Poetry - Lynn White

  Sandcastles She’s standing on the beach with a small suitcase. It’s unclear if the suitcase is full   or empty. Once she packed it full   of her dreams,   but it’s unclear if any remain. She thinks now that they were built on sand, sandcastles on the beach to be carried away on a storm tide, or washed up   and buried   in the sand. All that is clear is the emptiness   of a long horizon. https://inalove.world/2026/09/17/sandcastles/

  I Remember My Father I remember my father. Remember being carried high   on his shoulders when he was walking into town. I remember that I was scared. I had never been carried on shoulders before. Was there a bus strike or no money for the fare? That I don’t remember. I remember my father sitting in a chair, a passenger on a bus or tram, as I collected his fare and gave him a ticket. He drove trams once and then later he cleaned them. I remember my father. Remember sitting on his knee looking at Rupert Bear books. I knew the stories by heart so people thought I could read and were very impressed. But I could only remember. I remember my father. I don’t need photographs to jog my memory, which is just as well since there are none, None of him whole, anyway,   just one of his legs in loose grey trousers, sitting by me as I planted seeds in my first garden. https://hotelmasticadoreshouse.wordpress.com/2026/09/16/i-remember-my-father-by-lynn-white/

  Ann Glover It was a long way from the green fields and boggy moss to the tropical heat of Barbados where the ship took them, those Irish peasants, as seeped in idolatry as their homeland was in rain, or that’s what the masters said   so far as she understood their language   as harsh and severe   as the god they worshipped. And it was a long way from the tropical heat of Barbados to the master’s house in Salem   the last port of call for some of those Irish peasants, those who survived so far, still enslaved but called ‘indentured’ now. She always believed it was her tongue that killed her, not its sharpness, Irish was a gentle language, after all and she never learned theirs so their questions could not be understood or answered.   And what answers could she give in any language? What language could tell them who was godly and who was devilish, who was a witch and who was a saint. Only power could speak and the Irish had none. Only power can speak and sl...

  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://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HJBSD3GV?tag=uklinktagbk-21&geniuslink=true

  Beauty Parlour Step inside my parlour, my pampering parlour and you will be remade,   reborn, stroked   and smoothed, petted and prodded, cosseted and curled, given the attention you deserve as well as a new face and shiny new hair. In Pampers Parlour we’ll recreate you reboot your confidence and give you a new chemistry as we gloss your hair and lips, as we shape your face with new shadows and glows, as we apply layer upon layer of chemical shit topped by nose retching fragrances. You won’t know yourself when   you step outside   dolled up to perfection, protected in your new mask. And what then? Will you go home   and comb it all out and wash it all off, preferring,   after all,   the person with the old skin and fresh air colour to the new robotic doll. The pampers product is   designed to be disposable,   after all. Or will you keep it   as long as you can.. Try not to move your new face. Try not to upset your new hair. Place ...

    The Theatre Of The Absurd Back in the 1960s I loved them, sought out the plays Beckett, Ionesco, Stoppard and the rest who were illustrating the death of logic which silenced argument as the beginning became the end. I didn’t anticipate the re-run in the theatres of Westminster and Washington all these years later as the political players take the stage to play those parts again speaking absurdities on cue   as directed by their part, by their party in a government where ethics are as dead as genocide, where ethics never existed, just like genocide, where ethics are deader   than Rosencrantz and Gildenstern and only the absurd still lives taking us back where we started. https://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com/2026/09/50-poets-and-artists-being-published-in.html