Poetry - Lynn White

  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/

  Fabulous Faubus Soon we’ll be there back to those days when Faubus was fab when Klansmen were cool and swastikas were chic not shite. We’d thought it sorted, that That history had ended, that never again would mean never again and that Governor Faubus would stay ridiculous. Two, four, six, four just in time for the encore.

  Time To Tell Mr and Mrs Hill lived next door,   Violet and Jack. My mother would send me round with messages and as a child, it was always Violet who opened the door. But as I grew older, it was always Jack who opened the door. He would engulf me in a tight hug and force hard kisses on my mouth. I tried to find excuses not to go there, but my mother didn’t understand and I couldn’t tell, not then. I knew no one would believe, that it would be my name blighted for such deviance, for telling such lies about such a nice, kindly and quiet man, a grandfather figure whose name would stay pure. Years later as my wedding day drew near and invitations were being sent out, Violet told the neighbourhood that ‘grandad’ was the first to be invited. But he was not invited. Even though his granddaughters were bridesmaids. Even though his son was the Photographer. Even though his daughter drove me to the church in her bedecked Morris Minor. He was not invited. And now it’s time to tell all ...