Poetry - Lynn White

For Charlie So many people marching and waving, waving pencils and pictures of pencils. Millions and millions marching with pencils, asserting their values, showing their power, paying their respects. But it's not what it seems. say the sideline snipers, the underminers, the false flag wavers, the pencil baiters, the Je Suis Fuck All-ers. They're pencilled pawns, just part of the plans of the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters, the manipulators, the plotters and schemers, the money makers. The bullets were blanks and, the dead, aren’t dead. Say the sideline snipers, the underminers, the false flag wavers, the pencil baiters, the Je Suis Fuck All-ers. just look who's leading from the front line. It's the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters. It’s proof enough What more do you need. But it's not what it seems. It's a trick of the camera, another pretence to diminish the distance between them and the leaders behind them...

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. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-u…/poem-behind-the-mask

Leaving Last night at the theatre I saw you again, Your smile in a face so much younger. My confusion, my thoughts, my stares made him turn and your warm smile chilled me with ice melting now from the long frozen lock, the key turning freely to let out our past. And my past, and it’s future all came flooding back, the shock of sensations long gone. The dance and the music, the books that we read, the memories that we must both have of the pain and the pleasures,  that were part of our love such a long time ago. So I ask myself now, can anything stay to give pleasure to us in remembering those days? For my remnants now seem to be only pain, and their sadness engulfs me  and halts my return. So I left, in the end, as I left you, my love, Saying nothing, taking nothing, leaving nothing behind. Without saying goodbye. http://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2016/03/29/writer-highlight-lynn-white/

Washed Up So many dead people caught in the crossfire created by the the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. They lie dead where they fell. Flesh and blood transformed to fertilizer to nurture the seeds and grow the crops, in a future they will not see. Their bones decaying to dust to form the building blocks of homes they will never inhabit. Dying where they fell, over there, not here and not looking like us. Unseen or soon forgotten by us here. But the dead washed up on holiday beaches look like our flesh and blood. They’re wearing our clothes. They’re washing up to haunt us in the Old World. Then there’s the living, washed up alive and by any means necessary moving on to bear witness, if any one is listening. To bring the horror home to those who created it in the Old World. Bringing it home to the Old World, but not as yet to the New. Reprinted in Harbinger Asylum http://www.amazon.com/Harbinger-Asylum-Spring-v...

End of the Season The season of wrinkles and over ripeness has arrived too soon. Shriveled buds. Fruits bursting open, their seeds drying out, beginning to crinkle and wrinkle. Beginning to split and break. Beginning to moulder and dribble with damp. Their past spring a distant dream. Or not remembered at all. Faded away like the fresh shoots of hopeful green growth. Even the memories of the florid, blowzy summer’s blooms are fading. Fading fast and faster. Perhaps this season of dry dampness has been here a while and I haven’t noticed. It’s been approaching a long time. Slow at first imperceptible. Speeding up, then quickening. But still imperceptible almost unnoticeable as everything slows down quickly. So quickly now. I think that winter has arrived. The season is over, finished lost beyond returning. ​ http://www.versewrights.com/white-lynn.html

    Getting Married Let’s get married, you said. I sat up quickly and  just in time, stopped my mouth saying,  After two days? You’re going mad! Why? Where’s the gain? We’ve already said we’ll stay together, You with me or me with you, and care for each other, and make love to each other. We don’t need a piece of paper saying Mr and Mrs. Anyway, you don’t have a good record when it comes to marriage. Or so I’ve heard, I said. I think I want an extra tie, another binding, a public one. So that your friends  would ring you up, concerned, and warn you not to go ahead. And mine would try to find you to do the same and worry about my sanity. But not for long. We’ll do it quick, you said. And then we can smile behind their backs as they check our progress down the years, amazed that we’re still together, still like each other, still love. And, after all, I have a much worse record  of not ...

Caterpillar When I was nine, by accident, I stepped on a caterpillar, stepped on one end of a caterpillar. And it’s caterpillar shape, bright emerald green, shot out the other end. Since then, I have taken great care never to step on a caterpillar. First published in Harbinger Asylum Literary Review, Spring 2016 https://www.shopswap.com/harbinger-asylum-spring-2016-book-createspace-independent-publishing-platform

FOR WORLD POETRY DAY... https://witness.theguardian.com/a…/56e97316e4b0072e644fc078…

Doll My little princess. My china doll with your peachy skin and golden hair. In pink frills I dressed you up, combed you and curled you. Made you into my special pet, my little angel, to be loved and cherished. My creation. My little girl. But all the time you were making up yourself, getting ready to smash the porcelain, and break out to become the creation you had already made up even before you painted and inked your pearly skin, combed your hair straight, and gelled it into jagged spikes with a pink splash. Shockingly, piercing the past, you broke out into your future. For you were never a princess, never a doll, and most of all, little girl, you were never mine, never mine to mould. Reprinted in The Fem 2016 https://thefemlitmagazine.wordpress.com/category/poetry/

The Hoopoes Are Back The hoopoes are back, even though the walls and holes they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders four years ago, when there was a housing boom and money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders three years ago, even though, there was no market for nests and no money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were washed away two years ago, as the walls that stopped the storm flow were destroyed by human nest builders, to prepare the ground for money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though their nesting places are hidden, buried under growing mountains of rubble brought by the human nest builders a year ago as there is no demand for human nests and no money to be made, except from rubble. Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them! The hoopoes are back! http://www.versewrights.com/white-lynn.h...

