Shade of Blue and Other Poems by Michael H. Brownstein

Still Shining

Roll with the Sunday vibes that bring color and expression into your next week with Michael H. Brownstein! His work can help lead you to that right kind of relaxation, giving fuel for motivation.


Shade of Blue

A constellation of sky,
the continuum of well-lit light,
a great sparkle and burst–
everywhere a line converges
diverges, re configures,
digests, ingests, links its fingers
as if a ball of music can be so rich,
solemn, full of this much restraint:

Everywhere nothing is heard,
but crystals can form into orbs,
glitter can transform into healing,
the energy of the muse, sodalite
binds itself with arrows of kyanite
and the hidden universe
of galaxies sighs within its walls
a music of one finger caressing
the palm of another, a light touch–

the tickle of Antigua blue, indigo,
cobalt, cyan, the shadow of what
might have been purple–a silent
kora with broken strings
and no one, no thing,
hears anyone, anything, breath.


EVENING AND THE END OF THE STORM

When the storm came
it did not come with rain or hail,
nor did it bring wind and snow.
It less loose a lack of possibility,
an understatement of what was to come.

That was the day we really needed toilet paper
and the building we were considering
fell to a structural fire. That day
bleach vanished as did flour,
all kinds of facial masks, eggs and cheese.

When we made it to the checkout,
the cashier did not ask if we found everything OK,
but remained stoic, accepted our money
with a tired sigh. and told us, I didn’t ask
because I knew that you didn’t.

The fire was put out in ten minutes,
but the building was lost to us,
its perfect commercial kitchen,
its room of antiques and its suit of armor,
the bright lit stained glass near the entrance.

We have a song we sing that always begins,
Everything is coming undone, and we sang it
not understanding its importance
until the lockdown was mandated
and businesses became essential of nonessential.

Everyday beyond that day we took one walk,
the air fresher and fresher, the sounds of spring,
flowers turning into hues of blue and white,
yellow and pink. We designed the game
Incoming, an obstacle course of avoidance.

Last might another storm reeled over our house,
let loose a thunder of rain and wind,
the mulberry tree held on, but the dogwood
let a branch crack and the Japanese plum
bowed a few feet closer to the ground.


THE REST IS LOVE

How powerful to swim into your arms,
how steadfast and stubborn,
my fingers gathering yours
like the glorious crown of a tree
reaching beyond a fence of goldenrod
and silver dust to lay a hand of leaf
upon another branch of hope
and discover whatever wonder lives in the wind,
the brightest day, a cool evening,
the murmur of doves, squirrels at play.
a warmth that turns everything into faith.


Artist:

Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love? (2019), were recently released (Cholla Needles Press).

A Soldier of Life and Other Poems by Anthony Mondal

Still Shining

Such a treat we have this morning brought by Anthony Mondal! He is an artist of many kinds as a poet, novelist, and actor. The richness of his work will fill your day like a cup of coffee and smooth jazz. Don’t miss his reading from his book, as well as his other poems below!


Human Nature, a Reflection
Human nature is falteringly slow
On its journey to be Humane
In spite of many great men before
Who paved for us, the path to follow
Often in our judgment, we are incredibly shallow.
Though deep in our heart we know it to be wrong
We amuse ourselves, when others are at fault
In our callous and casual ways, we cause much sorrow
We plunder mankind, as if there is no tomorrow
Tossing and turning in sleep, because of all our evil doings
We soothe our conscience, with intoxicating drinks
And asleep indeed are plenty
In not knowing their true human nature
Half asleep, half awakened, bewildered and baffled
They rush through life’s journey unexamined
Apologetically, I must say so
Human nature is yet far away from being Humane
And a far, far cry, from being even near to Divine.


I would Rather
I would rather watch the storm clouds gather in a distant corner of the sky
Rather than
Sit in a cubicle wasting my life away.


I would rather play soccer bare feet, feeling the cool dewy grass
Rather than
Sit in an office with no window- staring away at the computer screen.


