A Poetry Showcase by Lynn White

white daisy flowers in bubble
A Change of Focus

They were being herded now
bleating pleas
like the blind sheep
of past times.
by those they'd lionised
those they'd cultivated
as heroes
or victims
now metamorphosed
into triffids in khaki
and all it took was a change
of focus.
Triffids in khaki
and prodding.
They could see them now
in focus
as they stumbled
their pleas
to the deafened.
They could see now
see themselves
see that they're victims of
them and
their old blind sheep
all it took was a change of focus
and in a flash
by the light.

*First published in Blognostics August 2019*

Bits and Pieces

I loved Auntie Mary's bits and pieces drawer.
Loved the metal box full of buttons
I laid out carefully
to admire the different colours,
the different shapes and sizes.
Some were very old
cut from outfits long gone.
I thought she should remember them
but she would never say,
only that she cut them from clothes discarded
in case she needed to replace those lost,
buttons were expensive back then.
I found a silvery chain
with a broken clasp
that glistened and gleamed
as it wrapped round my fingers.
She said she couldn't remember where she wore it.
I didn't believe her, it was too beautiful to forget.
Then there were the discarded ornaments
that had once been on show,
presents from seaside places, so they said,
but it was the photographs I liked best.
Pictures of family I'd never met,
pictures of family I never would meet.
Now, I only remember the one of three young women,
my auntie and her sisters.
They were sitting on a wall with the sea behind them,
perhaps they had just bought one of the ornaments.
My auntie told me that people had said:
"just look at our Mary, showing her ankles!"
"I was very, daring", she told me smiling.
I couldn't imagine the prim lady
in her always blue dresses
had ever been daring,
but she had hidden the picture away
because she thought it revealed too much.
On later visits I would always ask
to look in the 'bits an pieces' drawer
but it was never allowed again.
Perhaps it had already revealed too much.

*First published in Blognostics, September 2019*

I Believe in Magic

I stood there
a naked tree in winter,
no leaves
no buds
no blossom
to relieve the bare branches
not even for Christmas
when so many trees gleamed and glittered
with berries
and baubles
sparkled with magic
I stood there
waiting for the magic.
I waited
and waited.
And then
I woke
to find myself clothed,
a green leafy garland
all around me
leaving empty shoes
Now I believe in magic.
I hope it hasn't walked

*First published in Blognostics, August 2018*


I look into the river
and see how my reflection
moves helplessly in its flow.
It's moved and changed,
but left stationary,
not moved along
like the fishes
and pebbles
and floating leaves
but fading and breaking
with the images beyond me.
I feel in danger of being broken up
and washed away
piece by piece.

Such sweet watery sounds should ease my spirit,
should shut out the babbling inside me.
But even though spring is on its way
I know that winter
will find a way
my broken ears,

in any case.

The Gardener

I was well equipped
to wade through mud
to prune and snip,
ready to water. when dry
and this year has been dry,
too dry
also too wet
and windy
so the harvest was scant
and now it's over,
now it's the golden time,
time to celebrate the work
time to celebrate the light
before the long dark rest
to come
to make ready
for the new light.

In Memoriam 

She thought her large hands and feet
were due to her hard labour
one summer vacation
on an archaeological dig
in Germany.
It was there she met Max,
an Art student
a sculptor
who also had trouble finding shoes
large enough for his big feet.
he cycled to Florence to view 'David'
in all his marbled flesh
and later 
on his return
he slept on the sofa
in our shared student house.
In return
he carved a large number '14'
in our sandstone gatepost
with a rusty spike
and a half brick
that he found
lying around.

Where are they now?
I don't know
but still
the gatepost stands
in memoriam
a small footfall
to their passing by
that way
and still
there is no gate.

*From our Fevers of the Mind Issue 2: In Memoriam Print Anthology*


Many can name the day when
he died.
Each year
a deathday
like a birthday but
an ironic celebration.
On the day he died
we were making holly wreaths
ready for Christmas.
A petrol stop on the way to work
an overheard conversation
at the local garage.
When he told us
Lennon was dead
we pricked our fingers
in shock.
Now each year we remember
his falling
his dying
symbolised for ever
by those fallen empty glasses

*From Fevers of the Mind Issue 2: In Memoriam Print Anthology*

A Poetry Showcase by Lynn White

Hard Rain Poetry Online Anthology inspired by Bob Dylan : poems by Lynn White

Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So it Goes. Find Lynn at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
They were being herded now

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: