The Summer Of ‘89

The ice-cream man appeared 

at frequent intervals

on the corner of the street

near the large grassy area

in summery Sochi.

He had no van

just a barrow

and two cardboard cartons

of paper wrapped briquettes.

He had no fridge,

didn’t need one,

everyone knew 

Russian ice-cream

to be the best,

the best in the world

and so never got time to melt!

The evidence was all around.

The grass was full of people

enjoying the lazy sunshine,

sharing their music, smokes 

and iced creamy kisses

in the Sochi summer.

The perimeter of the grass

was edged with signs.

”Keep Off The Grass”,

an English speaker translated.

She smiled.

“But we take no notice!”

https://feversofthemind.com/2023/03/31/poetry-art-anthology-the-whiskey-mule-diner-inspired-by-tom-waits/?fbclid=IwAR1k401OKuDPfLwjIRVZXjcP4tBxnZ8z2Gd3MFwiZ_fOiceYlVoMuXlpa30

 Come On In

“Come on in the water’s lovely”

they called out to me 

with their arms outstretched

and the sweetest of smiles.

And I was tempted for sure,

even on this cold winter night

their smiles were as entrancing as sirens.

But the arms waving a welcome

reminded me of spiders

with their stretched out legs

waiting to pounce

in this watery web.

Come on in the water’s lovely

lovely

lovely

lovely.

The word echoes through my head

enticing me

for sure,

entrapping me

perhaps.

I’ll soon find out.

https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

 No Place

The buildings line the street.

Such bright colours

lining the street

of the holiday resort,

a place near the beach,

a living place.

But if I should transform the cars,

into their metal box shapes.

If I should paint out their windows

and doors, 

and the windows and doors

of the buildings in the street,

it would leave me 

with coloured squares

and rectangles

dividing blue from green or white

with no life left there.

No place,

no place

for life

at all.

https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

 Burning Up

The sun has risen

and it’s burning,

burning up 

everything.

And I’m raising my arms

to worship

or plead.

Not sure which.

Praise or prayer,

perhaps they’re the same.

That’s my thought

for the day.

Quite profound,

I think,

for the day when I’m sure

I’ll be going home.

What do think?

Are we of the same mind?

Great minds thinking alike again.

Come, it’s time

to go.

Hold my hand.

https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

 Come Together 

Here I am

above you.

I’m the god of all I see

and I’ll take you under my wing

so all of you can play your part.

And you’ll learn your lines

according 

to my script.

My wings may give you shelter

but I also have talons

to pick you up

and drop you down

and a sharp beak

to gauge your flesh

if you stray

from the lines

as they are written.

The die is cast.

You are all in it together.

https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

 Sending Prayers

They hang like towels.

Towels hung out

to dry in the wind

line upon line of them

blowing in the wind,

prayer flags

sending thoughts

sending blessings

wind dried leftovers 

from days gone by

when laundry was line-dried

and peace and goodwill were sent

as thoughts and prayers 

on the wind

not in the ether.

But in the end

it was never enough.

In the end

it made no difference 

how.

In the end

they’re still hung out to dry.

https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2023/03/sending-prayers.html

 Where To Begin

I have to start with the skin I’m in.

It’s as close as I can get.

It changes.

Expands to fit me

as I grow.

It changes.

Responds to sun

or rain.

It changes

covered or not

by the clothes I wear,

the jewellery,

the mood I’m in.

It changes

By my hand

as I draw

on the important things

the listening,

the voices whispering,

the joining

together

in love.

It changes

to dreams 

in the end

and memories

when my number

is called.

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-romina-ciaffi

 Legacy

Vera Lynn was a famous singer,

the Forces Sweetheart, no less.

My mother was Vera,

so I should be Lynn.

My mother liked things to be

right.

But even more than 

the correctness

of Vera and Lynn, 

she abhorred diminutives.

They were definitely not 

right.

So I must have a name

which could not be shortened.

Joy was a contender, but, 

just suppose that

I was a weepy child.

That name would not fit me.

For me it would not have been

right.

She needn’t have worried.

But worry she did.

So, Lynn it was

and Lynn I am.

My legacy

from my

mother.

https://ephemeralelegies.com/2023/03/15/legacy-by-lynn-white/#more-1828

 Out From The Blue

Blue skies splashed white
to hide the horizon.
And then,
out of the blue,
you.
Taking me back
in that moment
to the sunshine
of the past.

So no blue moods
on this bright blue day
where the future is as hidden
as the horizon
together now,
for now.

And after all,
everything ends in tears
and loneliness,
so let’s take our now time
and chance the rest.

https://jerryjazzmusician.com/six-women-poets-sing-the-blues/

 Roots

By Lynn White

 

It’s said that you should remember your roots,

remember where you came from,

remember where you belong,

anchored by your long tap root.

But I have fibrous roots too,

growing out strongly from the main tap.

I have spread them out and

put them down in many places,

taken sustenance from them.

They’ve been part of my growth,

fed my main stem and its splits and branches.

I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all,

all those places.

And some rootlets have broken free

and I’ve left them behind there

no longer belonging to me.

And I’ve left something of myself behind.

Would I find it if I returned?

I don’t think so.

But others may 

still.

 

https://womenspiritualpoetry.blogspot.com/2023/03/roots-by-lynn-white.html?fbclid=IwAR201wNb_Tdc7OusZ2uq7nuoroKP69arewl70ADoXfyqiyILK_k9WR-obW0