I would rather walk alone thru the city streets, soaked wet by spring rain
Rather than
Listen to my boss and their silly rules and policies (Jargon)


I would rather pickup a profound lyrical book of Poems by a famous dead Author
And sit reading underneath the shade of a tree
Rather than
Type nonsensical claims and letters filled with numbers, corporate rules, underneath the fluorescent
tube lights


These are the things I would rather do than lock my inner child in a forced prison, for the sake of money.
But they don’t heed his tears of sorrow
Nor do they pay any attention to his Wants and needs.


When can we “See” diamonds in rough and Appreciate


Immigrants
Come they from distant shores
To seek Justice and fortune in a foreign land
Driven often by economic poverty
And sometimes evicted by politics dirty.
Leaving behind their native land;
To start life anew, in the land of Freedom and opportunity.
Fall victim frequently they, to scheme and schemers
Some lose their minds and some reduced to paupers
With a lot of courage and hope in their heart
The fortunate few crosses oceans and seas reaching at last!
Start they from the lowest rung of the economical ladder
With great aspirations to climb up higher
Unsympathetically are they snubbed and harassed
By sons and daughters of former immigrants
Forget cautious citizens, of their perilous adventure
Sees them only as job competitor.
Watch also they from distance bitter
The wine dine and dancing of the society “proper”


Live they in huddles,
Scared to venture, beyond their limited circles
Often their hardship, reaps benefit later
As they sacrifice for generations future
In times of economic prosperity,
Forgotten are their labors, with great insincerity
But in times of economic crisis
Are made scapegoats, and sacrificial lambs of faulty policies

Tear swells up in Her eyes
As Maiden Liberty, helplessly watches
The grave injustice done , to her precious children’s.


So are we all immigrants on Planet Earth
Since our souls have origin, removed much afar from this materialistic earth.
Perceived only by senses fine and a feeling heart.

Note: This poem was written way back, during my New York days, and was just sitting in my notebook. I had a quick read and thought this might ring true for the present situation.


Artist:

Anthony Mondal is a poet, novelist and actor. He considers himself simply as an artist beyond the confines of nationality and religion. He proudly calls himself a citizen of the world. His most recent book of poems was titled A Burst of Sunshine, which is his second published book. He lived in New York City for almost ten years pursuing writing, acting and song writing – well, then he had a breakdown! And now our artist recuperates/resides in Michigan, USA. As an actor he has appeared in the film “Sabrina” and the TV show “Strangers with Candy” (2000). He received his BA from Calvin College in geology in 1995. He worked in the World Trade Centre, Building One in 2001 and has survived.

Currently he is working on an existential novel tentatively titled “In Search Of…” and is looking for a publisher/agent for his completed Memoirs.

Read more about this author at: https://shareyourstorypublishing.com/anthony-mondal/

You Are… – Poetry by Alex Ogoh

Still Shining

Continue the serenity of the day with this modern love poem by Alex Ogoh! Sure to bring you a sense of joy and a smile to your face!


YOU ARE…

the birds chirping
on my morning
as Sunday mass choir

Like songs
you sing yourself
as lyrics into me

You are…

the distance
nearer to me
than social media

like electric
you speed yourself
as current into me

You are…

the breath
more alive to me
than piped oxygen

like wind
you whiff yourself
as air into me

You are…

the data
connected to me
as CPU

Like keyboard
you input data
as bits into me

You are…

the internet
surfing through my heart
as information

like address bar
you input your source
as URL into me


Artist:

Alex Ogoh, a member of Writers’ League Benue State University Chapter. His works have appeared on The Political Poet contest in honour of Edgar Allan Poe, 2015 where he was an Honourable Mention, Youth Shades Poetry and Poetrypulse Monthly Poetry.

Follow This Artist:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Alex4poem

Be My Guest and Other Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Still Shining

Well, you’ve almost made it to the end of the week and as you start your morning, take some time to read the work of Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal! He brings a sense of peace with his poetry, a hopeful flow and a calming spirit.


