Poetry - Lynn White

Death at Work Such a terrible thing, to go to work and not come home. To put yourself in danger, risk a fall or an infection just to do your job, earn your bread without hurting anyone. An accident happened or someone was negligent. So much grief unheard except by those close. Personal grief staying personal. Maybe some were heroes, maybe not. Some good, some less so. Just people. Soldiers though, they are always heros, especially when dead. Those sent out to kill for the politicians and the generals. It's automatic, goes with the territory, whoever's territory it is. Heroes when they kill the other guys. Heroes again when the other guys kill them. Murdered heroes the courts say now, unlawfully killed killed by criminals who should be brought to justice. Not corporate manslaughter to be forgotten. Criminals or someone else's heroes. Depends on your territory. https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2016/12/29/death-at-work-by-lynn-white/

Wild Fruit I like the wild berries best. Juice spilling over. Bursting, staining my tongue purple or my lips red. Each one a new sensation. A little harder to come by, than the bland clones, the cultivars. A bit more of a struggle. And, it must be said, not always sweet. One never knows with these wild fruits. With each taste comes a surprise. Spit out the sour, take in the sweet. Such joy! Oh yes! the wild berries are the best. Published in The New English Verse, December 2016 https://www.cyberwit.net/publications/949 First published by Dawntreader, July, 2015

The Hedgerow Fairies Where have they gone, the hedgerow fairies  in their harebell hats? I used to see them sitting under their leafy roofs  stitching their summer dresses of poppy and mallow petals with long silk threads  catching the summer sunlight as the smiling spiders spun. I miss them so, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats. I used to see them collecting armfuls of meadow sweet to stuff their nighttime mattresses, making doorways in their new toadstool homes with sharp stones. Maybe they’ve gone underground to escape the passing cars and tractors. Maybe they only come out at night now and stitch and stuff under the moonlight. I don’t know. But I miss them so, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats. First published in Vox Poetica, December 2016 http://voxpoetica.com/hedgerow-fairies/

My Felt Hat Felt hats have a long history, or so I’m told. Back even to the Romans. Back to St Clement. Back to medieval Nurnberg. Back to the Roaring Twenties and the trilbies, bowlers and cloches. Perhaps some creative enough to be the product of someone’s fired up imagination. Maybe some were made in Tallinn, fairy tale hats from a fairy tale place. Creativity without bounds. Such hats are made there now and as a hat fanatic, of course I have one. I thought the dye might run in the rain and cause it to lose it’s crowning glory, in woad-like streaks down my face. But it hasn’t happened. I thought it would fail to spring back into its bowler shape when squashed. But it hasn’t happened. It’s still a crowning glory, my beautiful felt hat. https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/my-felt-hat-poem-…/

 Melting The rock looms large above me, the petrified remains of the last time the sun burned, the time of giants. Giant rocks and giant creatures fused together in the fire. Look, There's on with a long nose! Or maybe it's a beak. And there's a human molar, surely. And here I stand, on my tiny rock. I'm lit now by moonlight, but soon the sun will rise and consume us, fuse us together and we are both so small, I am not sure that anything will remain. http://visualverse.org/submissions/melting/

Aftermath Aftermath How can it be that someone I don't see,  only think  about sometimes, but never contact, or try to, leaves such a gap, in their final leaving. My life has not been changed. All is the same. So why the difference now that you're really in the past, when you were already part of my past and not of my future. Nothing has changed for me, not really, not in reality. So why do you occupy my thoughts in a different way. Why does my future feel different now you cannot be part of it, even though you never would be and I knew it. Perhaps because I can no longer dream you there. But why not when you could never be there and I knew it the same then,  as I know now. Why is it different, now even to dream? https://issuu.com/wandrmag/…/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016…

River I look into the river and see myself in reflection. Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in it’s flow. I am constantly being moved and changed, but left stationary, moved but not moving on like the fishes and pebbles. Here I am, disturbed and abstracted, surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world, which leaves me unclear who I am and, more unclear about the solidity of my background and what is happening around me. I look into two worlds which are intermingling, becoming inseparable before my gaze. My own distorted image fades and breaks with the images behind and beyond me in the background of my life. This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion. For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside. I am in danger of being broken up and washed away. Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces, undecided, lacking definition. It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person, into the confusion and fragmentation be...

BLUE NIGHT IN BLAENAU Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales (2010) Blaenau Ffestiniog is the small town in north Wales where I live. It has a reputation for being grey and rainy, but sometimes when the weather is clear, we get an amazing dark blue sky at night. I painted this landscape after walking home on just such a night. Published in Topology, December 2016 http://www.topologymagazine.org/image/blue-night-in-blaenau/

If I Were A Butterfly If I were a butterfly where would I fly? I could grace every home bringing good luck every time. Make sure that my children ate up all the weeds, and recycled the waste without judgement or hate. In a world that’s at peace I’d find my place. Hmm, if I were a butterfly I’d think this must wait. If I were a butterfly where would I fly? If my soul were parochial it would hang in my space, It would look pretty in my garden, propagate where I said, and keep watch with indulgence as my kids ate the rest. If I were a butterfly I’d think this was sad. A life is too short to live in the past. If I were a butterfly where would I fly? Like all souls of dead warriors for justice and peace,  I’d fly down the throats of the haters, war mongers, arms traders,  parasitic self servers. Yes. They’d choke on my body and ingest my eggs. My children would eat them, feast on them, thrive then fl...

