Poetry - Lynn White

Caged It’s pleasant enough  wandering these pathways flanked by the tall rectangular cages,  each protected by a steel door with a security code. Even pleasanter later,  when the cages become  walled enclosures of decorative brick,  surrounding green spaces. Intricate metal gates protect them with a security code. Occasionally a creature may emerge, sometimes with barred teeth and raised claws. But mostly looking sad  and out of condition. Lost inside themselves. Poor things. Lost souls searching. Mostly though, I encounter them outside. Moving purposefully to a destination, not free to take random pathways, like me. Or desperately heading back to their cages, hoping there is no diversion  which may leave them lost. Leave them to encounter the terror of the unforeseen circumstances  that might arise from freedom. Freedom  to be lost. Poor things. Lost souls in or out  of their zoo. http://ww

How Will I Know You How will I know you, the man behind the mask. I can recognise you with the mask in place. And sometimes it may slip and reveal .... another layer, another mask, perhaps masquerading as an unguarded comment wearing stage clothes, even if naked. You are in there somewhere. But even though I peel off layer after layer, uncover mystery after mystery I still never find you. First Published in Firewords Quarterly, Issue 6, 2016 http://firewords.co.uk/shop/digital/issue6

                            Through the Glass Alice saw herself in her looking glass and walked through into a topsy turvy world where everything was back to front and inside out. She drifted into a dreamscape of madness and unreality,  without breaking the glass. Uncut by the shards of her mirror  or the place she entered into. She had only to wake to make  things the right way round again. But walking through a clear glass, a transparent window, it would have been different. Her reflection would float  towards a place where everything  seemed the right way round. Where everything made sense and added up sweet with reason. A place without madness, which looked easy to enter and had no sharp edges. Apparently. But this glass forms an invisible barrier to the other side and the life that seduces and entices her. And to get through she has to break the glass, whose sharp edges cut her and propel her crazily into a place

VEILED Lynn White I wear my hair like a veil covering all. Covering all that is not already covered and needs to be, they insist. But it is not enough. I can still see  when it parts and still be seen. I can still move freely. It is not enough, they insist. I need the mask of the broad, blue blindfold to tether me, they insist. And I wonder, will this be enough? 98 http://visualverse.org/ First published in Visual Verse, July 2016

Miss Pass My first best friend was Susan. We were inseparable. Soon we would be starting school. Starting at the same school. It shouldn't be a problem. But Susan was three months older and this was a problem. She must start earlier and we would be parted. Unthinkable!! Such concern from our parents. But all was well. It wouldn't be a problem. And all thanks to Miss Pass, the headmistress, a wonderful woman who understood the feelings  of small children. We could start together and in the same class. She was a shining example  to teachers everywhere. We knew it as we hung our coats on pegs next to each other in the cloakroom. But a few days later  when we had settled in, disaster struck. We were to be in different classes. Such tears and trauma as we hugged and kissed and said goodbye at our pegs in the cloakroom each morning and afternoon. And all because of Miss Pass, the headmistress, a stupid woman who had no idea about the feelings

Every Breath It's interesting to consider that every breath I take has already been breathed by someone else, another person or creature. Been part of their breath. Perhaps that dog over there,  smelly and hairy,  licking it's own arse. I would prefer not to have  molecules of oxygen from it's breath entering my blood stream,  giving me life. But there's nothing I can do about it. Have to take what comes. Breath the air that's there wherever it's been before. Rebellion is not an option. https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

Sweet Heart He’d seen it glint earlier when a shaft of light hit the open box. He kept watch till they left. Back now, still watchful. Turn his head this way, then that.  No cats. No humans. Upturned the box  and seized his prize glinting gold among the dull browns and creams. Carried it off. Then carried it home, a home now fit for his new lover, his sweet heart. But he didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t discover the greater prize lying under the surface glitter. Didn’t find the jewel  of sweetness in the centre. Soon life dulled the surface glitter, screwed it up. And  the sweet heart  melted in the warmth, Melted into sticky goo. Melted away as sweet hearts do. First published in Harbinger Asylum, Literary Review, October, 2015 https://treehousearts.me/

Excuse Me The bus didn’t come. The dog ate the cat. The bath overflowed. The egg exploded in the pan. It’s too hot to go out, or too cold. I’ve a pain in my head, or my arse, or my nose. Excuses. Excuses. Please, no more excuses. You don’t like your work, or your spouse, or your life. But no more excuses, please no more excuses. You can change all or some. refocus what’s left. But, no more excuses. Please no more excuses, excuses. excuses. https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

Wild Fruit I like the wild berries best. Juice spilling over. Bursting, staining my tongue purple or my lips red. Each one a new sensation. A little harder to come by, than the bland clones, the cultivars. A bit more of a struggle. And, it must be said, not always sweet. One never knows with these wild fruits. With each taste comes a surprise. Spit out the sour, take in the sweet. Such joy! Oh yes! the wild berries are the best. http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/wild-fruit-by-lynn-white-wales.html

      Soundtrack The music of my youth still sings to me. Inside my head it still plays Dylan and Baez as part of our song, our time, our places.  Subversive music, coming from the streets. Out of tune with the surround sound monotone. Undermining it with a discordant challenge. Harmony and discord,  the songs of peace and love sitting side by side with war and revolution. Then as now they still speak to us,  still sing in tune The lyrical passion of the words,  the movement music of  the songs,  has crossed our time and space. Melodies of movement  which still can break our boundaries and join us back together. Moving rhythms which still excite and words which dance for us. These moving patterns on a page, have make different music now,   wrapped in our emotions and melodies which have few boundaries  and are timeless and placeless  when in tune with changing times, which for us, can be any time at all. https://www.amaz