Be My Guest

Are you counting the days?
Do you remember going out?
All the doors you walked through,
none of them were shut.

Will you be my guest? Will you
be my guest when all of this ends?
Will you be my partner in crime?
I do not want to go out alone.

When the orders are lifted
let’s find a good watering hole.
I will look into your kind eyes
when this horror is over,
when this gloom is lifted.


Feed the Night Your Dreams.

Feed the night your dreams.
Feed the day your daydreams.
Swat away the mosquitoes
following you in the street.
Do not despair in the afternoon.
There is the sun. Feed it your
daydreams. The twilight shadows,
feed them your dreams and when
it is time to go to bed, you know
what to do. Feed the night and
every other night your dreams.


Do Not Stay So Long

Do not stay so long in one place.
The day is long. Enjoy it. Go out.
Spend the time with your own self.
At least in the late afternoon you
you could sit in solitude like a stone.

Do not stay in one place all day long.
Be the wanderer, the curious soul.

Take a pencil to paper and write
the book you always wanted to

write. Take your time and let it be.
Make each syllable count. When

you turn out the light sleep well.
Leave the ghostly reflection of a

bad day behind. Find yourself.
Do not stare too long into the sun.

Remain motionless if you must.
But go out, don’t stay still too long.


Edge of the Sky

At the edge of the sky
a cloud of faces forms
leaving me startled
and amazed. One has
a foam like beard and
one has tears and striped
cheeks. One has a head
with no eyes or nose,
and its mouth is shaped
like a triangle. One
looks like a woman.
Perhaps it is just me
who thinks too much
and waits for a woman
that will not return.
I feel so sad and as
darkness arises, rain
falls inside my eyes.


Cast No Spells

You cast no spells
I am aware
of. Still, I am
bound to you in
a way I am
unable to
shake away from.
It is not you.
I do it to
myself. It is
not you. It is
my heart and soul
that seeks you out.
I must find a
way to get free
when I know it
is going to
end badly for
me. It is not
you. It is me.
I know it in
my heart and soul
you have other
plans. I do it
to myself, this
spell that is not
really a spell
I am under.


Artist:

Born in Mexico, Luis has lived in California for the last 45 years. He works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry has been published by Ariel Chart, Blue Collar Review, Mad Swirl, Red Fez Publications, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine. Kendra Steiner Editions published his 7 of his chapbooks, with the last chapbook being Make the Light Mine. 

Follow This Artist:
https://kendrasteinereditions.wordpress.com/2016/07/15/new-poetry-chapbook-from-luis-cuauhtemoc-berriozabal-make-the-light-mine-kse-364/

The Morning News and Other Poems by Margaret Koger

Still Shining

Venture into the strange world as it is now and also be taken to the worlds of others in these poems by Margaret Koger! She has a delightful flow in her storytelling and brings excitement by the visuals she creates.


The Morning News

We want the world and we want it now.
—The Doors

I’m staying safe working from home
where I may have time to clean my mind
organize fear into manageable categories

home school the children, order groceries
find old friends online, chat while I disinfect
everything in sight, hoping for a vaccine—

Mornings I’m revived by coffee from Kauai
shipped across an ocean to my inland home
where I read of a traumatized world.

My laptop query speeds into cloudy algorithms
fed by satellites serving up fear and circuses.
I heed the news of seven billion people

most surviving the weathers of death
hurricanes, a scourge of locust eating crops
cease fires breaking hot in faraway lands.

And Betty’s foot surgery’s postponed
Joseph heart transplant’s unavailable
Alison is suddenly running a fever.

I’m just one of the seven-billion people hoping
to be safe from the novel virus and swelling tides
to keep a roof, food, neighbors—the door ajar.



