Poetry - Lynn White

  I was Always Afraid Of Rabbits   “I was always afraid of rabbits” said the purple dragon. I knew it to be true. I’d known him for a long time, long before I became a witch and took to the water to watch over him. It’s the white ones he fears most and they are mostly white ones down here. He won’t eat them. He used to eat fish but now he is afraid to eat them now he’s seen them eating the rabbits. They’ve eaten the fur off this one, but he believes it was white and believing is seeing after all. The fish have eaten everything except for the head and eyes the most fearsome parts for the purple dragon. It’s found him now, he pushes it away in panic but it won’t go, it won’t go. It’s covering his face, taking it over   and getting ready for the rest. It won’t go, not unless I can grasp it, and hold it peel it off take it away, then bewitch them both. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2022/11/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Metamorphosis     It should be the dragon that breathes fire, that’s him there above the horse, but he’s quiet and calm   in tune with the sweet music quite breathless just now while in flight clearly   still in metamorphosis. It’s the horse that looks dangerous, his breath steaming about to catch fire no doubt   about it they will surely change places when their metamorphosis   is completed and the music stops. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2022/11/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html  

  Green Dragon   Does the ghost believe what he's seeing as the green dragon floats by breathing rainbows from flower filled puffs of breath. Would you believe it? Would I believe it? After all, this is not the usual sort of dragon whose fire filled breaths register alarm. But alarm registers, nevertheless, as this is not the usual sort of dragon and none of us are sure what will happen next.   https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2022/11/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Regrets Regrets are best forgotten, laid to rest in peace or   in restless confusion. Dump them with the other debris, the detritus of the past no longer needed. They will be taken away in time,   disposed of in the future, by the future. Displaced by more things   to regret and forget. And by more things to keep and remember. https://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=9468

 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.   https://greensplotches.com/index.php/2022/11/26/5-poems-by-lynn-white/

 Mermaid It was the change in her hair she noticed first growing now like harsh thin weed but attached firmly attached and inedible. She tugged at it but the pain was too great to separate it from her head. And then her scales began to disappear her beautiful shiny scales washed away with her gills. Her brothers and sisters and the rest of the school swam around her still but she couldn’t hear them, couldn’t understand what they were saying. The art of communication had been lost washed away with her gills. What was she now? Neither fish nor fowl. Fowl, where did that come from? She ran her fingers over her skin, still smooth unfeathered up to now. She waited waited to see what would emerge. Then the next wave came and carried her to the beach so she crawled along the sharp sand uncomfortably on her swollen belly until she found a rock and clambered up then slithered down algaed slime into a recess a safe cave a haven with a shallow pool left by the tide, a birthing pool she though...

 Bare Back Rider He was used to bare back riders, he had been a circus horse after all, but she was different as bare as Lady Godiva covered only by her long hair. He could feel her auburn curls tangling with the curls of his long black mane her flesh was on his flesh. He felt it touching felt her warmth against him. The audience would have felt it too, his audience and hers. He rolled his eyes and stole a glance behind. He opened his mouth to tell her to cling on tight but no words came they were unnecessary she knew he would help her, help her escape them as he carried her towards the light, transported them both into a brighter future possibly.   https://greensplotches.com/index.php/2022/11/26/5-poems-by-lynn-white/

 It's Raining Again The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh. She’s tried. She’s really tried. She’s wept tears of frustration. She’s wept tears of anger. She’s wept tears of sadness that flow from the mountains to the sea. It’s the vowels she finds hard. And the consonants. And the mutations. And the way it’s spoken form changes over the distance traveled in the time it takes her to make a small cloud and a tiny puff of wind. A tiny puff, not enough to to raise the cloud above the mountains. So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist. Or blows in angry swirls. And still she tries. She really tries. She weeps tears of frustration. She weeps tears of anger. She weeps tears of sadness. Floods of tears. Lakes. Tears which fall in cascades from the mountains to the sea.   https://greensplotches.com/index.php/2022/11/26/5-poems-by-lynn-white/