A Rose For Gaza Gaza is a garden full of roses. Stone roses. Rock roses. No petals to crush and bruise to release their fragrance. Only dust. Dust and the stench of death. No green space left. No sweet tranquility, peace or quiet. No escape. No garden of Eden here. No gateway to paradise. Rubble and rock roses. So I shall plant a rose for Gaza in my green space, in my tranquil garden. I won’t bruise it, just gently sniff its fragrance and hope that one day fragrant roses will bloom again in the garden of Gaza. What else can I do? http://www.amazon.co.uk/Divided-Lines-A-Poets-Stance/dp/0996147659

The Circus of My Dreams In the circus of my dreams the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up, flashing their rainbowed hooves, pointing with their golden horns, with their unique golden horns. Then, ridden by Leprechauns, they’re dancing round and round the circle of the ring. Kicking up the gold dust ground from their droppings into shimmering sawdust. In the circus of my dreams there is a rainbow. A rainbow which has painted their hooves with it’s light as they climbed their way up and slid their way down to the crock of gold at the end. Time for the little people to dismount and mould the gold into hearts of love. Time for the unicorns to use the gold to nurture and replenish their golden horns, their unique golden horns. http://rajasinsight.com/2016/03/12/the-circus-of-my-dreams-lynn-white/

Sunshine and Shadows There are black clouds lingering over me. Casting shadows. Even though there’s a big red sun above  shinning down on me. Warming my face. Caressing me. reminding me of other sunshine days when the rays beamed more sweetly. The clouds make today too close, too hot, yesterday too far away. And the rays are stabbing me sharply. Hurting me. No longer warm and sweet but hot and sour.  Piercing me.  Cutting me like icy splinters. Because there’s cold there as well, coming from somewhere. This sun is too bright for me to see clearly, too red and swollen, like my eyes feel now. Heavy. Black with shadows. So I’m waiting for the rain to fall. Fall away. Drop by drop until they’re empty and cold. And I’m waiting for more cold days to come. And I’m waiting for the empty clouds to pass  and the sun to shine again and warm me if it can. http://www.hivhereandnow.com/poems/poem-2...

Perchance A Dream 'To sleep perchance to dream'. Who said that? Sounds so gentle, but there's a rub, a rough edge to it. Not the long deathly sleep, though but drifting away in night time slumber. It can take you anywhere. Take you to places you haven't been and may not want to go. Send you spinning, tumbling, raging, spiralling, crashing out of control to an indeterminate end, with demons and dragons as companions. Daytime dreaming is preferable, more gentle than it sounds fitted into a busy schedule. In wakeful dreams you can determine the beginning, at least, and invite the participants. Sometimes they may act out an old story with a predictable end, sometimes they can drift into a new story and then the demons may join in your daytime dreaming as well, perchance. http://go.epublish4me.com/ebook/ebook?id=10084703#/0

Anxious I am dancing in the sunlight, the bright, bright light. I know the cloud is there but I can forget it, till I stop. And then.. There it is, even bigger and blacker than before. Darker than ever. It doesn’t like me dancing, doesn’t like the laughter or the sunshine. Brightness breaks it, shatters it into a grey mist. But still it won’t leave me. The brighter the sunlight, the louder the laughter, the greater my fear that it will form again and suck me into it’s darkness. First published in Ealain http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/110203

Sweet Heart He’d seen it glint earlier when a shaft of light hit the open box. He kept watch till they left. Back now, still watchful. Turn his head this way, then that.  No cats. No humans. Upturned the box  and seized his prize glinting gold among the dull browns and creams. Carried it off. Then carried it home, a home now fit for his new lover, his sweet heart. But he didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t discover the greater prize lying under the surface glitter. Didn’t find the jewel  of sweetness in the centre. Soon life dulled the surface glitter, screwed it up. And  the sweet heart  melted in the warmth, Melted into sticky goo. Melted away as sweet hearts do. http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0692537481?keywords=Harbinger%20Asylum&qid=1446298050&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1

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://www.createspace.com/5797119

Turning to Ice Snowflakes lit by sunbeams blowing gently, fragile as shadows making rainbows in the sun. Smiling in the soft light. So soft. So soft. Catch them quickly in your hair  to melt them. Time has past and they're already harder now, even though the sun is still shining and smiling. Blindingly bright. Crunchy crystals. Jewels glistening still. Shining like diamonds, but harsh  in the sunlight while it lasts Cooler now as the light starts fading. The surface is melting. Shiny where the sun still catches, but fading, giving way to ice. Losing it's smile. And we're skidding, sliding beyond control. slipping away, blinded by tears of ice. First published in Metaphor Issue 4, Jan 2016 https://www.createspace.com/5607993

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 Amomancies, Love and Fantasy  http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/1062912?__r=26454

Revolution Round and round,  the grinning, gaudy horses  galloping  round and round on the merry go round. Round and round, but the grins are faded now  and the once bright horses  drab and disheveled  staggering and lurching. Round and round  on the treadmill  of the merry go round. Round and round. Round and round. Just one more revolution and they'll be ready. Ready to bite the hands that refused to feed them. Round and round. Round and round. Only one more revolution, to sharpen up the teeth.  Round and round, just one more revolution on the not so merry go round. First published in Ealain, Karma Issue  http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/

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 fantasized 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. First published in Silver Birch Press, My Mane Memories series, February 2016 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/03/01/sore-fingers-poem-by-lynn-white-m...