First Light at Dagger Falls

Follow me into the wilderness
watch the Chinook leaping whitewater
as dawn spreads color on canyon walls
sun silvering the backs of salmon below

there! a female whips above the rapids
her pulse drumming to the coax
of her blush-red roe seeking the stream-
bed where she hatched a smolt maturing
such as her eggs will become

now! the male bursts from the froth, leaping
fighting to follow miles to go into shallows
where they’ll spawn milt, eggs, gametes
as earth’s magnetic pulse imprints

inspiring me my heart in flight
soaring to perch in a ponderosa where
I’m avian soon kited on cliff winds
peering down into pine prospects soughed

in desire my pulse beating as I wait
for an updraft to carry me a lover
a sturdy male ready to find a redd.


The Enticement

A rogue lover saunters into the garden
chanting my name, my name, my name.
He limbs his shoulders against my wall

offers pitfalls of spring blossoms
mockeries of leaf-mold
wavering bees

I spell the ivy to cover him with green
I spell his name in the water and quicken the river
I call the hawk to watch over his captivity

He curses me with a blizzard of rhyme
He curses me with the names of my father and mother
He beckons a snake to anaconda my heart

I tell him NO

Many have armed me against his claxon call
(She’s a stumble finger, fumble foot;
she’s got a nose just like a book.)

He stretches my name around me

stands astride my garden
offering peaches in a basket
pits ready for planting

I tell him no

He jangles the air I breathe with ripe scents
He immerses my mind in satin dreams
He waits for me to flow to him

If I step forward, will he erase me?

If I am his if he is mine whose name will survive?


River Therapy

webs of swooning capillaries
(any of the fine branching streams
penetrating the flanks of mountains)

water wraps swiftly, surrounding the drop of a hat
March shivers its banks as the river’s hunger mounts
gush of refusing confinement
flush as if her water broke

say this morning is the beginning of the world
who is to know it’s not?

the earth is another story
all solid, whirling through space
turning its rumtum body round
facing the sun

the sun never fails
mornings the gnatcatchers’ peeping
from the river mouth could drive an anemone mad
a cracked plate sailing on ocean seams

I certify the crack in the plate
we’ll have it notarized by noon

how does nothing compare with nothing?
or is absence the fulfillment of no thing?
notice the corner where I kept the brash container
floating on the river of mis understanding

days pour through me like complaints
traveling upstream, searching a mellow meadow
near 8th and sunflower
but the morning saunters

water has no color
water is always hungry
step into the river
be swept away
listen, skinned logs



The Reservoir: The Return

Our craft bucks across waves
furrowed by boats before us
their wakes rising and falling
as we slowly round the curve
nearing the Robie Creek dock.

One by one shore birds take wing
avocets and a gray heron startled
stick-feet tucked, wings spread
instinct calling them to move on.

The inlet stream’s sparkling eye
temps children arriving by car
to race (barefoot) across concrete
their tangled voices echoing
days we remember as our own.

To wade in and splash—garlands
of joy—sparkled into rainbows.


Artist:

Margaret Koger is a school media specialist with a writing habit. She lives near the river in Boise, Idaho. Her poetry adds new connections to the wayward web of life.  See a few more poems on: Collective Unrest, Inez, Voice of Eve, Headway, and Tiny Seeds Literary Journal.

Jackson Pollock and Other Poems by Abigail George

Still Shining

Artists on artists! Read and flow with the words that Abigail George has created on historical artists. Sure to entrance and entertain!