I Was Always Afraid Of Rabbits “I was always afraid of rabbits” said the purple dragon. I knew it to be true. I’d known him for a long time, long before I became a witch and took to the water to watch over him. It’s the white ones he fears most and they are mostly white ones down here. He won’t eat them. He used to eat fish but now he is afraid to eat them now he’s seen them eating the rabbits. They’ve eaten the fur off this one, but he believes it was white and believing is seeing after all. The fish have eaten everything except for the head and eyes the most fearsome parts for the purple dragon. It’s found him now, he pushes it away in panic but it won’t go, it won’t go. It’s covering his face, taking it over and getting ready for the rest. It won’t go, not unless I can grasp it, and hold it peel it off take it away, then bewitch them both. https://greensplotches.com/index.php/2022/11/26/5-poems-by-lynn-white/

  Dividing Lines The shapes and colours are cut out in symmetrical perfection   to lie close, seemingly random but close. Close but divided by the black lines,   drawing boundaries between them. Only some shapes can be joined together. That’s how it is. Matisse torn them all up joined the pieces together made something of them. But that was in his art, in life they’re still distanced, more Mondrian than Matisse. Art and life, make what you can of it. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B7QR5B7M

  Art Therapy See how my mind is playing hopscotch jumping from one idea to another creating a beautiful world of colour of writing   of music. You try to make sense of it and conclude there’s no sense to be made from a mind that’s taken leave of its senses. But I understand it all and I’m here watching you as you try to work it out watching you fail, and feeling satisfied. https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2022/11/23/cajun-mutt-press-featured-writer-11-23-22/?fbclid=IwAR2aAWoNE_yw571AfJKZTzISSraTGyowrdCXNf01xC4fENd8S5JlVRrTWYM

  At The Crossroads I’m at the crossroads   looking each way,   looking carefully then deciding which road to take. One way leads to paradise, or so I’m told, but how to know   or when, or where   I will find it. Will it be along the way, somewhere, or at the end of the road, or later still, after I’ve moved on. How to know. Are there clues on the surface? On the smooth tarmac, or in the ruts and potholes,   or yet deeper down. And what of the other roads? Who can say whether paradise can be found there as well. Perhaps it can be anywhere, down any road, if I can only see it. http://yourfiremagazine.com/at-the-crossroads-by-lynn-white

  Like Father Like Son I wanted to be like my father, to follow in his footsteps, or rather, his wheel-steps as he drove his tram along the shiny rails. We played the game constantly to give me practice but I couldn’t quite get the hang of driving. I was scared of crashing and tumbling on to the city streets. So he bought me a Conductors uniform   and a bag for the money and tickets. He drove and I sold the tickets. It was a good compromise. I think about it now as I look down on the city, with its streets and green spaces which no longer have trams. https://visualverse.org/submissions/like-father-like-son/

  Dead Letter Drop Once the words sprang off the pages like the green shoots of spring eager to be greeted eager to be read. That was before  the winter chill froze them into remnants. Tattered pages, empty envelopes  and empty words as worn and shrivelled as our love became. Dead. Or almost dead. But I cannot quite let them go, cannot quite let us go so I’ll bundle them up tie a ribbon round them for old times sake and hide them away  in the winter branches. And I’ll try to forget and try not to forget. And perhaps come spring they’ll rise from the dead like the new shoots on the tree  and burst into life again. It’s worth a chance. https://sequoyahcherokeeriverjournal.wordpress.com/2022/11/19/sequoyah-cherokee-river-journal-11/4/

  Green Dreams I am dreaming, I think  I’m dreaming as I try to separate the layers of real and unreal, peel them away like the crinkled leaves of a cabbage. I’m peeling off the dark green leaves first. What lies hidden beneath looks  much the same as the outside, a little less battered, more crinkly, a little paler with some yellow languishing in the green, but fundamentally the same. Now for the next layer. There’s a drop of water  shining full of light and something darker, more solid, khaki green and brown, the leavings of some hidden creature. Another layer reveals the holes and then,  the sleepy caterpillar in his cabbage camouflage, his dietary disguise, dreaming  of eating his greens. He’s without his pipe,  without his crown. So, unsure of  his identity,  much less mine, I continue my peeling layer after layer until I get to the heart of it, the pale, pale green centre of naive youth. Perhaps  I will soon understand  where ...