Poetry - Lynn White

  I Can't Help But Wonder I thought I’d been dreaming but now, though the mists are down swamping everywhere   in a gloomy miasma, I appear awake. It seems it was no dream and I’d been walking, sleep-walking, passing the effigies of my past times. Me   as a child growing up growing older and older. Me in my lost time. And now,   awake or asleep I’m disoriented sleepwalking into uncertainty living the dream as the future closes in like a structure of mutating cells. And the full moon approaches. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_uncertainty.html

  https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0GX32VNT4?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KF https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0GX32VNT4?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&bestFormat=true

  Shrouded They’re following me, like black vultures circling. It’s still just October not yet Halloween but they’re shrouded in winter’s mist  almost as dark as the shrouds they wear to cover themselves, to cloak themselves for their journey. Shrouds like dusty abayas once black, now uniformly grey, shapeless, bloodless, formless, lifeless grey. Only their mouths still red like vultures feasting on death mouths stained by this final feast. The feast of what was left of the harvest. And now there will be nothing, nothing any more. Nothing. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/05/five-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  From the Clouds I’ve seen a dragon in the clouds, a humming bird and a tea table set for tea. Some say they’ve seen angels,  or fairy kings and queens. They have all stayed a while, those shapes in the clouds but none have left and none have returned until now. The angel who left earlier is now returning and she’s not alone.  She’s dragging them with her, all those who were hiding in the cornfield. They don’t want to go. They hang on to each other,  limbs contorting. But go they must. She has no mercy. Their corn spills out as she looks back one last time. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/05/five-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Lost in the Wheat-Field She was lost, lost in the wheat-field following the tractor tracks to nowhere. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/05/five-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Crop-Marked Only look down and Medieval England lies there still. The old strips,  the common land not yet enclosed the common people not yet expelled. Then there are the newer parts. The squares of enclosed fields divisive hedges the common people expelled unseen buried  in time. All the crop-marks of history lying there exposed even when invisible. But those circles are revelations unexplained by history. It’s unclear now if they are new or old modern mystery making  or ancient spirit visitations, fortifications, tombs, or another mystery still the crop-marks can’t tell us. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/05/five-poems-by-lynn-white.html