Jacko/Mr Taylor/This Is Not an Egg – Poetry by Lynn White

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!


I saw him flapping around in the grass,

one wing at an improbable angle.

I chased him,

caught him,

wrapped him


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


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,


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


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


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,


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:


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


 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.

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