Zest

We feel free again

out here on the wild heath

and we’re whirling and twirling

like a dervish

with the devil in us

reclaiming our wildness

that was hidden for so long

when we were

just hanging on

our spirits sapped 

at home alone.

But we’re out now

feeling reckless 

with excitement,

jumping for joy

leaping with faith

ready to go again.

https://70abfc6e-82b1-4f23-b97d-8c7d779b3319.filesusr.com/ugd/5e3cbf_206e18dabc534ae5980ae4d667cfc6bf.pdf

 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.

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https://www.peachvelvetmag.com/summer-21?fbclid=IwAR0I-6KsmZd6UEC4EZwbmvuueUeFg8vKJIiEtnLNUioQxh1jEnuzbhvU5C4

 Look We Have Come Through

Gather round the camp fire

there’ll be music and dancing later

but first, a picnic!

What a spread!

And none of it from a factory,

none of it well travelled

over turbulent seas

or skies

so eat and enjoy

then we’ll show you

how to make it for yourselves

and after, we’ll celebrate

how we have come through

with such joy.

https://visualverse.org/submissions/look-we-have-come-through/

 Scorpio’s Secret

I’ve kept our secret a long time, 

the mystery of our passion

and, ever resourceful, 

I stored it

deep in the watery underworld.

But now I’ve forgotten 

where 

I buried it

and my crabby comrades are long gone.

Their hard shells tell me nothing,

perhaps they never did,

but it was guarded by Pluto

to make sure it was safe.

We had a deal then,

back in the days 

when I thought him reliable

now I’m not sure

if I can trust him.

Perhaps he’s already dug it up

I won’t know till I find him,

if I can find him,

and when I do 

it’s resting place

will remain

my secret.

I’ve already lost our passion,

it’s buried for ever.

And now

I shall become a hermit,

give up my hard shell

keep myself secret,

I need no one else.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/WhctKKXHBTzgVnlZTvjThJppKczSqlpbRSqhRMBljdPwxSxFZgmLdvDXnPPqJPCLjrwRTqQ

 Such A Wonder

They’re such a wonder!

They never eat their fellow creatures,

or trample them under hoof.

They don’t require the speedy dispatch

of rain forest acres

to meet their culinary needs.

Those in my garden don’t eat the plants

and happily allow me to garland them

with flowers fresh each morning

and allow the myriad of insects 

to alight and feed on them

without so much as a flick of the tail

or a toss of the head.

Such a wonder.

They’ll come for a walk with no need

for lead

or muzzle

as they don’t chase the sheep

or greet passers by with a growl

or take a hefty bite from an ankle 

or calf,

or shit on the street or path.

Truly a wonder

these unicorns.

And they’ll inhabit your dreams with smiles.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/WhctKKXHBTzgVnlZTvjThJppKczSqlpbRSqhRMBljdPwxSxFZgmLdvDXnPPqJPCLjrwRTqQ

 Aliens

They emerged from the eggs 

of our snow white Silkies.

Every one a cockerel when grown,

we decided to have one for dinner.

The skin was blue, under the white plumage,

which was quite a shock,

a little alien,

but cooked, it was fine. Normal.

And the flesh was white,

But when carved, the bones were blue.

Disconcerting.

A little alien.

And now these red feathered birds

have appeared as if from nowhere,

their eggs pink. 

When they hatched and grew,

all were hens,

 their clutches carefully hidden,

each batch of chicks larger than the last.

A little strange,

a little alien.

And then, at last, there were cockerels,

too many and too large. 

We decided to have one for dinner.

The skin was pink under the red plumage

which was quite a shock.

A little alien.

But cooked it was fine. Normal.

And the flesh was white.

But when carved the bones were pink,

Disconcerting,

more than a little alien.

There are more of them now,

growing ever larger.

I think that soon

the dinner tables will be turned

and they’ll make a meal of us.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html

https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/strider-marcus-jones/lothlorien-poetry-journal-volume-4/paperback/product-d7v4eg.html?page=1&pageSize=4

 Rookery

Soon the light will be fading

and the rooks are circling

in a cawing cacophony 

of confusion

trying to understand the changes 

to their once familiar roost,

searching in vain for the water

which would explain 

the duplicity of their treetop canopy

now a mirror-less reflection.

They’re searching

for something, 

anything

to give them a bearing,

to show them whether 

to fly up or down

which way is up

or down

in this rookery of dreams,

rootless as a dream.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/WhctKKXHBTzgVnlZTvjThJppKczSqlpbRSqhRMBljdPwxSxFZgmLdvDXnPPqJPCLjrwRTqQ

 Rise And Fall

We thought we’d fixed it

buried the monster with a stake through it’s heart

so it could never rise again,

created something better

with our blood and sweat and tears.