Jackson Pollock

I stand in front of the door, with a kind of awe in my heart
and knock. But there is no answer. I borrow other mother’s
children like other people borrow the sun. I stare too
much at this swirl of tuna fish on a cracker. I don’t know
what to do with my hands. I live in an autumn house during
the summer, and during the winter I live in a summer
house filled with scattered leaves, and waking, and thoughts.
And I say, I know you, I know who you are to my reflection
as I pass it by in the street, in the window as it greets me.
The art talks back to me in a woman’s high-pitched voice.
It moans at me to get back to work, or, that her back is
killing her. Come with me to the day when I was a boy, when
I was a fish, when I was a ghost, when I was a kimono. I dance
with wolves. I kill like a ruffian. I swim like a glimmer. My
eyes are as black and void as a black hole. I dream of the
universe, and it dreams of me. There is always going to be
departure and memory, desire and the painstaking fall of gravity
for every mute grain of sand lost in the fractured wind,
The woman flows in the wind, and her hair tumbles down
her back. I have dreamed of this sad woman for a long time.
I have this image of her as a poet. I see her inhale the stars,
with a kind of awe, gathering them to her soul with a kind of
awe, and she twists and turns in the wind like she’s a magic
dart on fire. Her face is pale and interesting-looking, and her
limbs are long and there’s something delicate about her entire
being. In another life, perhaps she was a painter like me. I
bleed for her. I bleed for her in my country. I bleed all across
my canvas for her. I spell the divine in symbols, trying to
read her mind. All female poets are sad in their own way. It is
a hot day. I eat chicken in a stew with carrots and green peas
swimming in a kind of meat tea. And when I go to work, this
women is always at the back of my mind. I think of how her
inner beauty frames her face as she sits at the kitchen table and
writes her verses much in the same way Dickinson did. She has
a star in her mouth. A star is born in her mouth, and it kisses
everything that her blue wrist touches. I know that all she’s known
is grief and loss, and I want to tell her to come to me. To come
to me. For I have known grief and loss in this world too.
One day they’ll invent onions that don’t make you cry, in
the same way that they invented the television. Nobody can
tell me anything about pain and suffering. I know them well.
Those strange bedfellows. The dart is in the air. Even the arrows
in her hand are on fire. The flame that she carries in her heart, I
carry in mine. The flame that kisses her hand, kisses my own.
And sometimes I call her Emily, and sometimes I call her Virginia.
And sometimes I dream of hell, and the four horsemen of the
apocalypse. And I reach out in the dark for her, but no one is
there to return this thin needle of desire. Only the sky, only this
key to nightfall. And I wonder if she realises it is summer outside
my door, and springtime in my step as the light hits the curtain
in my bedroom. I get up. There’s a day’s work to be done. I think
of taking a lover, but there’s a day’s work to be done. The sun is
out and high in the sky. Clouds manifest like chapters and parts.
Her sun is a carpenter. Mine is king. King of the wakeful Atlantic.


John Updike

He writes. He writes. He writes. He writes. And it feels
as if he is writing to me. There’s the letting go of sadness,
the letting go of emptiness, of the swamp ape in the land.
Lines written after communion, and as I write this, I am
aware of growing older, men growing colder. And this
afternoon, the dust of it, the milky warmth of it loose like
flowers upon me fastening their hold on me, removes the
oppression that I know from all of life. Youth is no longer
on my side. The bloom of youth. Wasteland has become a
part of my identity. I am a bird. A rejected starling. To age
sometimes feels as if you are moving epic mountains. Valleys
that sing with the force of winds, human beings, the sun.
And he is beautiful. And he is kind. And he is the man facing
loneliness, and the emptiness of the day. And I am the woman
facing loneliness, and the emptiness of the day. But how
can you be lonely if you are surrounded by so many people.
I want to be those people, if only to be in your presence a
little while longer. Death is gorgeous, but life is even more so.
I have become weary of fighting wars. Of the threshold of
waiting. And so, I let go of solitude at the beach. I see my mother’s
face in every horizon. She is my sun. And the man makes
a path where there is no path before. The minority of the day
longs for power. The light reckons it has more sway over
the clouds. And there’s ecstasy in the shark, in his heart with
a head full of winter. Freedom is his mother tongue lost in
translation of the being of the trinity. Tender is the night.
The clock strains itself. Its forward motion. Its song. Its lull
during the figuring of the daylight. He’s my knight but he
doesn’t know it. He makes me forget about my grief, loss, my loss,
the measure of my grief. Driftwood comes to the beach and
lays there like a beached whale. Not stirring, but like some
autumn life, something about life is resurrected again, and the
powerful hands of the sea become my own. Between the grass
and the men, there is an innocent logic. I don’t talk to anyone,
and no one talks to me. It is Tuesday. Late. I think you can
see the despair in my eyes. The kiss of hardship in my hands.
It always comes back to that, doesn’t it somehow. The hands
The hands. The hands. Symbolic of something, or other it seems.
Wednesday morning. It is early. After twelve in the morning,
and I can’t sleep. For the life of me I can’t sleep. Between the
two of us, he’s the teacher. There is a singing sound in his voice.
I don’t know why I can’t read his mind anymore. There’s
confusion in forgetting that becomes a secret. Almost a contract
between two people. And when I think of him, I think of love
and Brazil, love and couples. And there’s a silent call from a
remote kind of land, and ignorance is a cold shroud. Some
things are born helpless in a world of assembled images, and
how quickly some people go mad with grief (like me), dream
of grief (like me), sleep with grief on their heart (like me). Speak
to me before all speech is gone. This image, or perhaps another.
His face is made up of invisible threads. Each more handsome
than the last. And my face becomes, turns into the face of love.


