Poetry - Lynn White

  As The River Flows The river flows by but doesn’t carry me with it as I sit solidly on the bank side watching my reflection fragmenting and reforming. It can’t carry away my reflection either, can only move it around, destroy and recreate it with a bit of a breaking backdrop which, on reflection tells me little about   where I am, or who, or why. It leaves me behind. It always will, unless I enter and let it   float me away. https://latinosenglishedition.blog/2026/03/17/as-the-river-flows-by-lynn-white/

The Sad Man I take my hat off to him the sad man of the leafy suburbs always smartly dressed dapper old fashioned smart carrying   all our problems   with all his silent grief on pinstriped shoulders. We all took our hats off to him that sad man, as we played in the streets as we grew older as we changed while he stayed the same still silent still carrying all those problems all that grief that we never understood. https://latinosenglishedition.blog/2026/04/07/the-sad-man-by-lynn-white/

  Stripy Jerseys There were a lot of ragwort plants around the library. Some were bare of leaves and covered with orange and black stripy jersey caterpillars. Others were lush and green with leaves and devoid of caterpillars. As usual the family planning strategy of the cinnabar moth left much to be desired. I began to transfer them carefully from the leafless to the lush. I stood back to admire my achievement, momentarily disconcerted when a rather stern looking stranger asked what I was doing. I explained. “Huh”, she said, “I’ve been doing the same over the other side. I though it was only me who does this.” It was a strange way to begin a friendship but it lasted all her life. I think maybe I should go to the grave in the woodland, where her body lies and scatter a few ragwort seeds. Maybe the moths will come each year and make   a living memorial. She would like that, I think. https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2026/04/09/stripy-jerseys-by-lynn-white-bugs-insects-serie...

  https://online.fliphtml5.com/vaxyt/nlzo/#p=2

  Murphy Murphy was a poodle. He didn’t choose to be a poodle and he certainly didn’t want to be a poodle, but he was born that way. It happens. He hid it well. No one knew. Well, no one would have known except   for the one time each year when he was taken to a poodle parlour and given a shampoo, (oh, the horror of it) and a clip… a clip that made it clear   that he was a poodle, probably with French poodle genes. Quelle horreur! His shame was enough   to keep him indoors for weeks He emerged hesitantly,   always on a wet day, where he could be sure of finding mud to roll in. Soon, he would feel like Murphy again. https://masticadoresusa.wordpress.com/2026/04/08/murphy-by-lynn-white/

  Cloth of Gold I called it my cloth of gold it was so special with a bit of this and a bit of that remnants reclaimed and woven with love woven with tenderness into a cloth of shining colours making memories to wear wrap round memories like threads of time for all our time, memories that   in time became our shroud. I didn’t know it then. https://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com/2026/04/50-poets-and-artists-being-published-in_5.html