On The Beach
I’ve seen the towers many times
pebbles piled up high
all shapes and sizes
finely balanced
temporarily
against the incoming tide.
I’ve admired them
I thought them surreal,
a little out of place.
But I’ve become used to them,
they’ve become an ubiquitous part
of a normal beach scene
no more hyper-real
than the chocolate box images
of thatch and English cottage gardens.
Only the face or artifice
of Art.
Tomorrow Never Comes
The orcas decreed
that the dolphin’s wedding
should be delayed by a day.
Delayed till tomorrow,
if tomorrow ever came.
This would give more time, they said,
to decorate the wedding gowns,
to weave more shells into the kelp,
the tiniest of muscle shells for him
in every shade of blue,
sweet pink cockle shells for her,
sometimes veering towards red
as if warning of danger.
The music was to be rock ‘n’ roll,
played by the Killers, of course
on improvised pianos.
The octopus was responsible for
the wedding breakfast.
He had enlisted the help of every friend
to enlarge and beautify his garden.
To transport rocks with anemones attached
and bring a multitude of coloured pebbles and shells
to enclose the fishy titbits collected specially for the feast.
But in spite of their reassurances,
still he worried about the guest list.
So many orcas and dolphins
who did not have a good reputation
so far as the octopuses were concerned.
But the garden was beautiful
and surely it was a fact
that tomorrow never came.
He had always believed it.
Now time would tell.
First published in Oddball Magazine, June 2017
Fish
They called me ‘Fish’
which I thought somewhat unoriginal,
but they were kind and fed me my favourite foods
of prawns and chocolate
and I opened my mouth and wiggled my fins
to show my appreciation.
Sometimes plastic bits had blown into my pond.
I’d tested them for food worthiness
and spat them straight out,
so tasteless and with a tough unpleasant texture.
I’d rather eat raspberries,
well, perhaps not raspberries,
but fish food,
yes, I’d rather eat fish food.
But I wouldn’t let my human friends know
that this was an option.
I was still concerned about Brexit
and wanted to make sure that
their stockpile of chocolate biscuits
was adequate to see me through.
When they give me a luscious big piece
I always give them a big wet kiss in return.
They seemed to like it
and really it’s no trouble,
they are so sweet.
There are other issues that cause me concern.
The frog they call Croaker told me
that numbers of dolphins
had washed up dead
with pieces of plastic in their bellies,
and not the ubiquitous micro
but chunks,
big chunks.
I knew that dolphins were mammals
and that mammals were said to be
the most intelligent of sea creatures,
yet they ate plastic!
It gave me food for thought.
Croaker says salt water causes brain death
and he seems to know most things about life and death.
They’d told me that I was very old
and that the oldest goldfish
had lived for forty four years.
I didn’t think I was quite there yet,
but one thing I knew for sure -
when I did sink into
the big pond in the sky,
no post-mortem would reveal
plastic pieces in my belly.
Or raspberries.
First published in Poets Online, Dramatic Monologue issue, June 2024
Crossing The Line
As the ship drew closer to the line of the equator
the sea king began to lick his lips in anticipation
of the celebration which would mark the occasion
and of the fat fresh tadpoles
which Big O and his waiters
would serve when he returned from the ceremony.
Of course,
tadpoles that could swim in the ocean were unknown,
but Big O knew that the frogs on board
would have given birth long before the line was crossed.
Tadpoles were the king’s favourite party food
and he had already a collection of shells to serve them in.
He had been training the waiters for some time.
He always did when they heard
that a ship was approaching the line.
His octopuses were in great demand.
With eight arms they were the king’s waiters of choice
and he had more standing by ready to become wine waiters.
They would serve the rum that would be gifted
when the king went on board
and roared
and waved his sceptre around a bit
and struck the deck with three loud raps
to signal his judgement on which tadpoles
should become food for his homecoming party
and which he could call his sons and trust
to raise frogs to supply his future treats.
The octopuses waited wondering how hard they must work
before the king and his retinue were sated and sleepy
from fat tadpoles
and watery rum.
It would all depend on the bargain struck on board,
tadpoles for now or more tadpoles for later,
rum for the king, or more rum for the waiters.
Big O always tried to assess the king’s mood before
he made his judgement.
It would be a clue as to how many shells would be needed
after the ceremony.
Small shells were easy for the waiters to collect,
but the large ones to hide the rum for later
were hard work and needed several arms
to fill them and stash them in the sand out of sight
for when the king and his followers slept.
As usual the sleeping king dreamt
of octopuses dancing drunkenly
on his table
and was that Big O wearing his crown?
He woke, combed the weed from his hair,
retrieved his crown from under the table and pondered.
Did he really see it on the head of Big O in his dream?
Recurring dreams were such a strange thing, he mused.
Then, puzzled he surveyed the broken shells
on the table.
He wondered how they came to be broken.
Had his dream come true?
He straightened his crown
and looked for his sceptre
to bang on the ground.
He really must speak with Big O.
Somehow, he thought,
a line had been crossed.
First published in Terror House Magazine, April 12 2022
Entertainment
As usual,
it was one tank that drew the crowd
down in the museum’s aquarium.
It was not the tank with pike
gawping threateningly,
their teeth barred
in anticipation
and hope
of attracting an audience.
No,
though there was a monstrous pike in it,
swimming with it’s mouth wide open.
But it’s mouth was open wide
in wonder,
in wonder at it’s strange environment.
Well,
it’s not often that a pike gets to swim
in a drawing room
furnished from times past.
It’s eyes bulged
with the strangeness of it all.
But
it was a crowd puller,
though still not enough
to satisfy such an audience,
the pike reflected,
as it considered the strangeness
of it’s very un-fishlike companion,
the young girl costume dressed
to match the drawing room,
standing there dreamlike
or maybe drugged,
steadying herself
with the chair.
Perhaps earlier she was seated,
when the water was lower.
but now she has to stand.
The water is already
up to her waist
and rising slowly.
The audience gets larger,
their eyes bulging fishlike
as they gawp at the spectacle.
They call it entertainment.
So it goes.
First published in Oddball, October 2018
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 has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review, Blue Pepper, Arachne Press and So It Goes.
https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
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