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  Sins Of The Fathers It was 1966 in a quiet Skopje side street and the Germans parked in front were surveying the wreckage of their car. “They don’t like Germans here,” they said. And they knew it was because of the brutality   of the German occupation in Yugoslavia in World War 2. “But it wasn’t us!” they said. And of course they were right! They were paying   for the sins of the fathers, maybe not their fathers but the ones bound to them from a wider inheritance. And so it goes, the sins of the fathers. There are no barriers, no boundaries, no constant of time   or place they are forever bound and they play out over and over again. https://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com/2026/05/50-poets-and-artists-being-published-in.html
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  I’m So Old I’m so old that I remember a time when people with mental illnesses were treated appropriately   in Psychiatric Hospitals. I’m so old that I remember a time when people with mental illnesses were not discharged inappropriately from Psychiatric Hospitals. I’m so old that I remember a time when prisons housed criminals not people with mental illnesses. I’m so old   soon I may not remember them. https://therecusant.org.uk/poetry-w/#lynn-white
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Freire And Illich Are Dead No more need for free-schooling,   deschooling,   conviviality or purpose, Freire and Illich are dead. No need for anti-bullying   strategies, family therapy, strategies against exclusions voluntary or enforced. No need for Play Therapy or Adolescent Therapeutic Centres, they are as dead as Freire and Illich. The solution is as sharp and clear as the banning of blades for sale. No knives, no stabbings. And almost cost free, free as words are free. Just stay out of the kitchen. https://therecusant.org.uk/poetry-w/#lynn-white
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  Oh Those Sighs There’s a hole in my face where the love gets in. There’s a hole in my face where love has left   a hole in my heart. I sigh. But still the bird sings in the dark. I sigh waiting for a song to fill the space love left. I sigh holding my heart. Oh, those sighs. https://inalove.world/?s=lynn+white
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  I Can't Help But Wonder I thought I’d been dreaming but now, though the mists are down swamping everywhere   in a gloomy miasma, I appear awake. It seems it was no dream and I’d been walking, sleep-walking, passing the effigies of my past times. Me   as a child growing up growing older and older. Me in my lost time. And now,   awake or asleep I’m disoriented sleepwalking into uncertainty living the dream as the future closes in like a structure of mutating cells. And the full moon approaches. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_uncertainty.html
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  https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0GX32VNT4?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KF https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0GX32VNT4?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_apan_dp_RJ0JAJB25DY1KFEEW92W&bestFormat=true
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  Shrouded They’re following me, like black vultures circling. It’s still just October not yet Halloween but they’re shrouded in winter’s mist  almost as dark as the shrouds they wear to cover themselves, to cloak themselves for their journey. Shrouds like dusty abayas once black, now uniformly grey, shapeless, bloodless, formless, lifeless grey. Only their mouths still red like vultures feasting on death mouths stained by this final feast. The feast of what was left of the harvest. And now there will be nothing, nothing any more. Nothing. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/05/five-poems-by-lynn-white.html
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