Poetry - Lynn White

  After The Party It was a good party. “you’ll be seeing pink elephants tonight” they laughed. I didn’t believe them I thought the elephants would   be blue, a better colour for me. But it was me that was blue. The elephant I was riding was just   elephant coloured. It was a very good party. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/07/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  The Hedgerow Fairies Where have they gone, the hedgerow fairies  in their harebell hats? I used to see them sitting under their leafy roofs  stitching their summer dresses of poppy and mallow petals with long silk threads  catching the summer sunlight as the smiling spiders spun. I miss them so, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats. I used to see them collecting armfuls of meadow sweet to stuff their nighttime mattresses, making doorways in their new toadstool homes with sharp stones. Maybe they’ve gone underground to escape the passing cars and tractors. Maybe they only come out at night now and stitch and stuff under the moonlight. I don’t know. But I miss them so, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats. https://www.jayzomondarkmyth.com/darkmythproductions/theworldofmyth/index.html

  Hindsight On ICE We thought we’d done it! Created the basis for a future based on peace and love and human rights. Even a pandemic couldn’t stop us at Woodstock. We watched as in diverse countries the rebels become statesmen and we thought the struggle over. And then later, we came to understand that peace will only get its chance in our imaginations in this world where violence and hypocrisy are spiralling beyond our imagining. I thought that if we could go back with that knowledge, with that hindsight, would I be there for me to find. Would any of us be there alongside Lennon if he was there. But here we are again, moving. not frozen in ice, moving, not frozen by ICE. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H4YS8Z23/

  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 ...

  After Breakfast Smoking was forbidden especially at the breakfast table. She knew it was against all the house rules, knew it was time for her to tidy up the debris on the table. Her parents taught her well. She listened. She heard them. She thinks of them now as she sits and smokes   after breakfast. https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2026/07/lynn-white.html

  Story Teller She’s lived a long time, even longer than her years. Every line is a poem of coloured beads, every wrinkle tells a story, her story,   her history, her life, her peoples story their lives,   their stories, the ones her mother told and her mother, the ones her father told and his father. Generation after generation still living with her in her stories. https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2026/07/lynn-white.html