Four Wonderful Poems by Lynn White

 

Scorpio’s Secret

 

I’ve kept our secret a long time, 

the mystery of our passion

and, ever resourceful, 

I stored it

deep in the watery underworld.

But now I’ve forgotten 

where 

I buried it

and my crabby comrades are long gone.

Their hard shells tell me nothing,

perhaps they never did,

but it was guarded by Pluto

to make sure it was safe.

We had a deal then,

back in the days 

when I thought him reliable

now I’m not sure

if I can trust him.

Perhaps he’s already dug it up

I won’t know till I find him,

if I can find him,

and when I do 

it’s resting place

will remain

my secret.

I’ve already lost our passion,

it’s buried forever.

And now

I shall become a hermit,

give up my hard shell

keep myself secret,

I need no one else.

 

 

Such A Wonder

 

They’re such a wonder!

They never eat their fellow creatures,

or trample them under hoof.

They don’t require the speedy dispatch

of rain forest acres

to meet their culinary needs.

Those in my garden don’t eat the plants

and happily allow me to garland them

with flowers fresh each morning

and allow the myriad of insects 

to alight and feed on them

without so much as a flick of the tail

or a toss of the head.

Such a wonder.

They’ll come for a walk with no need

for lead

or muzzle

as they don’t chase the sheep

or greet passers by with a growl

or take a hefty bite from an ankle 

or calf,

or shit on the street or path.

Truly a wonder

these unicorns.

 

And they’ll inhabit your dreams with smiles.

 

 

Aliens

 

They emerged from the eggs 

of our snow white Silkies.

Every one a cockerel when grown,

we decided to have one for dinner.

The skin was blue, under the white plumage,

which was quite a shock,

a little alien,

but cooked, it was fine. Normal.

And the flesh was white,

But when carved, the bones were blue.

Disconcerting.

A little alien.

 

And now these red feathered birds

have appeared as if from nowhere,

their eggs pink. 

When they hatched and grew,

all were hens,

their clutches carefully hidden,

each batch of chicks larger than the last.

A little strange,

a little alien.

And then, at last, there were cockerels,

too many and too large. 

We decided to have one for dinner.

The skin was pink under the red plumage

which was quite a shock.

A little alien.

But cooked it was fine. Normal.

And the flesh was white.

But when carved the bones were pink,

Disconcerting,

more than a little alien.

 

There are more of them now,

growing ever larger.

I think that soon

the dinner tables will be turned

and they’ll make a meal of us.

 

 

 

Rookery

 

Soon the light will be fading

and the rooks are circling

in a cawing cacophony 

of confusion

trying to understand the changes 

to their once familiar roost,

searching in vain for the water

which would explain 

the duplicity of their treetop canopy

now a mirror-less reflection.

 

They’re searching

for something, 

anything

to give them a bearing,

to show them whether 

to fly up or down

which way is up

or down

in this rookery of dreams,

rootless as a dream.

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, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/