Poetry - Lynn White

  Whispers In The Wind I sit here waiting for.. I don’t know  what I’m waiting for but it’s peaceful here amongst the trees letting the wind whisper  through me. https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2026/05/13/weather-and-time-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  Ill Wind Blow it away, the ill wind. Don’t let it in. Blow it away, then close up the gaps. But then.. what about the gentle breeze? That should have space to enter. And will we know which one is blowing when we feel the first touch. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Blow it away, the ill wind. Don’t let it in. But if there’s a sweet breath within it that should have space to enter and there’s only one way in. for both. https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2026/05/13/weather-and-time-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  Times Passed As each day ends I tick it off on my calendar. Finished! Done! Gone! Lost! But some will remain intact to be pictured  sometimes even heard almost re-lived as my memories. If only  I could choose  the ones to remember, open a window and look through, revisit those days and throw away the rest. Watch them leave forgotten, lost, gone really gone! But I can ’ t. They’re self selecting, those memories of passed days ebbing and flowing outside my control. https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2026/05/13/weather-and-time-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  Blowing In The Wind It was a windy day in a windy city a long time ago. A sudden flurry made me into the vortex and I was surrounded by sheets of paper caught up and blown from a doorway. When it had settled,  I collected a few. They were letters applying for jobs dated about fifty years ago, I forget exactly when. All were hand written  in the most beautiful cursive scripts. I could visualise the care with which nibs had been dipped in ink, the concentration in the touch of pen to paper. These were the stuff of unknown dreams. The names are long forgotten now but I wonder what became of them, those ghosts of a past who touched my life in a flurry of wind only to be blown away. https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2026/05/13/weather-and-time-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  The Weather God The god of Welsh weather  doesn’t speak Welsh. She’s tried.  She’s really tried. She’s wept tears of frustration. She’s wept tears  of anger. She’s wept tears  of sadness, tears cascading like rivers from the mountains  to the sea. It’s the vowels she finds hard. And the consonants. And the mutations. And the way it changes  over such a short distance so there’s hardly time for her  to blow a tiny puff of wind  and make a small cloud, but not enough to make it rise above the mountains so it hangs low still in a sad, sullen mist matching her mood. And now it’s raining again the Weather god  is trying to speak Welsh. https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2026/05/13/weather-and-time-poetry-by-lynn-white/

  On The Death Of A Slug It slid carefully   from under the plant and slowly down the pot like a body sliding out of bed in early morning uncertain of the way to the bathroom in a haze of sleep. It didn’t like the carpet and made uneven progress across its pile. The cat looked at it uncertainly stretched out a paw then withdrew it in doubt as the slug waved its horns this way and then that uncertain too now, thirsty and dry in too deep drowning in wool and dry so dry shrivelling up out of its depth leaving   only its trail of shining   silver behind. https://masticadorestaiwan.wordpress.com/2026/05/14/on-the-death-of-a-slug-by-lynn-white/