Poetry - Lynn White

  Her Collection They called it her collection, mementoes from all over the place. I didn’t know where all over the place was but the painted figures were so colourful   I thought it must be very different   to the grey drizzle of this place. They told me they weren’t toys, I was not even to touch them, I could only look   as they stood silently   in line   on their shelves. Sometimes, though when they pleaded with me   through their silence, I gave them a little stroke, I know it pleased them. And once, just once, I took them down, freed them from their cupboard, from the straight lines of shelving and allowed them to touch each other to behave as they once did in their place. That was the only time I heard them speak and the colours poured from their voices all over the place. And now, it’s another time and I’m in a different place   watching them still standing speechless.   Even their colours are muted with dust now but I can hear their v...

  Past Imperfect It will never be the same again the broken pot or plate knocked over,   dropped from a height shattered   it’s perfection destroyed, not beyond repair just forever imperfect patched up with little spaces left where the light shines through. I think I can recreate its magic perfect it anew repair it   with molten gold   and shining jewels that reflect the light like those old glasses   dug up from the garden and washed till they gleam then offered for sale with the light shinning through like a Georgian window   perfect in it’s imperfection distorting the vision enhancing it   with mystery. It’s light, carrying the past into the present. I think I can do it. https://www.amazon.in/Abstract-Time-Rudderless-Mariner-Poetry-ebook/dp/B094P2MGD6/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+abstract+of+time&qid=1622717960&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

  Fox It’s a rare thing to see, a fox in a field of pink, a fox in a field   of foxgloves. He looks up and sniffs them. He could put his nose right inside if he chose. But he doesn’t. He could slip each paw in turn inside the pink glove, but he doesn’t choose to. Why would he, unless he knew the connection, the link, the identification. But he doesn’t know it. So   he just sniffs the air and moves on. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-VDopY936Jlj73_xAWH729bGHDOORYTP/view?fbclid=IwAR1NWWd-kf-yxcc_sGE3laBmamevIyD5ANjWc4DjqTVN5F8HwQ0mLCl3z5U

  Spread The Words Words of love, words of hate, the conjoined twins of freedom. Spread the word. Psst… have you heard… pass it on.. Chinese whispers spreading truth and lies, the conjoined twins of freedom   in the age of misinformation. They’re spewing out of mouths clacking and clicking in the scrabble to be free. Wave after wave crashing breaking up washing up. A tsunami of words. I’m drowning. https://thepineconereview.com/the-pine-cone-review-issue-2/

  Haunted I am being haunted by my ghost. It must be my ghost, it knows too much  to arise from someone else’s body. It remembers my past.  Remembers my dreams, the ones I forgot so quickly on wakening and the ones I left behind later, only to revisit in future dreaming. It knows too much. It remembers the past I prefer to forget, the mishaps, the missed opportunities, the opportunities grasped too soon, too impetuously, the people left behind, happily or not, the feelings I felt. It remembers it all and stalks my present with it’s memories. It must be my ghost. It knows too much to arise from someone else’s body. No one came that close. Not for so long, a lifetime. I made sure of that. But how can it be my ghost? I’m still living. Still alive. And ghosts belong to the dead, to those with no future. But it must belong to me, this ghost of my present living in my past. https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/parabnormal-magazine-june-2020-edited-by-h-david-blalock

  Immortality They tried them all, the amulets and potions of their time and place. Some worked for a time but death overcame them in the end   and proclaimed their ungodlike mortality. They were buried like treasure with their treasures   from this life readied for the next, living on only in memories which faded like funeral flowers. It was not enough. So portraits were painted   on the bindings of mummies or the wooden lids of coffins, stone effigies were carved   on tombstones, but only   for the rich and already godlike. It’s democratised now. Ceramic portraits carefully incorporated into gravestones, likenesses to be viewed   down the centuries, glimpses of a life passed, a brush with immortality. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B094T52YPQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=perception+open+skies+collection&qid=1620967313&sr=8-1

  The Crow Remembers Through the mist the crow is watching the beach party as they pile up the stones. He watches them build them higher and higher but he’s not impressed, he knows that the stack of stones   was even higher once. Their ancestors built it first and the crow remembers them remembers their faces through the mists of time in life and in death. Remembers that it formed a stairway all the way to heaven. That’s what they told him in life. That’s what they tell him in death. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B094T52YPQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=perception+open+skies+collection&qid=1620967313&sr=8-1