Poetry - Lynn White

  Ruined The tides had turned and the Man in the Moon   was bleeding, dissolving withering away as he melted down. He cried out to   Father Time hiding there on Earth but there was no help to be had There was no time for it, no hope left only deaf ears and everything in ruins. https://books2read.com/TRQP-Balm-3

  Cycle I felt such bright energy flowing I couldn’t wait to move with it and be transplanted and reborn at the time when all of nature was recreating itself and starting afresh, I too would feel the new buds open bursting and shooting into a new life. I would open up my blowsy petals   and let my heart show through pulsing, exuberant, ready to turn towards the summer sun, not believing it would destroy my bloom, make my petals fade and fall when the shock of the new wore off and the fresh green shoots grew brown, preparing for the season of wrinkles which always follows. I am only one part of nature’s cycle where nothing will change, except that summer will have gone, winter will surely follow fall and spring will be a long way away. https://www.thegsj.com/current-issue-spring-2026.html

  Words Words Words I’ve been walking through myself everyday a different life I said I must stop and I will I will stop but my words             words my words are spilling                  out and nobody understands them and I can’t find myself in them. Oh for a draft of Dublin and I’ll walk through it                drink its words                           every step and then I’ll stop                     found I will I will stop still now      with so many words to be coffined       with me                 words my words     dying to be understood. https://rochfordstreetreview.com/2026/06/15/lynn-white-words-words-words-bloomsday-supplement-2026/

  Burying the Hatchet Where better to bury the murder weapons than under the bodies in their graves. No one will know and there’ll be no hard feelings then. So that will be my strategy to bury hatchets under buried bodies so that all quarrelling will cease and everyone will live happily ever after, everyone still living, then.

  Immortality They tried them all, the amulets and potions of their time and place. Some worked for a time but death overcame them in the end   and proclaimed their ungodlike mortality. They were buried like treasure with their treasures   from this life readied for the next, living on only in memories which faded like funeral flowers. It was not enough. So portraits were painted   on the bindings of mummies or the wooden lids of coffins, stone effigies were carved   on tombstones, but only   for the rich and already godlike. It’s democratised now. Ceramic portraits carefully incorporated into gravestones, likenesses to be viewed   down the centuries, glimpses of a life passed, a brush with immortality.

  Art Installation Perfectly placed in its rosy red perfection, striking out against the dark backdrop and making an incongruous contrast to the less than perfect rusting white railings. Sitting there alone perfectly out of place not hanging from its tree or fallen from it not on the way to someone’s eager mouth not taking up the face space a la Magritte, his would have been a green apple anyway. As an exhibition piece in a gallery its reason would be clear an art installation rotting away in full purposeful view, perhaps a bite would be taken and that would make the news and so make the artist famous, but here in a street on a low wall in its place by design   or accident, we’ll never know. But it will change, disappear to be eaten stay to be nibbled by slugs or decay as part of nature’s plan. Just a moment in time captured there and then. https://publicreverie.com/three-poems-on-art-by-lynn-white/