Alice Checks The Queen ‘Your time is up’ said Alice. She knew it didn’t matter how big she was or how small in the end. She knew it didn’t matter in the end whether the queen was red or white, whether time moved backwards or forwards. In the end there was still no stopping it, still no changing it however many time-pieces the Queen owned, however many times she moved the hands on or back on the clock-face. It made no difference. ‘You’re just a pawn on the wheel of time’ said Alice, ‘No wonder you look glum.’ https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/11/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html
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Certain And Impossible Events Age is surely a certainty, or so Alice had thought after all birthdays are hardly impossible events arriving each year on the same day, as they certainly do. But the Red Queen assured her that certainty was unnecessary when it came to determining age. You are just as old as you feel and seeing was believing anyway. So Alice reconsidered her hypothesis. The older one gets the more difficult it is to know for certain, she thought. How can one judge the wrinkles under make-up or Botox. It was impossible to be certain. Really, she decided as she looked through her looking glass, age should become one of the six impossible things to believe before breakfast. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/11/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html
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Smile It was the purr she heard first, so loud it was almost a growl. But a dog up a tree? No, she knew that would be mad! So she wasn’t surprised to see a cat when she looked up and wasn’t surprised to see it smiling. She expected it to be happy with so loud a purr. You must be pleased to see me, she thought, watching it stretch and sleepily curl. She felt sleepy too so she curled like the cat. And together they dreamed smiley dreams until she heard a crash as the branches broke and the cat landed heavily in her lap. Then she woke to find the cat had disappeared. Only the smile remained. And that weighed nothing at all. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/11/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html
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The Old Curiosities Shop “Curiouser and curiouser”, cried Alice as she rummaged through the remnants of other people’s lives, now offered for sale, to become part of another person’s life. “Curiouser and curiouser”, she said holding up two fat schoolboy salt and pepper pots. “They look like real characters, I shall name them Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, for now.” She searched in vain for a looking glass to see if she could walk through it. She had heard this was sometimes a curious possibility. But among the objects in a large shiny bag, she did find a set of playing cards with a fearsome looking Queen of Hearts. “I could write a good story about her”, she thought. She found the butler with his empty tray somewhat unsatisfactory. So she removed the tray and hung a tape measure round his neck and put a thimble on his finger. Now he could measure his former master for a new suit, she thought. She was pleased with the transformation and thought that maybe it was now time to
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New Times For Old It wasn’t the first pandemic and, as in all the ones before birds sang an opening chorus for the pollen laden bees to hum on their way through the miasma to the flower borders in the park summer buzzing and blooming bursting into full swing. But there in the playground the swings were empty, the marks on courts fading. No one played outdoors and no one played indoors, the cafes were as empty as the park. Isolation was complete that summer. And now, for some it’s almost forgotten. For others the old habits have died and the new old habits are hanging on carrying emptiness like bees carry pollen. New rules were made that summer and its hard not to obey them still staying at home in private space neither visiting nor visited but in a hazy miasma waiting and hoping that its clouds will be blown away before memories fade like the marks on the ground as we try to retrace our steps back to where we once were. https://www.journalofexpressivewriting.com/post/new-times-
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The Spider She hangs suspended like a puppet dancing to the tune of the wind. Blown this way, blown that, buffeted, but only briefly. Then she takes control like a mistress puppeteer. Knowing she is powerful and free. Free to spin her silk and weave her web as she wills. Or so she thinks. But it’s an illusion. She’s trapped. Trapped and wrapped by her dna as securely as any fly. Her patterns are pre-ordained pre-programmed destined to be repeated millennia after millennia in her genes. And there’s nothing that she can do to change it. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_waysoflooking.html