We’d seen the rain wash away all the traces.

We’d seen the sun come out.

We’d seen the colours of laughter in the streets.

We’d thought it would stay there for ever.

But we were wrong

the monster was not dead

just lying dormant

it’s heart still throbbing

pulsing 

thrusting

out the rotten stake.

And now there’s no laughter in streets

full of grey people

carrying grey umbrellas

knowing that it’s raining again

washing away the sunshine this time,

waiting for the blood to flow.

And here am I

re-reading the old words

re-living the old times

re-viewing the album 

of old photographs

of people locked in their past

forced to live there again

history gone in a flash

then

now

renewed

placing us on a treadmill

taking us back

to the beginning 

to start over

as the clouds gather

and the rain starts to fall.

https://selar.co/WAIL?fbclid=IwAR3hqsStOR0kt91-0K_QL3V9Iq2tViUN78tWa6mvI6pgH3r3f_nUjXIAEJg

 Waiting, Still Waiting

I’m still waiting for the revolution

in thinking,

in acting,

in feeling,

to happen.

I’m still waiting for it all to collapse

so we can reform

reshape

remake 

it from the ruins.

Still waiting, waiting

it’s too long 

to be waiting

for growing,

restoring,

recreating

rethinking

and then to watch

them rebuild it the same.

Only the masks are new.

I’ve not waited for that.

No, I’ve not waited for that.

https://selar.co/WAIL?fbclid=IwAR3hqsStOR0kt91-0K_QL3V9Iq2tViUN78tWa6mvI6pgH3r3f_nUjXIAEJg

 Only Believe

If I could only believe 

I would 

lie in sweet flower scented water

and dream ever sweeter dreams

undisturbed.

If I could only believe 

I would lie there 

still

at peace 

and wake 

at peace

still.

Whether fish or fowl,

dove or eagle

fly above me

it wouldn’t matter

if I could only believe

that peace lies within.

If I could only believe.

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-marian-spore-bush

 Snakehead

What a fearsome beast she became.

Beautiful humans often do

when they make themselves up

to honour  the myth-like Medusa 

of their imagination.

To dress for power

or style

or fun.

To tempt,

or not to tempt,

that is always the question

to tax your thoughts

till it makes your head ache

with the stress of it.

If the answer lies in the hair

lying in it’s snaky tendrils

ready to pounce

then cut it off!

Cut it off!

But it won’t help.

It’s just a distraction

from those killer eyes

that will leave you standing

still.

She’s no guardian angel

but she’ll take care of you

her way

and there’s no safety

in her death.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B098WBJ7XH

 Did You See My Father?

You can see how small I am,

my mask is my protection

my only protection 

self protection.

I’m not like you

with your head to toe suiting,

your visors, your helmets, 

your shields

and sticks.

I have only my mask.

But it keeps me safe 

from contamination.

And if I’m contaminated,

it keeps others safe from me.

That’s what my mother says.

My father says the same

but I don’t know where he is now.

He went towards the square

where you’ve come from

where history repeats itself,

that’s what he said.

Did you see him there?

He looks a lot like me,

a mask is his protection

his only protection

self protection

keeping him safe

from contamination.

Did you see him there and protect him

He had only his mask for protection

and it may not be enough 

if the sticks start hitting

and the bullets start flying 

to stop the contamination

to halt the spread,

to give protection

or self protection

as history plays its old game.

I’m not sure how to stay safe now

not sure if a mask is enough.

Did you see my father?

https://www.riseupreview.org/current-issue?fbclid=IwAR2oqVDGxp30yoOkvuCAydhM8hnl1MSXhvm1GEm8qVrnN2Fyi7fs6gu2gas

 My Old Blue Pumps

I kept them on,

my old blue pumps.

You see,

I could see a broad band

of sharp shells

and pebbles

and other flotsam

between me and the sea

so I kept them on,

my old blue pumps,

until I’d crossed over.

I eased them off carefully

but even so the sharp sand

grazed my heels.

Never mind,

the sea would sooth them,

wash away the pain

with the ingrained sand.

And it did

as I swam.

But at the end

they were no longer waiting for me

on the shoreline,

my old blue pumps.

No longer waiting when I emerged

healed and refreshed,

no longer waiting

but captured by the sea

and washed away with the rest.

http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/themusesgallery.html