Poetry - Lynn White

  Keeping Mum At nine years old she’d never had a chance   to know her father. Not to know about his life, his personality, or his dreams, Only that he loved her and had been frail and ill all her life. “She never even asks how her father is”, said her mother’s friend disapprovingly. Her mother must have told her that. “They won’t tell me, so there’s no point in asking”, she thought. No! I think she said! They wouldn’t tell her why   he was in hospital. They wouldn’t tell her why he died, not at nine years old, not until years later when they were all dead and more voices could speak. https://feversofthemind.com/2023/07/15/now-available-the-poetica-sisterhood-of-sylvia-anne-print-kindle-with-links/?fbclid=IwAR0Fcb8ichDwDKlzLQOmIvHSEqYIi71CunbA0dlO9yDhsSRTigTYR_960gg

  Rejection It’s not that I’m not tempted, she said and I don’t want to offend you. She took my hand briefly,  to show no offence  was intended,  then let it go. I held on to hers  as she explained. Then we walked in silence for quite a long way enveloped in the dark night. Hand in hand. Quiet footsteps that didn’t break the silence. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back. Or was I the first to smile and she smiled back? I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter, but we still don’t remember. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/07/masks.html

  Ten Minutes In the next ten minutes I have to go,  and you can’t let me just walk  out of your life again. Can’t let you! Can’t stop you, I said, and I won’t try, won’t try. How can I? What should I do? Follow you from place to place? Sit outside your house and chance  being turned away, by someone? I don’t know where it is, in any case and I don’t want to know. So what’s it to be? A thread? An occasional email to keep in touch?  I don’t think so! Our lives are so distant in every way, how to join them up? The trick would be to store the memories and leave behind the sense of loss. Ditch the sadness. But we’ve tried before. And failed. And we’re running out of years. If we meet a next time,  the chances are we’ll be too old to care. We need to achieve a modus vivendi,  that will at least allow  our lives to touch each other. Nothing less? And, in the next ten minutes! I said. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/07/masks.html

  Meeting You spoke to me.  A smile on your lips and a sadness  behind your eyes  to match my own. I could see it, recognise it. I knew it well. “Hello you”, I said. “Hello me?” A gesture, a question in your voice, laughter caught  in the back of your throat and eyes that smiled. Momentarily. At least momentarily understanding. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/07/masks.html

  Close Your Eyes I’ve closed my eyes just like you asked. What now? What happens next? You promised me treats when I opened them. You promised me wonders. You promised me the earth, the grass and the rivers, the sun and the sky. But if you can’t manage that the moon will do. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/07/masks.html

  Behind the Mask Will I ever see what lies behind the mask? I think I can  sometimes through the eye slits, sometimes when they are open. Eyes are revealing, after all, and difficult to hide. Maybe they’ll tell me enough, tell me all I need to know. So I will have no urge to peel off the mask, to tear it away from the skin underneath. It would be too painful, anyway. Too raw, for both of us and would leave behind a soreness that would not heal. And still not all would be revealed by the exposure. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/07/masks.html

  A Fictional Account This story is fiction. Made up. Made up like a face. First the base, the foundation, then the shadows and highlights, the blushers and sparklers, the reds and the blues to add interest and shape. Then lines for emphasis. Black, thick night time black, outlining the fiction. So, there was a base for this fantasy. There was some foundation. Even a made up story has some links with reality. A spark from a dream, an inspiration from experience, mine, or yours,   or someone else’s. Something written, something sung. A word, a phrase, a line from someone’s life, their fantastic real life, or imaginings. becoming real in the telling, when the make up is removed and the secrets are revealed between the lines. https://www.amazon.de/-/en/Marzia-Dessi/dp/B0C9SP2TQV/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3HLA7Z9N8NWJV&keywords=marzia+dessi&qid=1688723978&s=books&sprefix=marzia+dessi%2Cenglish-books%2C116&sr=1-2