Seed Shells  The first seeds were sown a long time ago. When these small seed shells burst open they were scattered locally. They grew patchily at first, in Palestine, in Israel, in Lebanon and throughout the Arab world. There were only little streams to irrigate and fertilize them, so they often failed to thrive. But that was then.  Now the shells have grown bigger and the seeds have flown further. Further and further. And the streams have grown wider and longer. And more nutritious.  When the seed shells have burst in this century, they found ground that was even more fertile. So more and more has come under cultivation, irrigated and fertilized now from rivers,  rivers of blood. So well irrigated, so well nurtured and tended that the patches of brown soil became rare indeed. But there were some. Later the seeds spread wider over Gaza. As larger seed shells broke and splintered they found and colonised new...

The Lighthouse I was a little crazy to buy the old lighthouse. I knew it at the time. But I wanted to be somewhere, somewhere where I could shine, shine lamps out into the vastness, shine like a beaming beacon. And it was so high. It matched my mood and then some. Higher than high. Higher than high. There was no housewarming. No one came. There was no one to come. So, only I could relish the exposure. Only I could walk round the top of the tower and look over the edge into the dark deep depths. Only I could see the swimmer, a mermaid, surely? waving. Or was she beckoning as she approached the mooring. Only I could come spiraling down. Come down from the heights to open the door, to run down the steps to the mooring. And then the lamps went out. http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php…

A Grey Place? This is a grey place,  there's no denying. Grey slate, grey granite, grey houses built of both. And it rains a lot, there's no denying. Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain falling greyly from heavy misty clouds. But when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides  shimmering across the slate  and falls in bright white tails  or snakes like silver where the mountains leak it. And spills heavily over rocks, it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed  cascades catching rainbows as they crash then spitting them back out  in a fine spray of colours. And now there's no grey  in the dark blue, black sky  filled with gold and silver twinkles. No grey at all in this place now, there's no denying. Published in Snapdragon, Welcome Home Issue, December 2016 http://www.snapdragonjournal.com/ First published by Silver Birch Press in Where I Live Series 2015

Soul Searching Will I find you shining among the sharp pinpoint stars gleaming gold and silver? Or shall I search the ocean and find your spirit buried down there amongst the sand and pebbles? Perhaps I should comb the beach raking through it’s silver grains and broken shells. Only your restless soul could have washed up briefly there. You never liked beaches with their sandwiches of sandy bites and the boredom of sun seeking. No you wouldn’t stay there. I wouldn’t find you there. You were always the deep one, so maybe I should look deeper, deep into the blue black night beyond the white milkiness into the sweet soft starlight. There would be a place for your soul to hide and I could join you and rest a while, a long while with you again. First published in Writer's Ezine, December 2016 https://issuu.com/writersezine/docs/december_2016_issue

                     Washed Away         Cool cleansing water running over me,         washing away my sins, my impurities,         Cleaning me up, getting rid of the villainy         and lack of chastity.         Absolving me.         But who’s to say they should be washed away,         like the scruffiness of childhood innocence.         Who should judge these scents and tastes and sweats          of a life cleanly and clearly remembered.         What sins, what villainy?         I wished they could remain unwashed and pure          retaining their essence within my reach.         Hanging about me in my lived in face.   ...

Ground Force Gaza Another volley of stones. It’s frightening. Lucky we’re protected  with our body armour. Lucky we’re safe inside our tanks. Frightening though. So many stones. Such big rocks lobbed  by such little people. We’re not allowed to kill them if they’re under twelve. And orders are orders. But it’s difficult to tell sometimes. Could be worse though. Could be in a war zone with phosphorous flying and armour piercing shells doing more then scratch the paint. We could be fried alive in our tanks then. But now, here, only us can do the frying. http://cajaderesistencia.cc/caja-de-imprenta/caja1-numero2/white/

Skull The skull lies desolate on the bare mountain side. Lying among rocks and stones with a few accompanying bones. Each day it decays as nature weathers it and destroys all its form and substance so that it wastes away and fades into the landscape. If it had come to rest lower down the mountain it would have sunk into the boggy peat moss and risen with hair and hide intact with, the cause of death discernible, with its last meal of grass or rabbit still there inside its stomach. Preserved by nature. Preserved or wasted. It all depends on where you fall. First published in With Painted Words, September 2016 http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1055

Roots It’s said that you should remember your roots, remember where you came from, remember where you belong, anchored by your long tap root. But I have fibrous roots too, growing out strongly from the main tap. I have spread them out and put them down in many places, taken sustenance from them. They’ve been part of my growth, fed my main stem and it’s splits and branches. I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all, all those places. And some rootlets have broken free and I’ve left them behind there no longer belonging to me. And I’ve left something of myself behind. Would I find it if I returned? I don’t think so. But others may still. Published in Reflection Wandrmag, Spirituality issue, November 2016 https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016

 The Funeral of Bosco Jones Twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life. His children, (long departed from their roots), returned. “Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything. We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers. A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life. They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear And join in the proceedings. There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity. The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying. She started to look around her and take in the proceedings. She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed. Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist, “I’m having none of this!” she cried, “My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!” Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again...

