Poetry - Lynn White

  Morris Minors This is a tale of three Morris Minors, once upon a time. Liz had an old green Morris Minor. It knew the road between Liverpool and Derbyshire  intimately and she was generous with her lifts until the day the breaks failed completely. We had just passed the Cat And Fiddle, right on the tops   with the long steep decent ahead. Liz was a good driver. My Morris Minor was black with stripes of rust in its wheel arches and no floor at the back. Back seat passengers came away  with wet feet. Even the patching with beer cans  made little difference. It failed the test. Alan had a white Morris Minor with a perfect body, breaks and floor, but the gear box was shattered. The gears didn’t work. Still no one could steal it. The three of us put our heads together and came up with a solution. We would put the best bits together to make one car which we would share. Liz and Alan were cool mechanics and I made good coffee to keep them going. We were pleased with ...

Victory No matter how hard they think it would be to get that kind of blood off their hands and clothes, they know that they should try.  But the killing has been so tiring they just want to sleep now and then it should be time to stand tall and proud ready to return victorious again.

  Tired of Waiting From Langston Hughes to Ray Davies,   from the political to the personal and back again, back and forth, back and forth. From Kissinger to the newbie pretenders standing in line moving back and forth, back and forth. From Oslo to The Hague back and forth,   back and forth. We are so tired, so very tired, but all we can do is wait to see where we shall find them.

  I’m Tired I’m tired of trying to see the good in people. I’m tired of making decisions about good and bad. I’m tired of endless discussions in armchairs judging and justifying what is good or bad. I’m tired of procrastination, of enquiries and commissions designed to delay until death or forgetfulness. Tired of time servers, jobs worths, pocket liners. Tired of them all. So where shall I go now?

  Promises Promises History has imagined so many utopias, all those promises, so many promises, all re-imagined again for the utopia of Israel by the early Kibbutz movement. Simplicity and co-operation   all in one harmonious state. They believed they could achieve it, believed they could set an example for the whole world to follow. But look where it has taken them. They believed such monsters were defeated, starved, dead, buried with stakes through their hearts, but they were sleeping amongst them and being fattened by them ready   to rise   in power again. Only the promises are resting in peace starved burned buried in rubble with stakes through their hearts. https://www.orenaugmountainpoetry.net/2026/07/promises-promises.html

  One Day One day I’ll see through the mist. One day I’ll find you again and uncover what I let slip away and become lost in the fog and the forest. One day I’ll stop searching and greet the mist with a smile and watch it fade away   before it envelops me. One day I’ll greet the sun again as the mist clears one day at a time. https://inalove.world/2026/07/23/one-day/