Poetry - Lynn White

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.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6306

Predictable I feel such a bright energy flowing, zipping through my veins. I can’t wait to move with it, to uproot myself, to be transplanted and reborn, to recreate myself  at the time when all of nature is recreating itself and starting afresh. I will be reborn too in another place. I’ve done it before and felt the new buds open, bursting and shooting into a new life. I've felt the excitement of the new spaces, embraced the interest in the new peoples’ faces. And then.. I’ve opened up my blowsy petals and let my heart show through pulsing, exuberant, ready to turn towards the summer sun, not believing it will destroy my bloom, make my petals fade and fall when the shock of the new wears off and the fresh green shoots start to brown, and prepare for the season of wrinkles, which always follows, as my life folds out as before. Soon I’ll be getting ready  for the ice of winter in this new place. A new place,...

 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...

Paris in the Spring We set out hopefully, hitching our way to Paris, in the spring. And we made it, even found the recommended hostel near Laumiere, Though a little disconcerted to be met with a closed door covered in signs which read  ‘FULL’ in every known language, we went in anyway. ‘Of course we’re not full  at this early hour’. ‘Anyway, no one is ever turned away’. They were planning a demonstration, a rehearsal for May 1968,  but of course, none of us knew that then. We could join if we wished,  but of course, we were too early, even for the rehearsal. It was only April. Just three days in April in Paris. We had coffee on the Champs Elysee and were shown Notre Dame  by someone we met there and then sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur to eat our French bread lunch. We held up the traffic at the Arc de Triumph, triumphantly succeeding in crossing the roads. And at the hostel the next day we...

Barcelona Sandals Standing in the Andorra snow shivering in our Barcelona sandals. Glad of a lift down to Foix as darkness was falling. And the driver knew a hotel, Hotel du Centre. Very grand and full of people looking down long noses. But the driver knew the owner who was a kind man, a nice man. So we shouldn't worry  about the cost, he said. A lovely room and in the morning, breakfast! We must eat the owner said. Warm bread and jam. Coffee with hot milk which tasted sour. But I don't like the taste of milk, anyway, so most likely it was sweet. And then the bill. But there was no bill. Save it for the journey, the owner said. A kind man, a nice man, who believed the driver's story, whatever it was. A few years later,  we returned to Foix and went to find  Hotel du Centre. But it wasn't there. No one knew it. It didn't exist. Did it ever exist? Did any of it happen?...

Little Sister Lost I woke in the sunshine and salvaged my book from the damp grass. I stretched.. I looked around.. She wasn’t there. I looked behind the stone, then under it. A pretty blue mouse scurried from under, but no little sister. Then I thought  of the rabbit hole under the tree where the scraggy, stripy cat had spat and snarled at us  earlier. I found the tree and the rabbit hole. Was she down there? It was too small for me to go. I shouted down and scraped and scraped and scraped to make it bigger. A rabbit would do better with it’s big feet. A rabbit, like the one standing behind me with such big strong feet. Help me. Help me. He sniffed disdainfully and removed one hand  from the pocket of his purple fur jacket to brush the soil I’d splatted on his white velvet breeches. Such big strong feet for digging. Help me. Help me. Help me. He gave me his spade. I start...

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. https://treehousearts.me/

My Father’s Son I never knew my father’s son. Even though I met him once, or maybe twice,  I never knew him. And then I met his son.  Caught him  miraculously in a net. Held on to him  tightly. And, I found that he hadn’t left early, my father’s son. He’d waited for me, wondering, for a long time. And so I found him, my father’s son. When he was  just ninety six, I found him. But I was too late to know him. At ninety five, he was already dead. So I never knew him, my father’s son. First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016 http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white

       Dreams One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams. You'll be dead by then, unable to protect them any more. They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams. They'll want them for sure, they'll want them. They'll want them to try and find you, to try and discover who you were. They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt, seeing what they can find. Digging up the dirt to see what they can find  in there. They'll discard this piece here, another piece there. Dross from the dried up remnants, They'll hang on to the moist bits. The juicy bits are worth further analysis. You may be in there. In your dreams. Someone else will scrabble to catch  the dry pieces, those fragments of dreams thrown away. The little pieces blown away in the air. Little snippets, dreamlets. But there are flakes of gold hidden there. I hope they don't find them. First published in ...

   Jacko I saw him flapping around in the grass, one wing at an improbable angle. I chased him, caught him, wrapped him  carefully in my cerise and navy school scarf. Jack, jack, jacko.. Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet who set the broken wing, wrapped it carefully in plaster, a heavy pot. He was subdued on the bus home, but still managed to greet my mother, Jack, jack, jacko. He perked up later after tea and explored the living room placing bits of straw artistically and decorating them with pooh. Which was why  he had to live  at school, home  only for weekends. Jack, jack jacko! But he enjoyed bus journeys now and greeted all the passengers, hopping from shoulder to shoulder, waking them up with a wang from his pot, nibbling an ear here and a nostril there. Most were  charmed, but some  were not. He was close to becoming the only jackdaw to be ba...

