Poetry - Lynn White

  Murphy Murphy was a poodle. He didn’t choose to be a poodle and he certainly didn’t want to be a poodle, but he was born that way. It happens. He hid it well. No one knew. Well, no one would have known except   for the one time each year when he was taken to a poodle parlour and given a shampoo, (oh, the horror of it) and a clip… a clip that made it clear   that he was a poodle, probably with French poodle genes. Quelle horreur! His shame was enough   to keep him indoors for weeks He emerged hesitantly,   always on a wet day, where he could be sure of finding mud to roll in. Soon, he would feel like Murphy again. https://onceuponacrocodile.weebly.com/murphy-by-lynn-white.html

  Nothing Is Impossible Even when the window is obscured entirely draped in white fabric it can’t hide the outside, not completely. In the filtered light I can still see shapes shift outside and even a sliver left open lets me feel the draught of a breeze, and inhale the scent or stink carried on it   from the outside. Even when I bury myself in the cool white sheets, even then I can sense it. And I know exactly what it’s like out there. Nothing is impossible. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B2MVPMWV

  Music And Movement The music of my youth still plays inside my head Dylan and Baez, Blues and Rock and Roll the subversive music of the streets challenging the surround sound norm out of tune with it. Songs of struggle, rebellion, civil rights, songs of peace and love sung in a climate of war and hate and the hoped for revolution that seemed so close   but didn’t happen. All that is left are the songs still breaking boundaries, timeless and placeless in tune with changing times which can be any time at all. https://selar.co/Music%20To%20My%20Ears?fbclid=IwAR2kifypvLTmkCe8tszWwz53KFmvwEHg67U7z4oUGVnkvFbpIzkEhkjpj_A

  Play Me A Tune   Sit quietly now you can play later and don’t be sad, it’s a bit of a muddle but, believe me, you are made of music full of it and soon all the notes will be freed from the jumble and re aligned neatly ready   to be arranged. Just think about it contemplate let yourself sing inside your head until you’re ready to play me a tune. https://selar.co/Music%20To%20My%20Ears?fbclid=IwAR2kifypvLTmkCe8tszWwz53KFmvwEHg67U7z4oUGVnkvFbpIzkEhkjpj_A

  The White Worm The white worm left his lair. Well he had to at some point if he was to inspect the neighbourhood to see what was what, who was coming, who was going and there was no way that he would keep   to Bram Stoker’s script, no way at all he’d always been a rebel. But he didn’t know about the dare, didn’t know she was lying in wait, waiting to leap on his back, waiting to be taken for a ride off piste. The wormed turned his head in alarm. If only he’d kept to the script. If only he’d stayed safe at home. http://theworldofmyth.com/

  Out Of The Blue Blue skies splashed white to hide the horizon. And then,   out of the blue, you. I knew you from the back, you said, the cut of your hair,   your old blue dress. and I wanted to see your face again. I wanted to   abate the sadness. So no blue moods on this bright blue day   where the future is as hidden as the horizon. We’ll go together now,   for now, I said. After all, everything ends in tears one way or another, so let’s take our now time and chance the rest. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges

  Off With His Hair “Off with his hair!” Cried the Red Queen. “I don’t think that’s quite right,” said Alice. “It should surely be, off with his head”. The Red Queen’s frown deepened. She didn’t make mistakes. It was a well known fact. Never the less… She shouted to Jack   who was reclining lazily as usual. “Which is correct, hair or head?” “Well, you are quite right, of course as everyone knows. But consider.. As all strength flows from hair to head, Cutting off his hair may make it unnecessary to cut off his head even though all around are losing theirs.” “Of course”, cried the Red Queen. “Off with his hair!” “They’re as mad as hatters” thought Alice. But she didn’t say so, Just in case an unfortunate judgement was made. One couldn’t be too careful in a mad world. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2022/05/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html https://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/lothlorien-poetry-journal-volume-12/paperback/product-7mpg7w.html?q=&page=1...

