Poetry - Lynn White

  Sore Fingers At night my long hair was wrapped in rags - pristine strips of thick white cloth. Sore fingers, my mother called them. My unruly curls bandaged into six stiff sore fingers, to be unravelled in the morning to reveal shiny ringlets ready to be tied in bunches with broad, bright, bias cut ribbons. I wanted plaits. All the heroines in my childhood   books had plaits I dreamt about plaits fantasised about plaits. No more sore fingers. I wanted plaits. Sometimes I untied the ringlets, to my mothers displeasure, and made untidy, unsuccessful plaits. Plaits would ruin my hair, my mother said. Would spoil it’s natural curl, destroy it in some way never specified. I didn’t care. I hated ringlets. I hated sore fingers. I wanted plaits. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

  Red Car The abandoned car stood on the waste ground, rusting away, doors hanging off, leather seats ripped. The children played there on warm summer days but I was not allowed. The place was dangerous and the children were rough. It was the first time I had ever been in a car. I sat behind the wheel to drive it making engine noises like a bus. It was a black car. In those days all cars were black. Any colour you like, so long as it’s black. I thought that a red one would have been nicer.  https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

Such Nonsense We had a new teacher, a student still in college. He read us a long poem.  I listened carefully trying to make sense of it. It was funny. Was it meant to be funny? or was the laughter of derision, to what sounded like nonsense. Laughter seemed allowed and that was unusual. School was not a place for fun. Well, maybe it was nonsense but I loved the imagery and the colours of the words. I asked if 'pea green' was the colour of mushy peas from the chip shop, or was it those in pods fresh from the garden. Nothing was clear, but it was fun.   https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

Running Wild She had been one of my mothers best friends. Her daughter was in my class at school and one of my best friends. But I was rarely allowed to call on her to play out. She lived in a street opposite ‘the cliffs’, which when I’ve been there since, weren’t cliffs at all, just a steep area overgrown with bushes   and small tees with an overgrown field above. It was great fun scrambling around there. “Dangerous”, my mother said, “and those children are allowed to run wild”! But it was great fun while it lasted! https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

  School Shoes I loved the pond near my auntie’s. Just a short walk from the village. I could get right up close   and peer into the water. That was how I saw the frogs. They were not easy to catch but I managed it eventually, one at a time. I kissed each carefully to make sure they were real frogs, didn’t want one of those prince things. Then I put them in my shoe and placed my other shoe on top so that they couldn’t jump out. I walked back barefoot   over the rough ground and the village street. I discovered that my mother and auntie were afraid of frogs. Perhaps they would have preferred princes. They didn’t like the barefoot walk either. My dirty feet would show them up,   they said. And worse! They were my school shoes, which were also my only shoes and now they were smelly with pond water and frogs! But my uncle was cool said they were good for the garden. So I watched them leapfrog through his garden. I hoped they’d be happy there. He told me they were, but I ...

  Victory No matter how hard they think it would be to get that kind of blood off their hands and clothes, they know that they should try.   But the killing has been so tiring they just want to sleep now and then it should be time to stand tall and proud ready to return victorious again. https://parchamonline.in/2026/07/09/june-2026-poetry/#victory-lynn-white