Ripples Ripples of time gathering pace. Working up to the wave  that crashed into me,  propelled me forward and now sucks me back. Thirteen decades. Back. To a place beyond my imagining, so tidy now after the crash. Gentrified now. Rippling gently. But before, in my father’s time. There was beer mixed mud and crowding children. And smells of horses and metal. Working. Fire and metal work. Children who  would leave behind the mud, and country  smells, for the dust and smog. For the city grime. Streets and factories. More fire and metal. Bigger. Grander. And what then? Still poor. What then? What secrets lie in those ripples of time washing over me now. http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white

On Our Bikes We only had two bikes between the five of us. Mine was a very grand drop handle barred affair given by our next door neighbours’ daughter when she finally left home. Roger’s was an old ‘sit up and beg’ with a bit of rust and brakes that (unknown to his mother) did not work. Our parents supported us on our faltering two wheels, first in our back yards, then in the street, where we taught the rest. Then we were off!  On the road! Brakes or no brakes, it wasn’t a problem! Just made the hills more or less exciting and there was little traffic. All the roads on our estate were allowed, only the bottom road, the main road bordering the countryside,  was forbidden and we obeyed. We didn’t ride there. Then a catastrophe struck. It was a perfect storm. The combination of the steep hill,  the junction with the bottom road, the bike with no brakes,  traveling unavoidably, at full speed,  and a ...

http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1062912?__r=26454&s=w

http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1062912?__r=26454&s=w

Dandelion Seed by Lynn White http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1062912?__r=26454&s=w

       Meeting You spoke to me.  A smile on your lips and a sadness  behind your eyes  to match my own. I could see it, recognise it. I knew it well. “Hello you”, I said. “Hello me?” A gesture, a question in your voice, laughter caught  in the back of your throat and eyes that smiled. Momentarily. At least momentarily understanding. https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_march_april_2016/1

The Driving Instructor I needed rather a lot of driving lessons. My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help. Nor, did my occasional confusion between right and left. But, coming up to my test, my new instructor was sympathetic. We could go for a Sunday drive, he said. I could have a free lesson and maybe a drink after. Well, why not? He told me a story over the drink. He’d been in the war in Singapore. Such horror. And conscripts all. In the chaos  an enemy soldier had shot his dog. Shot her. Killed her, dead. Such horror. And conscripts all. But, it was alright in the end, he’d ‘got’ the one who did it. ‘Got him.’  Shot him!  Killed him,  dead. Such horror. And conscripts all. The life of a man for the life of a dog. Both shot. Both killed. Both dead. It was the life of the man I valued most. And I said so using a lot of words. Yes, rather a lot of words loudly spoken. So no more free ...

Tourists                                                                                                             Car, train, plane or ship. It's your choice when you visit the green fields  of France or Belgium. And you can stay close or take  an optional excursion. It's your choice. Well, there's money to be made.  And you'll be moved to marvel  at the spectacle of it all stretched out before you. The bright green fields over fed  with mashed body parts and blood  sucked out by vampires' fangs. Look, see the white teeth crossed in their rows upon rows and stand proud with respect. Snap, snap, click, click. Take a few pics to join to join those...

Crossing Over Running downhill, on and on, the orange sun bearing down on me. Scorching me,  burning me up until I come to a river cold with ice. Icy water flowing too fast. Too fast. Faster than I can run. Flaming under that bridge. A bridge to somewhere  from here, from where I am. But where is here  or there? And is the bridge real or a bridge of dreams. Or, a bridge for my dreams, leading nowhere. If I cross over will I plummet into the nowhere on the other side. Shall I try? Or shall I stay here running looking for the light until I find it.

Nightfall It’s that time when Day closes,  down, shuts up shop draws down the blinds, so that Night can fall down. And it does, every day, shutting out the light until Day breaks  and the sun shines through rising up  through the dark, only waiting for Night  to drag it down  again.

The Keys of the Kingdom The kingdom had so many keys, keys to its doors, keys to its gold, keys to its time, keys to its secrets. Nothing moved without a key. Everything was controlled. Nothing was free. Then came the Great War of the Keys and the kingdom collapsed. Its doors stayed open, its secrets exposed. Its gold melted away. Its locks grew rusty. Time stood still. All it had valued  rotted away, decayed, collapsed  into a heap of useless keys. First published in With Painted Words, February 2016 http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=986