Poetry - Lynn White

  Me And Mr Monroe You wonder where next. Gaza, or Greenland, just follow the gas, so some say. But Monroe and me say Mexico. Don-roe and they say Mexico. Gaza and Greenland are just chips in the deal. You can bet your bottom dollar, it’s Mexico, say Monroe and me. And then it’s the time of Don-roe and they All doors open, north and south. Canada, Columbia, Cuba, Greenland… and then we can only wait and see. https://www.unlikelystories.org/content/me-and-mr-monroe-and-democracy

 When Black Became Beautiful When black became beautiful Braithwaite powered the way. His panthers on catwalks pictured modeling a movement  in clothes in hair in skin. Black became beautiful in images by Kwame models of Grandassa ideas of Garvey. Art fashioned  politics. Politics fashioned music, fashionable music soulful music music of movement protest, blues, jazz then reggae and rap keeping black intact keeping black beautiful. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Vh6OQAJHDINmbpPWr2Xh_SicJR_QU58h/view

  We had a theory back then - drivers were more likely to pick up hitchhikers   carrying a small suitcase than a bulky rucksack. It worked like a dream, a cardboard case of dreams that we carried inside and out. We revelled in the excitement of it. Usually we were directonless, always without maps or money, using our meagre annual leave, unpaid leave and time between jobs. We travelled for the sake of it, for the love of different languages, cultures, the wonderful people encountered on the way, and even to even a country that no longer exists, destroyed as it was by war and its aftermath. Yesterday   I came across it again, my old suitcase buried in a heap of debris in my attic. It was battered from its long travels and even longer vacation. Its cardboard was torn and frayed as a dream waiting   to be carried away. Memories buried   in the debris of the past now   recovered unwrapped like a present in the present. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_trave...

  Chosen They were the master race chosen by genes pure.   They chose who should die by burning by bombing   by starving by any means necessary. They chose those who were different   genetically politically. They chose the naysayers those who didn’t make the grade those who didn’t pass the test they chose. They were the master race chosen to be masters of all the captured people the captured territories masters of all. They were the chosen people chosen by genes pure.   They chose who should die by burning by bombing   by starving by any means necessary. They chose those who were different   genetically politically. They chose the naysayers those who didn’t make the grade those who didn’t pass the test they chose. They were the chosen people chosen to be masters of all the captured people the captured territories masters of all. Time after time might defines right in the selection process. Time after time there’s a selection process where only the mast...

  The River I look into the river and see myself in reflection. Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in its flow, moved but not moving on like the fishes and pebbles I’m disturbed and abstracted. I look into two worlds which are intermingling, my own distorted image fades and breaks with the images behind and beyond me in the background of my life. This river is a metaphor for my own confusion. I feel in danger of being broken up and washed away, I’m unable to bring myself together undecided, undefined. Such sweet, watery sounds, cooly relaxing my spirit and shutting out the incoherent babbling outside. But still, even as I put my hands over my broken ears, I know it will find a way inside and overwhelm me, in any case. https://writingcafejournal.com/poem.php?slug=the-river

    The Funeral of Bosco Jones Over twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life. His children, (long departed from their roots), returned. “Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything. We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers. A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life. They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear And join in the proceedings. There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity. The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying. She started to look around her and take in the proceedings. She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed. Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist, “I’m having none of this!” she cried, “My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!” Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again. The vicar, a dedicated pro...