Poetry - Lynn White

  Playthings It’s the need to possess that baffles me, the need to own   objects of no decorative or use value, objects destined to become   encumbrances sooner or later, passive playthings out of their time moved on into a time when even the box, it’s wrapping and ribbons fails to excite creativity. Playthings   destined to become   encumbrances sooner or later. Ever sooner as time moves on. https://latinosenglishedition.blog/2026/03/23/playthings-by-lynn-white-2/

  Red Fox He struts across alleys as if he owns them tail held high, white tip gleaming   in the moonlight. He doesn’t like wheelie bins, but sometimes just sometimes they’re over filled and he can lift the lid and feast on the leftovers of another’s life. He easily scales the wall at number 27, The man there leaves him chicken with lots of the crunchy bits that his vixen loves.   He likes this man. He speaks to him sometimes and says he’s writing a poem that will make him a famous fox. His vixen will like that as well. He gives a special swish of his tail as he struts his stuff across those alleys. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GTFH4DT9?content_source=fb&fb_content_id=Q9-wBQH79gpb9SdjqqP1QMuMWb52Wvz84_s5lOT17YkMQRy26heKy0_hvB4hxR1uIg&channel_type=fb&fbclid=IwY2xjawQt5jRleHRuA2FlbQIxMABzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeDMJrUaVrJF3N7BSmK0UanOw4JdhEM5GWvkDvFV8VO352ZXMiDL18W_qpnKo_aem_6_V7Qh20ty0I6GTa9-iByA

  Rabbit A rabbit ran out from the rocks and looked up.   Bright eyes caught in the glare of my headlights. I swerved and braked. Probably should have done one or the other. Should have made a choice. There's hindsight for you. Did I hit it?   Don't know. But was only a rabbit, a little furry thing with big ears. Insignificant. I drove on. Poor little furry thing. It might be lying there stunned. The next car up would run over it. Finish it off. OK, not much traffic going up here   at two o'clock in the morning. But something has to be next and before too long. Should I turn round and check… No, it's only a rabbit, drive on. But perhaps it was a mother rabbit. All the baby rabbits would be   waiting for her return,   whimpering, crying, not knowing yet that they were going to starve   to death. And it was my fault, my responsibly, the death of all those baby rabbits. Where's safe to turn? I know!   The garage. There it is.   Sheesh.. That did...

  Dodging The Draft Let’s hear it for the Draft Dodgers, the Conchis, Refuseniks, Peaceniks and naysaying Evaders. Salute them. Applaud them. Sing their praises. Hymns of Praise, peans for their pain and for our peace. Sing   from Flanders to Vietnam, Ukraine, Israel,   Russia,   The Rest. Sing loud. Sing clear. All together now, let them hear. Sing loud. Sing clear. All together now, make Them hear. https://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/3284018