Poetry - Lynn White

Mirror, Mirror Mirror, mirror, tell me, who do you see? Is she white, snow white, whiter than white, fairer than fair. White as virgin snow unbroken by footprints, unblemished, unsullied. Or is her snowy white greying as time passes, picking up some of the dirt in passing. Maybe darker still in places as its whiteness decays and melts away. Tell me, mirror, who do you see? https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/mirror-mirror-poe…/

The Bucket Man I saw the Bucket Man today, Upside down, his head in his bucket, his arms folded tight to entertain the crowd. “It’s my living”, his sign says, “puts a roof over my head”. Such focus and fitness, such determination, such imagination, such creativity. Will it lead him him to a different place, one day, this man and his bucket? And what if his parents were wealthy and had sent him to Eton or Harrow, What then for the Bucket Man? Such focus and fitness, such determination, such imagination, such creativity. Would it lead to a different place for this man and his bucket? But he does well, it seems. And for every coin in the bucket there’s a ‘thank you’ and a thumbs up from an arm released from it’s fold. He’s a popular entertainer, on facebook now and Twitter. So, what if one day his head meets up with the treasure in his bucket? Will he kick his bucket away and pay to send his kids to Eton or Harrow, What then for the Bucket Man, would he still have his head in a buc...

The Hoopoes Are Back The hoopoes are back, even though the walls and holes they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders four years ago, when there was a housing boom and money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders three years ago, even though, there was no market for nests and no money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were washed away two years ago, as the walls which stopped the storm flow were destroyed by human nest builders, to prepare the ground for money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though their nesting places are hidden, buried under growing mountains of rubble brought by the human nest builders a year ago as there is no demand for human nests and no money to be made, except from rubble. Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them! The hoopoes are back! http://www.stor...

The Lighthouse I was a little crazy to buy the old lighthouse. I knew it at the time. But I wanted to be somewhere, somewhere where I could shine, shine lamps out into the vastness, shine like a beaming beacon. And it was so high. It matched my mood and then some. Higher than high. Higher than high. There was no housewarming. No one came. There was no one to come. So, only I could relish the exposure. Only I could walk round the top of the tower and look over the edge into the dark deep depths. Only I could see the swimmer, a mermaid, surely? waving. Or was she beckoning as she approached the mooring. Only I could come spiraling down. Come down from the heights to open the door, to run down the steps to the mooring. And then the lamps went out. http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=946

https://poems2go.wordpress.com/poets-3/

Unicorn I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve always shunned   the spotlight, always feared it. Unlike the horses and dogs   who play the game,   perform, do what’s expected by their human providers,   by their audience. I’ve always been afraid   of being seen onstage just in case I was taken short and golden notes fell from my arse and made   rainbows brighter   than the spotlight, upsetting the lighting engineers. I think we’re all the same, we unicorns, shy creatures. That’s why we’ve   survived, hiding in dreams. http://www.pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/?platform=hootsuite

Dandelion Seed There's a dandelion seed caught in your hair. A fluffy wisp of white and grey hanging there, suspended in your frothy crown. A shimmering seed held like a star in a wiry halo made by the light. Blow it away. Perhaps you will, if I tell you it's there. Blow it away. But it looks so beautiful suspended there. I won't tell you. I'll just admire it's beauty as it hangs in your hair. Blow it away. No, I won't. It will leave soon enough. Best not to rush these things. Who knows where they will end up after all. https://www.ucm.es/siim/jaclr-volume3-issue2