  Entertainment One tank drew the crowd down in the museum’s aquarium. It was not the tank with pike gawping threateningly, teeth bared ready  for an audience. No, though there was a monstrous pike in it, swimming with its mouth wide open,  in wonder at its strange environment. Well, it’s not often that a pike gets to swim in a drawing room furnished from times past. It was a crowd puller,  though still not enough to satisfy such an audience the pike reflected  as it considered the strangeness  of its un-fish-like companion: the young girl costume-dressed  to match the drawing room, standing there dreamlike— or maybe drugged—  steadying herself with the chair. Perhaps earlier she was seated when the water was lower. But now she has to stand. The water is already up to her waist and rising slowly. The audience gets larger, their eyes bulging fishlike as they gawp at the spectacle. It’s almost supper-time. So it goes. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal...

 Shrouded They’re following me, like black vultures circling. They’re shrouded in winter’s mist   almost as dark as the shrouds they wear to cover themselves, to cloak themselves for their journey. Shrouds like dusty abayas once black, now uniformly grey, shapeless, bloodless, formless, lifeless grey. Only their mouths still red like vultures feasting on death mouths stained by this final feast. The feast of what was left of the harvest. And now there will be nothing, nothing any more. Nothing. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2022/05/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html https://www.lulu.com/shop/strider-marcus-jones/lothlorien-poetry-journal-volume-12/paperback/product-7mpg7w.html?q=&page=1&pageSize=4

  Ghouls Is it ghoulish to think that life   is more than a small collection of cells in a uterus. Is it ghoulish to think that   the life of the mother and the spillage of her blood count for less than the small collection of cells in her uterus that are unable to bleed. Is it ghoulish to think that infant life needs love as it grows and support networks and things that cost society dear through life if it does not supply them. Is it ghoulish   to ask how   the highest court in the land was taken over by ghouls. https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2022/05/ghouls.html

  Sweet Heart He’d seen it glint earlier when a shaft of light hit the open box. He kept watch till they left. Back now, still watchful. Turn his head this way, then that.   No cats. No humans. Upturned the box   and seized his prize glinting gold among the dull browns and creams. Carried it off. Then carried it home, a home now fit for his new lover, his sweet heart. But he didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t discover the greater prize lying under the surface glitter. Didn’t find the jewel   of sweetness in the centre. Soon life dulled the surface glitter, screwed it up. And   the sweet heart   melted in the warmth, Melted into sticky goo. Melted away as sweet hearts do. https://uglywriters.com/2022/05/06/sweet-heart/

  I’m Tired I’m tired of trying to see the good in people. I’m tired of making decisions about good and bad. I’m tired of endless discussions in armchairs judging and justifying what is good or bad. I’m tired of procrastination, of enquiries and commissions designed to delay until death or forgetfulness. Tired of time servers, jobs worths, pocket liners. Tired of them all. So where shall I go now? https://drive.google.com/file/d/1N22wp9dXIqJj3r-YgzZbvPMEkwqD1Vq2/view

  Nuts Last night I dreamt a squirrel's dream. It must have been a squirrel’s. Possibly red, possibly grey, but definitely a squirrel’s. There were so many nuts. They were falling from the sky like heavy rain. I had to put up my blue umbrella to protect me from the showers. And on the ground, ankle deep acorns and hazels were overtopping my blue boots. But I saw no squirrels, only their dreams of nutty profusion. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1N22wp9dXIqJj3r-YgzZbvPMEkwqD1Vq2/view

 Birth Or Death Death begins at birth for pro-lifers. The birth day  is when interest is lost lost in those post foetal post natal moments which move us crying into hours smiling into days crawling into months running into years walking into decades slowing toward our death day. They’ve long lost interest these pro-lifers. They say that life must be lived according to the law of God as it is written and dispatched to them in nightmares and dreams. Only break it and they’re back with interest and concern those pro-deathers. https://visiblemagazine.com/birth-or-death/