch the Manageress if they tried. She would offer inducements such as a price reduction or free alterations.   Sometimes it was enough to secure a purchase, a tweak of the price, a nip or tuck here and a longer or shorter hemline ...