Poetry - Lynn White

  Gone Fishing The fish were there gathered at the shoreline almost asking to be caught. But that was then. They’re all gone now the birds search in vain standing statuesque now   but soon they’ll join them replaced by plastic replicas. https://dsmag.in/2026/09/27/lynn-whites-two-more-poems-4/

‘Ey You I still miss his greeting, “Ey you, yer Commie bastard,” shouted loudly in the Manchester accent he never lost, and I smile. There’s a plaque to him in the Square, in recognition of the work he did for this small town. I look at it sometimes and feel sad. And then I think   of all the wonderful people we both knew in many places, and I smile. And then I think   of the crazy unintended outcomes of some planned events and I laugh. And the sadness is overwhelmed and leaves defeated. https://dsmag.in/2026/09/27/lynn-whites-two-more-poems-4/

  Fabulous Faubus Soon we’ll be there back to those days when Faubus was fab when Klansmen were cool and swastikas were chic not shite. We’d thought it sorted, that That history had ended, that never again would mean never again and that Governor Faubus would stay ridiculous. Two, four, six, four just in time for the encore.

  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 ...

  The Last Man He’s the last man standing. Standing on the bodies of the dead. Standing in the rubble of the city. vanquished by the plague of the war. Their lives   lost, no more laughter, no more tears for them. But the last man still stands, also lost   and unable to smile, lost   but still able to weep temporarily. https://writingcafejournal.com/poem.php?slug=the-last-man

  Misnomer A United Nations   where one accused of war crimes is welcomed and another accused of war crimes is barred along with one whose people are victims of war crimes by one of those accused, the one who is allowed entry. A United Nations   where one nation’s delegates walk out rather than hear the speech of one head of state. and two nation’s delegates walk out   rather than hear the speech of another head of state and seventy-seven delegations walk out rather than hear the speech of the alleged war criminal. A United Nations who could agree their name but not to behave accordingly. Delegates have been walking out   on each other for seventy years now. A United Nations united only in name, unanimity impossible as change in procedures and structures of decision making. United Nations. Perhaps, finally they can agree a new name. https://oddballmagazine.com/poem-by-lynn-white-29/