            Blue Blue skies, blue sea, a day of sparkling sunshine, with a shimmering horizon. And then, out of this blue, You, smiling sadly with your lovely blue eyes. I knew you from the back, you said, the cut of your hair, your bright blue mac. I wanted to see your face again, it’s only fair, you’ve seen mine. You must have done, me, being who I am. I wanted to smell your clean hair smell. So I took a chance, and here I am. I wanted to  abate the sadness. I nodded. Yes.  I know it’s true. It’s all been said  and we won’t be sad.  No blue moods on this bright blue day  of smiling sunshine. We’ll go together now,  for now  and be glad. After all,  one way or another,  everything will end in tears, I said, So let’s take our now time and chance the rest. Published in Spillwords, November 2016       ...

Home Coming I think that today will be my home coming day. The day I’ve been waiting for, when I’ll come back. to where I came from. Back to here where I belong. Even though, I was never here before, never in this place, never with this person. I know I’m home. I can feel it. And know I will stay and that it and you will stay with me. I must go outside sometimes, leave sometimes, of course I must. But I’m floating free and I will take it all with me. It has become part of my being, so I can’t move away. Can’t separate us. This place and this person, have engulfed me. Surrounded me in sweetness and brought me back from wherever I was, Brought me home, made me complete, but still free floating, carrying them with me always. It’s the day I’ve been waiting for. https://issuu.com/wandrmag/…/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016… First published in Silver Birch Press, I Am Waiting series March 2015

Picture of Maud I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. She never grew old, never even grew up. My father cried.. I never knew her, never even knew of her. But I know now. I have a photograph so I can see her, picture her as she was. And I won’t forget that I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. First published in Silver Birch Press' 'Prized' Series, November 2016 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/11/19/a-picture-of-maud-poem-by-lynn-white-my-prized-possession-poetry-and-prose-series/

Butterflies So many new warriors grown from the seeds planted by the invaders  sent by the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. So many dead warriors lying whole or in pieces, destroyed by the invaders sent by the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. Dead warriors. Soon to be transformed, transformed into butterflies, according to the Mayans who knew about transformations - and about warriors. Butterflies with the souls of the dead warriors. Butterflies that can fly across continents, cross oceans and borders. There are no barriers for butterflies. And they are experts in transformation, experts in disguise. They will consume them, the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. Will worm their way inside them, infest them and destroy them all, Yes, they should beware the butterflies with the souls of dead warriors and the memories of slaughter. They carry karma with them. Published in C...

Behind the Mask Will I ever see the man behind the mask? I think I can  sometimes through the eye slits, sometimes when they are open. Eyes are revealing, after all, and difficult to hide. Maybe they’ll tell me enough, tell me all I need to know. So I will have no urge to peel off the mask, to tear it away from the skin underneath. It would be too painful, anyway. Too raw, for both of us and would leave behind a soreness that would not heal. And still not all would be revealed by the exposure. Saudade Issue 2, 2016 https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?ie=UTF8&text=M.+Berza&search-alias=books-uk&field-author=M.+Berza&sort=relevancerank

Frogs That Can Fly Three rooks flew over loudly croaking. The frogs below were intrigued. “How do we fly?”, they croaked in reply. “How do we fly?” “How do we swim?” croaked the rooks in response. “If you fall from the sky we’ll teach you to swim,” leaping so high the frogs croaked in reply. “ So tell us, please, won’t you, how do we fly?” First published in Zombie Logic Review

Mr Taylor Probably a polar bear was not a good choice for my first attempt at whittling.  A hamster would have been simpler and avoided the multiple leg fractures.. “Don’t worry girl, no problem”, Mr Taylor said, when I showed it to him. “Leave it to me.  Bit o plastic wood,  That’ll soon sort it” and it did. The tail was more challenging. But all was not lost, just the tail, and I managed to convince the Examiner that polar bears don’t have tails. Maybe they don’t. I’m no expert. I progressed slowly, and probably  a rocking elephant was not the best choice for my Final Piece. There was a lot to cut out, a lot of curvy bits. The huge electric saw bench loomed ominously in the corner. “Don’t you go near that, girl” cried Mr Taylor if I glanced in it’s direction. “Here, give it here,  Leave it to me.  There you are. Now just a bit o plastic wood...” And then disaster! Someone stole the rockers. ...