Lost They were returning to their spaces at tables left only ten minutes ago, he from the cloakroom to the left, she from the cloakroom to the right. They paused together at the open door and saw him leaning back, a half smile on his face slightly bemused fascinated just a little fascinated. She was leaning forward, elbows on table, hands gesturing to help her explain the complexity of the issue. She sat back. He asked her something they couldn’t hear but they saw it all, saw her vigorous nods and more explanation. Saw her stand briefly to demonstrate her meaning then sat back down again. They saw it all. He was nodding now understanding then suddenly he leaned forward to take her hands, her clenched hands folded in his as he smiles smiles and speaks. They still can’t hear, only see as they move to retake their spaces but think they could be lost. They looked up, surprised to see them. In ten minutes they’d been forgotten and they knew they were lost. BLOGNOSTICS.NET ...
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Where Am I? Where shall I sit in this place I don’t know. Which side of the aisle Should I be. Or should I be at the front conducting the ceremony like a lecture. I’ve done that often enough when I knew where I was. Or maybe I should stand at the back ready for a quick getaway. I couldn’t do that at my wedding, but if it’s my funeral I think that’s the best place for me. But is it? So difficult to know. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1091118191/ref=sr_1_4…
Cinderella In her dreams she would go to the ball. She’d meet her prince. and dance with him unforgettably so unforgettably that he would search for her later, search until his lost love was found again. With a poetic little spell and a wave of her wand the fairy godmother made her dream come true. We read it! We heard it! We know it! Well, we know that the ball gown and transportation were sorted but who the fuck taught her to dance? Cracked ankles.. crushed toes.. bruised feet.. these things might have led to a different outcome. Maybe the glass slippers were magic and carried her, step perfectly in time with the music. But we should have been told even in a fairy story, especially in a fairy story we should have been told. https://www.freelitmagazine.com/
Dawn Chorus It starts with one. One skylark singing. One Carson warning. Then the robins and blackbirds join in. The early birds, like Carson. Then the wrens and warblers as the daylight warms them. Listen. Can you hear them? The warning calls are warming up as well, strengthening their numbers as the bird song dies away. Listen. Listen. Can you hear them? Listen. Don’t sleep. Don’t wait to hear the silence. https://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems…/category/lynn-white
Walled Up They usually left something behind, the builders who finished the job, something hidden in the walls something that had been part of their life a mark made a bottle from a lunchtime brew a crusty remnant of a meal consumed or something more poignant that would protect the house that would protect their work bring luck to those following. Old shoes were popular especially children’s because the spirits of children were stronger though any shoe would do at a pinch. But this builder needed his, he had none to spare now his work was done. So he left behind his glove the one that he’d worn to protect his hand from the rough. A hand shoe, as good as a foot shoe he must have thought. He knew that tools were popular leavings but he had none to spare now his work was done his tools were for sale. So he left behind screws two screws two new screws. He thought it an appropriate leaving for one who had been well and truly screwed. He hoped that those who came after would understand ...
One Last Time Before the trees begin to fall I’ll take a walk through the woods one last time, hear the leaves glistening and shaking in fear of what is to come some are already fallen lying dying, it’s the season for it after all. I’ll see the light shining lighting on the leaves of grass that push soft spikes of green life in between the fallen see the light shining through the trees one last time. It lights up the white crosses chalked on the trunks as it passes by too many white crosses all ready to mark the graves of the fallen. It’s the season for it after all, always the season for it one more time. https://www.amazon.com/Endlessly-Rocking-Poem…/…/ref=sr_1_1… About This Website AMAZON.COM Endlessly Rocking: Poems in Honor of Walt Whitman's 200th Birthday These poems honor the memory of Walt Whitman as we consider his legacy 200 years after his birth. Whitman's work is revisited in an outpouring of literary energy as these poem...
Entertainment As usual, it was one tank that drew the crowd down in the museum’s aquarium. It was not the tank with pike gawping threateningly, their teeth barred in anticipation and hope of attracting an audience. No, though there was a monstrous pike in it, swimming with it’s mouth wide open. But it’s mouth was open wide in wonder, in wonder at it’s strange environment. Well, it’s not often that a pike gets to swim in a drawing room furnished from times past. It’s eyes bulged with the strangeness of it all. But it was a crowd puller, though still not enough to satisfy such an audience, the pike reflected, as it considered the strangeness of it’s very un-fishlike companion, the young girl costume dressed to match the drawing room, standing there dreamlike or maybe drugged, steadying herself with the chair. Perhaps earlier she was seated, when the water was lower. but now she has to stand. The water is already up to her waist and rising slowly. The audience gets larger, their eyes...