Poetry - Lynn White

  Ann Glover It was a long way from the green fields and boggy moss to the tropical heat of Barbados where the ship took them, those Irish peasants, as seeped in idolatry as their homeland was in rain, or that’s what the masters said   so far as she understood their language   as harsh and severe   as the god they worshipped. And it was a long way from the tropical heat of Barbados to the master’s house in Salem   the last port of call for some of those Irish peasants, those who survived so far, still enslaved but called ‘indentured’ now. She always believed it was her tongue that killed her, not its sharpness, Irish was a gentle language, after all and she never learned theirs so their questions could not be understood or answered.   And what answers could she give in any language? What language could tell them who was godly and who was devilish, who was a witch and who was a saint. Only power could speak and the Irish had none. Only power can speak and sl...

  Time To Tell Mr and Mrs Hill lived next door,   Violet and Jack. My mother would send me round with messages and as a child, it was always Violet who opened the door. But as I grew older, it was always Jack who opened the door. He would engulf me in a tight hug and force hard kisses on my mouth. I tried to find excuses not to go there, but my mother didn’t understand and I couldn’t tell, not then. I knew no one would believe, that it would be my name blighted for such deviance, for telling such lies about such a nice, kindly and quiet man, a grandfather figure whose name would stay pure. Years later as my wedding day drew near and invitations were being sent out, Violet told the neighbourhood that ‘grandad’ was the first to be invited. But he was not invited. Even though his granddaughters were bridesmaids. Even though his son was the Photographer. Even though his daughter drove me to the church in her bedecked Morris Minor. He was not invited. And now it’s time to tell all ...

  Chaos Theory On this canvas of my life it looks as though butterflies were flapping   their wings and flitting about at every opportunity making trouble having fun and shaking things up a bit. I struggle to discern underlying patterns. It’s regularities and irregularities were left to the butterflies and their flitting and flapping. In the end they flapped the clouds away. So tomorrow I shall paint a new canvas. On this canvas, I am the butterfly. I can make the patterns, the order or disorder. Others may   make of it what they will. https://inkpantry.com/poetry-drawer-clear-water-chaos-theory-cycle-by-lynn-white/

  Clear Water I’m standing here contemplating the cool clear water. The splash from the pebble lasted only a second and the ripples cleared so quickly. I had thought  your ripples  would last  forever but nothing can last forever and only the clear water will follow me. In my solitude I’ll leave no trace at all. https://inkpantry.com/poetry-drawer-clear-water-chaos-theory-cycle-by-lynn-white/