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  The Hunger Of War They’re piling up or splayed out on streets body after body civilians unarmed or ill advisedly armed   in haste and heroism their meat is needed to feed the hunger. It’s piling up the rubble of lives in flames fed   by weapons and more weapons the tears of the displaced   are not enough to douse them so they leave, when they can, a low priority as there’s no meat on them   the women, children and elderly. But the meaty men must stay to fight like soldiers to the death and be spat out with screaming shells and fear. And their screams die with them   as victory comes closer it is said day after day it is said as the leaders scream “no surrender” victory will be theirs when the hunger is sated. More weapons more bodies more lives in flames   to feed the insatiable hunger of war. https://www.orenaugmountainpoetry.net/2026/11/the-hunger-of-war.html
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  Straw Woman I saw her there. I know I did,  no argument. She was standing  in the coarse dry grass ahead of me on the cliff top contemplating the sea. I saw her there. I know I did no argument. She was rising from the coarse grass right there on the cliff top contemplating the sea. I saw her there. I know I did and I see her still that straw woman on a windy day blowing then blown away to be claimed by the sea. No argument. https://masticadoresindia0.wordpress.com/2026/10/31/straw-woman-by-lynn-white-art-by-kushal-poddar/
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  My Day Of The Dead I did not choose this time for the long sleep to take me to my final bed holding your flowers tight  in my hand. https://masticadoresindia0.wordpress.com/2026/11/03/two-poems-by-lynn-white/
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  His Land His land was turtle shell shaped Earth deep deep as a dream of seas sleepy sweet sleepy sleep sharpening in the tsunami of wakeful wetness. His land dark as a dream. https://masticadoresindia0.wordpress.com/2026/11/03/two-poems-by-lynn-white/
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  Danny The Red Ain’t Dead They’ve arrested the Pink Panther in Paris. It’s said Inspector Clouseau called it in. Kondratiev had waved to give him a clue and Inspector Clouseau cracked it. “Danny The Red ain’t dead yet,” Inspector Clouseau muses. And 1968 plays out again. https://oddballmagazine.com/poem-by-lynn-white-31/?fbclid=IwY2xjawVVlfxleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBwZG9mAXNydGMGYXBwX2lkEDIyMjAzOTE3ODgyMDA4OTIAAR9Yreb9qRbPp5R9QMZa88kPzBEo8JkWvZHnQyco0MEfb6p-0c-TH0JE0VIsBg_aem_yzy0iZpExw-IbgQV9cFcCw
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 Death Of My Egos At the end I’ll be dust.   Dust   and flakes   of skin and bone wrapped in long hair, teeth chattering with no voice. No sense of taste or smell. No reason. At the end I'll be impenetrable, anonymous, figments of myself with no self left, no Id,   no Ego, Alter ego,   Super ego, all will die at my end. https://intimum.eu/2026/10/25/intimum-thoughts-2027-collection-share-and-publish-your-psychology-poems/
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 A Mother's Love I have spent a lifetime   trying to break away, trying to break out,   trying to find myself. Always on the edge, always on the outside, not quite a part, of it, not quite   a beatnik, or a mod,   hippy, or   punk. I was early to realise that what she wanted me to be was what she had wanted   for herself, about her, not me. I wanted to escape such love. I thought I could escape. I thought I had escaped. And I did, surely I did escape some   of it. But not all. Not enough. So even now I feel tethered. After all this time of leaving her behind,   I remain   unsure of my   own. https://intimum.eu/2026/10/25/intimum-thoughts-2027-collection-share-and-publish-your-psychology-poems/
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