Washed Up So many dead people caught in the crossfire created by the the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. They lie dead where they fell. Flesh and blood transformed to fertiliser to nurture the seeds and grow the crops, in a future they will not see. Their bones decaying to dust to form the building blocks of homes they will never inhabit. Dying where they fell, over there, not here and not looking like us. Unseen or soon forgotten by us here. But the dead washed up on holiday beaches look like our flesh and blood. They’re wearing our clothes. They’re washing up to haunt us in the Old World. Then there’s the living, washed up alive and by any means necessary moving on to bear witness, if any one is listening. To bring the horror home to those who created it in the Old World. Bringing it home to the Old World, soon to the New. https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2024/03/19/washed-up-by-lynn-white/
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To Rest In Peace They were men of the north suitably suited in black dense as new hewed coal or dark grey shiny as wet slate or, rarely, the midnight blue of a northern night sky. It was a formal occasion this laying to rest of the dull grey past known, of the bright red future hoped for. They laid them to rest with broken flowers petals crushed with ashes and dust. It was a formal occasion this laying to rest in peace or not. https://edgeofhumanity.com/2024/03/17/to-rest-in-peace/
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We The Unhinged We the unhinged, we with the screws loose, we the weird and wild walkers wending our ways without mending them, walking carefully, choosing our paths, rough and smooth, but mostly rough, so we watch out for hazards, we the watchers, the uncomfortably numb watchers in a mad world we want only to change. https://hereticsloversmadmen.com/2024/03/15/we-the-unhinged-lynn-white/
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Day 467 of the daily new poems. Our poet Lynn White despairs over the passing of the nightingale. Predated. Gone. “Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?” quoth Mr K … To The Passing Of The Nightingale Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they? Well, Mr K, they are harder to find than they were in your day. Gone with the nightingale, Gone with the meadows, the hedgerows, the woods, The habitats lost, destroyed. Destroyed like the food that people call pests. Predated. Predated by farmers, one way or another, the countryside’s guardians, that’s what they say. The spring singing has ended, almost over and done. Aye, you might well ask, Mr K The singing is not as it was in your day. https://poetrywivenhoe.org/todays-poem/
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Pie In The Sky Souls would be saved, and little girls re-born as angels, that’s what they taught her in Sunday School when they’d sung ‘In The Sweet Bye and Bye’. She loved the tune, the melody and sang a snatch to her father. “That’s pie in the sky,” her father laughed. He sang the same tune to her but with different words. “Joe Hill wrote these” her father said and she liked those words better she was a child of life after all and didn’t want to wait for death to eat her pie. So she learned them all and sang them on the next Sunday. That was the last time she went to Sunday School. She was a bad influence, they had said. Her father laughed when she told him. She sighed and looked up at the sky. She knew there was no pie there, only on earth for the lucky ones. https://piesighs.blogspot.com/2024/03/lynn-white.html Reply Forward Add reaction
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Priorities She pursed her lips and struck a pose. “Look at them,” she thought, “one black, one white but under the skin they’re the same. Colourless. Empty. No substance.” Each of them looked towards her more in hope than expectation perhaps. She sighed as she shrugged her shoulders. “Spare my blushes, please,” she said as she went back inside the bar and bought herself a drink and a piece of pie. https://piesighs.blogspot.com/2024/03/lynn-white.html
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Lest We Forget We think you can see us, you know who we are behind our masks Not everything is hidden. We are not hidden. We are out in the open in plain sight even if masked. So join us for a pie, a glass of wine, a coffee. Enjoy! Take a sip with us lest we forget what to do when we go outside. Step back in time one taste at a time, one sip at a time. Remember the first time is always challenging and won’t ever be forgotten. Remember! As we will remember the ones behind the masks and the ones in hiding, the ones we know are there but cannot see. We know who you are. No one is forgotten. Nothing is forgotten. That’s our promise one sip at a time. https://piesighs.blogspot.com/2024/03/lynn-white.html