Poetry - Lynn White

  House   It was hardly a gingerbread house. Only the roof was gingerbread colour. We thought the old woman living there was a witch. Later we didn’t believe in witches   and we knew she was no more a witch than the raindrops hanging from the trees were really diamonds, though she said that they were. Now the house stands empty and derelict and we know no one has lived there for centuries. Only the raindrops remain frozen in time   hard as diamonds just as she said they were https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/parabnormal-magazine-september-2023

ST GEORGE AND THE DRAGONS A long time ago St George killed all the dragons in England. All of them, the black ones, the green ones and the white. He killed all the dragons in Sweden and in the Middle East. He killed all of them, the black ones, the green ones and the white. But the red dragons defeated him, hid in the rainy Welsh mountains. Leapt out and ambushed him. Bent his sword with the heat of their fire. Ate up his horse, so that he had to run away, slipping and sliding over the wet rocks, into the muddy dense wood in fear. Yes, the red dragons defeated him and left him hiding in his cave, in fear. So, come for a walk with me. This is the dragon’s country. They are very shy and secretive these days, even though St George is long gone and they have nothing to fear....

  THE CRIMEA PASS It was opened at the time of the Crimean War. This does not seem to be a legend. Though probably it was not built by Russian prisoners who left their boots behind. This does seem to be a legend. After all this is North Wales and ours is the land of legends and we all know that the pub at the summit served ale on Sunday lock-ins right up to the time when the purple dragon was sent to burn it down to nothing. Only pine trees remain miraculously unscathed to mark the spot for ever. And as for the dragon, he found a mate with our native red and made happy families in a slate cavern for many years. But when the time was right the still angry drinkers raised their glasses to cast a spell which transformed all the dragons. Changed them into the rhododendrons which grow like pink and purple miracles, breaths of dragon fire colouring the slate tips. It’s something to ponder when you pass over the Crimea in springtime. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-dragons...

  WATERFALL They put a fence by the waterfall all along the high bank near the path. It was ugly, an eyesore but it was supposed to make it safer stop people climbing up the rocks at its side and jumping in though no one could remember an accident. It didn’t work. The children went under. The adults went over. It was more dangerous as the approach was much narrower now and slippery from the increased footfall on the restricted area. But at least there was no accident it was just ugly an eyesore until someone took a saw to it and threw the bits into the water to float away down river. They built it higher then a bigger eyesore and difficult for children to climb over. But they still do. After all they’ve been doing it for centuries. It’s probably in their genes and no one can remember an accident. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-dragons-country.html

  CUSTARD CREAMS It was a country guest house, once a working farm. The lady of the hose was brushing Lily’s hair. “Lily doesn’t go out anymore,” she said, “she refuses.” She put down her brush and gave Lily a custard cream which was delicately eaten. “I tempted her out for a walk a couple of years ago.” She waved the packet in explanation of the source of temptation.
 “We walked down the lane and she was fine at first and then a rabbit ran across. She stopped and turned and looked at me with wild rolling eyes. She would go no further wouldn’t be tempted so we turned. She wanted to go home but I tempted her,“ she waved the packet “and we went further. Then a bird flew across and she stopped and turned to look at me with wild rolling eyes. She would go no further wouldn’t be tempted. So we turned and went home.
 She gave Lily a custard cream which was delicately eaten. Then she opened up her storeroom to show me the piled up boxes of custard creams, floor to ceiling custard creams. ...

  A GREY PLACE? This is a grey place, there's no denying. Grey slate, grey granite, grey houses built of both. And it rains a lot, there's no denying. Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain falling greyly from heavy misty clouds. But when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides shimmering across the slate and falls in bright white tails or snakes like silver where the mountains leak it. And spills heavily over rocks, it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed cascades catching rainbows as they crash then spitting them back out in a fine spray of colours. And now there's no grey in the dark blue, black sky filled with gold and silver twinkles. No grey at all in this place now, there's no denying. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-dragons-country.html

  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://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-dragons-country.html

  Writing Poetry ‘That’s a beautiful poem’, she said. ‘Where were you sitting when you wrote it? I would imagine you by a river with the water babbling by and the birds singing’ I had to tell her, ‘no’, that I was sitting by my computer. That that is where I always write. No pencil or pen for me with my endless edits and illegible handwriting. Except when an idea occurs on a sleepless night. Then it’s off to the bathroom to catch it and hold it fast. The bathroom, where there’s a supply of tissue that will do the job and a pencil kept specially for the purpose. https://positivelyup.co.uk/up-magazine

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  Peace Is Peace is more   than the absence of war though that would be a start. And then the dissolving of boundaries constructed by humans to cordon off one from the other and shout across the divide. Then we can whisper and hug our way to peace. logger.com/blog/stats/week/7859862029940304547

  Rise And Fall We buried the monster with a stake through it’s heart hoping that would kill it dead, hoping it could never rise again. Sometimes we almost believed it but only sometimes  mostly we weren’t optimistic but we tried. What else could we do? And we created something better with our blood and sweat and tears. We saw the rain wash away all the traces. We saw the sun come out. We saw the colours of laughter in the streets. We hoped it would stay there for ever. We doubted it, but what else could we do? We feared the monster would not die. And we were right 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 ...

  Quicksilver Always on the move, darting here, dipping there, blowing hot, blowing cold, mercurial as quicksilver dispensing woe or joy in clouds of dust, fairy dust, falling like starlight and landing somewhere. I’m just the messenger, she said, I don’t get to choose, gold or silver, coal or shale, it’s just dust blowing in the wind and landing somewhere, I don’t get to choose, she said. But I wonder. http://carminamagazine.com/quicksilver.html

  Growing Up I’ve grown so tall I live up there with the giants now. They’ve taught me   how to polish the stars and make sure that they hang in order. Painting the moon pink was my idea though. They haven’t seen it yet. You’re still so small I’ll have to lift you up for a preview. Tell me what you think! https://visualverse.org/submissions/growing-up-2/

  Turning To Stone A lesser man would have been turned to stone by such a look, such a dirty look, disparaging   dismissive, certainly worthy of a Gorgon, but I survived it I’m glad to say though I still look uneasily   at the stone statues commemorating the famous and infamous, the religious idols, the gargoyles, devils and pixies and I wonder, was it the skill of the unknown carvers, or was it just a look that did the trick? Well, we’ll never know. https://stephdaich3.wixsite.com/phoenix-z-publishing/post/turning-to-stone-poetry-by-guest-author-lynn-white