Georgia O’Keeffe

There’s going to be an invasion in June. Some kind of
prehistoric flash bathing in tension’s balancing hours.
Depth is not a bad place. Rain and air. The brides of society.
See the swarm’s exposure. The fabulous ochre. The wife’s
permanent body. The smile’s agony in the playing fields.
The poet is a shell. Tasting like clean straw that blooms
and blooms and blooms. This is the work of grownups. To
nurse the dancing shrouds, and to live in suburbia is both
interesting and vague, and words are like a river to a
visual artist. There is a bonfire in my fingers, in my journal,
in missionary work, in the firm roar of the waves. And
the face of fear is like silk. There’s lethargy growing near
the water found in wild places. A scream has fallen into a
cage and cannot get out for some reason. The bones are
lovely there for they have found paradise. My mother, she
licks the chicken bone expertly biting into the white flesh,
the dark meat. In the little hospital they have cancelled
the intimacy of thanksgiving. And in my throat, there is a
fire-breathing dragon that uses its lungs as a weapon. And
days turn into afterthoughts, when all I am thinking of is
the man, or, the work, or, the writing of this poem that
pushes away the pulse of broken heavy water’s darkened
progress. And the bonfire is now the curator of dreams. Visions
turn into the cold, and the cold is a veil over my head. It is
night air, the burning bush, Moses in the lonely wilderness.
I am frozen in the decay of the wild, and the dragon is numb
now. It says nothing. I say nothing. I seem to fear nothing
after all. I am not that young anymore. Not that fashionable
young thing. The older I get, the more responsible I become.
The less of love I have in my life. The more people I lose to
death, to death. You are too cold and accomplished, you have
the body and tongue of a vampire, and there’s a hidden sadness
in your existence. The grocer is barren, barren. The butcher a
brute. It is this love, your love of flowers that saves me.
Trees are free, but I don’t feel free. I feel overwhelmed and
captured by the bonfire. It protects me. Veil, and hats are raised.
The magician is touched and old, but I love him still. There
is a quiet respect there. Any daughter would love her father if
there was a code involved. Every thing looks different in the
light. I took my notebook outside and watched the child at
play. His observations became my own. I could feel the despair
of the day in the white sacrifice of the sun. trees stained ancient
and green and part of the rain’s domain. And I turned my body
over to God. Found the solitude in childhood again. The wonder
of growing, the power in gaining knowledge, the vigour of birth
and ghostly stain, how vital the marriage of creative minds is.
And the weedy grass obscures my vision of the addict in me.
The dead have forgotten my flesh and blood, my hair and roots
and the lines on my face have become like empty fields. There
are the hours like the sea, the sigh in the loneliness of the complex.
Dogged hands, dejected and narrow sky seen from my bedroom
even the courage here seems to be a church that has a kind of
primitive stiffness in the joints. There’s a miserable failure for you.


Artist:

Abigail George

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!


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.

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