Poetry - Lynn White

  Roundabout He picked us up near Torino, a dapper Frenchman   with an impressive moustache. He was going to Nice. So were we! Such luck. One lift all the way from Torino to Nice. We settled back to enjoy the ride. We came to a roundabout. With gesticulations of frustration and twitches of his moustache, he missed the turning. We went round again and the next time, he missed it again. The third time we were ready to call out and point it out in good time. But with more expansive gesticulating and moustache twitching he still missed it. There were many roundabouts   between Torino and Nice. We came to know them intimately. On arrival we were hugged and kissed in thanks for our help. Without us, who could say where he’d be. Not us, for sure! He invited us to accompany him to Monte Carlo the next day, if we would like to. Yes! We would like to! We turned up at the allotted time and place, but he never came. So, we never went to Monte Carlo. Possibly he never went there eithe...

  Dear Juliet Listen to a father’s foreboding it’s a difficult time   when you’re half grown. No longer a child, but not yet an adult. Half grown with fully formed temptations, and such contempt for adults, fathers especially, you always know best but listen, the forbidden fruit of first love is poisonous   not for tasting and when the feuds of the fathers meet the dreams of the fathered there are no happy endings. You always knew best until you didn’t. So listen and heed a father’s foreboding. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/10/super-sized-series_0144647558.html?fbclid=IwY2xjawUsncVleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBwZG9mAXNydGMGYXBwX2lkEDIyMjAzOTE3ODgyMDA4OTIAAR70iAhpShFlRjIVV68JlTNUuZFP4p5VLa7jdIpTnWfm2mHLXVeCvSwMUMdGnw_aem_DipXdDuhDU3CbEhbVaaf8Q

  Split Open Crystal found it on a beach when she was lying there sunbathing face down, just a rock split open lying like her face down, hiding its jewel. Cleaned of sand it gleamed and shone its colours made for her its shape pubescent iridescent a magic match for her nails, her bikini, her flesh. She rose. Stood. Held it before her exposed her crystal, her jewel held it safe. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/madelyn-roldan-ekphrastic-writing-responses-curated-by-kate-copeland

  Criminalised Criminalised for a flag. Criminalised for displaying its colours, for wearing its colours, for painting its colours in the country where it arose from, in the country where it belongs. Criminalised for a fruit, for eating a fruit, for growing a fruit in a place where it should grow naturally. Criminalised by the occupation. Criminalised. But the seeds grew and still they grow   and spread the seeds. https://uglywriters.com/2026/09/30/criminalised/?fbclid=IwY2xjawUpstFleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBwZG9mAXNydGMGYXBwX2lkEDIyMjAzOTE3ODgyMDA4OTIAAR52bHZwFDt1LCFQgrISj6Ue7qxkBVGwmIL-U1LUaWcHR5scO_o6L_hQ8grQvw_aem_1m5qdlqXd4XgpTlxweZF6g

  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/