Sunshine and Shadows There are black clouds lingering over me. Casting shadows. Even though there’s a big red sun above  shinning down on me. Warming my face. Caressing me. reminding me of other sunshine days when the rays beamed more sweetly. The clouds make today too close, too hot, yesterday too far away. And the rays are stabbing me sharply. Hurting me. No longer warm and sweet but hot and sour.  Piercing me.  Cutting me like icy splinters. Because there’s cold there as well, coming from somewhere. This sun is too bright for me to see clearly, too red and swollen, like my eyes feel now. Heavy. Black with shadows. So I’m waiting for the rain to fall. Fall away. Drop by drop until they’re empty and cold. And I’m waiting for more cold days to come. And I’m waiting for the empty clouds to pass  and the sun to shine again and warm me if it can. https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

In The End In the end  I’ll be like you. Dust with flakes of skin and bone wrapped in long hair. Teeth chattering With no voice. No sense of taste or smell. No reason. In the end we'll be invisible, impenetrable, anonymous, figments. But then, we always were you and I, we always were. http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/

The Breathing Days In the days when I still breathed, the days before  living took my breath away, the days before  I knew my soul was there. I thought about this time, this time of no light, the forever night time with no breath, no air  to breathe. Just dust and darkness. And I pondered. Would there be slow decay  or fast. Stillness or movement. Now I know. I know everything about the dust and darkness. But I can't tell you. Not now in these days  of no breath,  no air to speak. Only my soul can speak. Can you hear me? First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, July 2016 https://issuu.com/fragmentsofchiaroscuro/docs/fragments03_v07

English Language Times change and language changes with them. Lost now is the singularity of the second person, recognisably archaic and unmourned in our time, but controversial and contested as it declined. Many heads were shaken at this innovation in communication. Words change in meaning, and in emphasis so extreme obscenities become modest curses, part of everyday speech and then positive adjectives as time passes. Sentences can now begin with ‘and’ and ‘but’ and no longer need to have a verb inside them. So, new devices for emphasis and meaning form as language and literature renews themselves, clearly legible. Commas can come before ‘and’ and confusing apostrophes are dying out. Colons and semi-colons are under threat. They have lost their way with new generations. The dustbin of history is open for them to enter. There they will join the ‘thous’, ‘alacks’ and ‘gazooks’ of our past, to be only remembered by scholars. But relax, chill, German has already lost it’s futur

Michel Traveling through northern France with Michel driving. The Beatles singing on the radio, “Michelle, my belle”. A sky of uniform grey, dark, dark grey. And then, a surprise rainbow. And then, to one side, a helicopter  outlined black. Mosquito like. Black. And then, I bottled it. I can still remember. First published by Silver Birch Press, Perfect Vacation Series, August 2015 http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

Beauty Parlour Step inside my parlour, my pampering parlour.  You will be remade, reborn, stroked and smoothed, petted and prodded, cosseted and curled, given the attention you deserve as well as a new face and shiny new hair. In Pampers Parlour we’ll recreate you. We’ll reboot your confidence and give you a new chemistry as we gloss your hair and lips. As we shape your face with new shadows and glows. As we apply layer upon layer of chemical shit topped by nose retching fragrances. You won’t know yourself when  you step outside  dolled up to perfection, protected in your new mask. And what then? Will you go home  and comb it all out and wash it all off, preferring,  after all,  the person, with the old skin and fresh air colour to the new robotic doll. The pampers product is  designed to be disposable,  after all. Or will you keep it  as long as you can.. Try not to move your new face. Try not to up

Beached He’s standing on the beach with a small suitcase. Not sure if he’s coming or going, if it’s an arrival or departure. It’s unclear. It’s unclear if the suitcase is full  or if it’s empty. Once he packed it full of his dreams, but now it’s unclear if any remain. If any remain caught in the lining, perhaps. Or if all have been carried away and are gone forever on a storm tide, or washed up and buried in the sand. It’s unclear. All that is clear is the emptiness  of a long horizon. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

                 Harmony We began so well, so in tune, catching the notes dropped by angels and playing with them before they fell, creating a perfect harmony. But then, we started to miss a few notes which fell, crashing into our rhythms, disrupting the flow of our music,  upsetting our harmony. Just a few at first,  but they violated our space, causing us to miss our step and almost fall ourselves. Then, bar after bar came tumbling down. Cascades of discords raining down between us. No longer dropped by angels.  Surely not? Now we are finished and falling tunelessly. Lost. Loudly separated by discords. Floundering in the storm. Our past melodies out of reach, devoid of  harmony. https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Hall/dp/0692739750/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1467208784&sr=8-2&keywords=Creative+Talents+Unleashed

       Soundtrack The music of my youth still sings to me. Inside my head it still plays Dylan and Baez as part of our song, our time, our places.  Subversive music, coming from the streets. Out of tune with the surround sound monotone. Undermining it with a discordant challenge. Harmony and discord,  the songs of peace and love sitting side by side with war and revolution. Then as now they still speak to us,  still sing in tune The lyrical passion of the words,  the movement music of  the songs,  has crossed our time and space. Melodies of movement  which still can break our boundaries and join us back together. Moving rhythms which still excite and words which dance for us. These moving patterns on a page, have make different music now,   wrapped in our emotions and melodies which have few boundaries  and are timeless and placeless  when in tune with changing times, which for us, can be any time at all. First publi

        Don’t Go When I’m with you I feel I am whole. Captured and completed. Engulfed by you. When you kiss me all my fears disappear in the kiss. Where do they go? I don’t know. Do you wrap them round your tongue and swallow them whole? I don’t know. I only know the comfort I feel, such peace. So don’t go. Don’t go. Please, don’t go. http://montykessler.wix.com/http#!love-poems/c184j