Poetry - Lynn White

  Dragonfly It was so beautiful, gleaming huge and iridescent gold and green and blue and black. With wings that should have been clear, filled with shining rainbows   not like this, twisted at strange angles   and dulled with sticky silk. Not stuck there waiting to be prepared for some spider’s supper. I held it gently   and took it from the web. I carefully removed the sticky silk and saw the rainbows sparkle as they should, saw it’s eyes brighten and gleam   with the prospect of freedom. It took a while, this disentanglement, a delicate task to free this fragile creature. And when it was ready, I opened my fingers and let it fly away. It bit me then. No parting kiss, but a bite that left a bruise. Such gratitude! https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2025/08/super-sized-series_0677990813.html

  Stripy Jerseys There were a lot of ragwort plants around the library. Some were bare of leaves and covered with orange and black stripy jersey caterpillars. Others were lush and green with leaves and devoid of caterpillars. As usual the family planning strategy of the cinnabar moth left much to be desired. I began to transfer them carefully from the leafless to the lush. I stood back to admire my achievement, momentarily disconcerted when a rather stern looking stranger asked what I was doing. I explained. “Huh”, she said, “I’ve been doing the same over the other side. I though it was only me who does this.” It was a strange way to begin a friendship but it lasted all her life. I think maybe I should go to the grave in the woodland, where her body lies and scatter a few ragwort seeds. Maybe the moths will come each year and make   a living memorial. She would like that, I think. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2025/08/super-sized-series_0677990813.html

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/dreaming-of-acorns.html  Stardust I saw stardust   in your eyes. I caught it, breathed it in and felt its magic transform me, light me up, give me wings   release my spirit. I exhaled   to give something back and watched as your beard turned white, I watched   as the paper grew blank. My portrait was no more. I was no more, blown away flown away into blankness.

Wild Water Looking up from the crag the sky is a smooth unbroken blue, smooth as clear water the storm almost forgotten hardly a memory trickling over moist rocks. But looking down it’s clear that the river remembers it all. https://whispersandechoesmag.home.blog/2025/08/29/wild-water-lynn-white/

  The Reverie Of Rene Magritte Mr. James daydreamed of roses. It was his recurring reverie. Blousy pink roses so clear  he could almost spell their fragrance almost touch their pastel petals a sweet dream  of pale,  pink roses. It was the hands that turned it into a nightmare, those pale fragile hands reaching out, more and more of them threatening  beckoning cajoling he couldn’t work it out, couldn’t understand, only knew he felt fear, fear day and night a sleepy dread of dreaming. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/coming-up-roses.html

  Earwigs My neighbour was sweeping up. “Beware of earwigs,” she said. “they go in through your ear, crawl round your brain and tickle you to death” Her name was Rosie. She cleaned trains for a living. No earwig survived where she swept. Fortunately not many travelled by train. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/coming-up-roses.html

  Only A Rose It was only a rose I gave to you, a pink rose plucked from the bush carefully  by my own fair hand. It was only a rose. But I knew you loved roses, loved each one more than the last as you took them  smilingly from my own fair hands. The bush grew so many roses and hands. It seemed to know your love of them, those pink roses  and my own fair hands plucked to make you a perfect bouquet. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/coming-up-roses.html

  Rosie Can I be a rose? Yes, I think so. It’s my calling, after all. And I have pinkish skin and rosy cheeks. And I am as multi layered,  as complex, as any petalled rose worth my name. Yes, that’s for sure. Is there a fragrance  on my breath? I like to think so. And will it be discernible, sniffable, rosily perfumed? Yes, especially  in the moist evening, but take care not to  disturb my roots, to cut me off and watch me fade away. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/coming-up-roses.html

  Roses For Gaza Gaza is a garden full of roses. Stone roses. Rock roses. No petals to crush and bruise to release their fragrance. Only dust. Dust and the stench of death. No green space left. No sweet tranquility, peace or quiet. No escape in this world of politicians unable  to cast the first stone in this world  of double standards in this world of politicians with hearts of stone in this world where humanity is reduced  to rubble and rock roses. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/coming-up-roses.html