A Dash of Whimsy Series –
I invite you to take the morning to explore these poems of Lynn White and get lost in her stories. They might just have you leave with a smile!
Jacko
I saw him flapping around in the grass,
one wing at an improbable angle.
I chased him,
caught him,
wrapped him
carefully
in my cerise and navy school scarf.
Jack, jack, jacko..
Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet
who set the broken wing,
wrapped it
carefully
in plaster,
a heavy pot.
He was subdued on the bus home,
but still managed to greet my mother,
Jack, jack, jacko.
He perked up later after tea
and explored the living room
placing bits of straw artistically
and decorating them with pooh.
Which was why
he had to live
at school,
home
only for weekends.
Jack, jack jacko!
But he enjoyed bus journeys now
and greeted all the passengers,
hopping from shoulder to shoulder,
waking them up with a wang from his pot,
nibbling an ear here and a nostril there.
Most were
charmed,
but some
were not.
He was close to becoming
the only jackdaw to be banned
from public transport.
Jack, jack, jacko!!
And then disaster!
the wing had not healed.
There was decay
and gangrene
amputation
and the trimming
of his lovely long feathers
to balance him.
No more hopping
from shoulder to shoulder,
well, maybe later
with practice!
But no more
prospects of a wild life
for Jacko
Jack, jack, jacko…
And no more home with me
said my mum as the school holidays
loomed threateningly.
Jack, jack, jacko…..
But nearby the vet,
a budgie had died
and it’s owner,
bereaved,
had a need and
it was love at first sight
for both her and Jacko.
Jack, jack, jacko!!
There were photos
in the press.
He was famous!
A local hero!
Jack, jack, jacko!!!
First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016
Mr Taylor
Probably a polar bear was not a good choice
for my first attempt at whittling.
A hamster would have been simpler
and avoided the multiple leg fractures..
“Don’t worry girl, no problem”, Mr Taylor said,
when I showed it to him.
“Leave it to me.
Bit o plastic wood,
That’ll soon sort it”
and it did.
The tail was more challenging.
But all was not lost, just the tail,
and I managed to convince the Examiner
that polar bears don’t have tails.
Maybe they don’t.
I’m no expert.
I progressed slowly, and probably
a rocking elephant was not the best choice
for my Final Piece.
There was a lot to cut out,
a lot of curvy bits.
The huge electric saw bench
loomed ominously in the corner.
“Don’t you go near that, girl”
cried Mr Taylor if I glanced in it’s direction.
“Here, give it here,
Leave it to me.
There you are.
Now just a bit o plastic wood…”
And then disaster!
Someone stole the rockers.
Who the fuck would steal my rockers?
They never rocked very well,
but even so, they were better than nothing.
And Mr Taylor was hard pressed
to make new ones
in time for the exam,
even with multiple,
“No problem, don’t worry, girl”s,
I was concerned.
But in the end
we both passed.
First published in Algebra of Owls, November 2016
This Is Not An Egg
The egg box was so sculptural with it’s peaks and troughs
like a metaphor, a mirror of life in textured paper,
I thought a giant version could easily become
an acclaimed art installation
and I thought I could make it.
And then I remembered the glasses
left behind in a museum of modern art
by error or intent,
real glasses,
not the “ne sont pas les lunettes”
Magrittean sort,
I could feel some guerrilla art hatching inside me.
I fetched the pot egg from under the broody hen
and pondered the possibilities on the way to the gallery.
There, I placed the egg box on a table,
sneaked it in
between the other exhibits
then I placed the Magrittean egg inside.
Just the one egg seemed most fitting
especially since one was all I had.
I had already written the title card.
Such a work deserved two titles
one above and one below the artist’s name,
my name, of course.
First came: “THIS IS NOT AN EGG”
and underneath:
“THIS IS NOT AN EXHIBIT”
It was perfectly placed
and looked magnificently subversively ironic.
I think Magritte would be proud of my effort.
And now I must wait
to see if anyone notices.
First published in SurVision Issue 5, June 2019
Artist:
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. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes.
Follow This Artist:
https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com
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