Janis

Every time

we listen,

a little piece

of her heart

cries out.

First published by CTU in Poetic Melodies, July 2016

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692739750/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_awdo_z89Cxb1FSV4WV

Dreamers

The sun is standing still for them

Standing still for the streams of dreamers.

Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere

else.

From somewhere that has become nowhere.

Dreaming of escape.

Dreaming of a future, any future.

Dreaming of better things to come.

Dreaming of the life they once had.

Dreaming of normality, whatever that means.

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

Dreaming of returning

when the sun comes up again,

if ever it does.

First published in Expound, Issue 6, June 2016

http://expoundmagazine.com/issue-6/

Living Alone and Loving It

I’m living alone and loving it,

that I am.

I had a good ‘un though,

but wouldn’t want to train another.

Takes years to train ‘em.

That couple last night,

what a one she was.

You could see who was boss

in that marriage.

Ain't it funny that 

you picked up on it as well!

I don’t like the shows, though.

That magician was terrible. 

Worst I've seen.

Mind you, magicians are old hat,

In my opinion.

Still, better than sitting on our own

watching the telly.

I think we only watch it out of boredom,

being on our own.

I wouldn’t want another, though.

Well, I had such a good ‘un,

it would’t be fair.

Couldn’t believe it when she said:

“I told my first that I’d divorce him

if he got a pot belly

and look what I’ve ended up with!”

Must have hurt him!

No equal partnership that!

You could see she was boss.

Fancy you picking up on it as well.

Must have hurt him.

Living alone and loving it, I am.

Wouldn’t be fair to have another.

I’d be making comparisons.

He was so meticulous.

If he was taking something to bits

he’d make a drawing first

so he could put it back together.

No wouldn’t be fair.

Fancy us both picking up 

on that woman last night.

Yes, you can see who’s boss

in that marriage.

No, wouldn’t be fair to have another.

Living alone and loving it,

that’s what I am.

First published in Clockwise Cat, Clockwise Rain, June 2016

http://clockwisecat.com/2016/06/clockwise-rain-issue-34/

The Place Where The Stars Are Buried

I’m on my way to the place 

where the stars are buried

under a roof of rain.

I won’t get lost.

I’m following the silver snail

trails and the muddy pools

with the little shimmers of spangles.

When I get there - to the place

where the stars are buried.

I shall dig a little, dig

just enough to let

a glimmer of light out.

Just enough to let

the love sparkle and

sizzle in the light

before it burns.

https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Circus-Age-Miracles-12/dp/1534600221/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1466611347&sr=1-10&keywords=midnight+circus

The Company of Butterflies

In the company of butterflies

I can whistle up the wind 

and fly

without boundaries.

Flutter by

and then rest

in the sunshine

and drink 

sweet nectar

and dream

and dream.

In the company of butterflies

I can whistle up the wind

and soar

over fragile rainbows.

Then stop

in a fusion 

of colour

to taste the gold 

at the end

of my flight

of fancy.

In the company of butterflies

I am boundless.

https://algebraofowls.com/2016/06/24/the-company-of-butterflies-by-lynn-white/

Perfectly Imperfect

It started when we stood hopefully,
with our thumbs outstretched
by an English roadside.
We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia
without maps or money,
or sense of direction.

And we made it to Italy.
and swam off the rocks,
with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And we swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.


And we made it to Pec and lived
in a house ‘typique du Turque’
with a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’,
which made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and
the conversations interesting,
Even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian,
which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot,
dusty roadside and fantasise
about the ice cold mountain water
streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.

And we made it back home.
We had got lost a lot,
but hadn’t got raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
What perfection.


First published by Silver Birch Press, Perfect Vacation Series, August 2015

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

Motherly Love

Monday, June 20, 2016

Lynn White

I have spent a lifetime

trying to break away,

trying to break out,

trying to find myself.
Always on the edge,
always on the outside,
not quite a part,

of it, not quite

a beatnik,
or a mod,
hippy, or
punk.

I was early to realise that

what she wanted me to be

was what she had wanted
for herself, about her, not me.
I wanted to escape such love.
I thought I could escape.
I thought I had escaped.
And I did, surely I did
escape
some
of it.

But not all.

Not enough.

So even now I feel tethered.

After all this time of leaving
her behind,
I remain
unsure
of my

own.

Part Of The Chorus

“If I lived inside my dreams

I could be most anything”,

sang Ray Davies.

It sounds personal when he lists

the things he could have been,

but I think it may be universal,

a list of similar dreams

that belongs to us all.

Top of mine would be to sing.

Not a singer on stage.

On stage I’d be a dancer, or actor,

No, I’d just be part of the audience,

part of the chorus, 

in tune with the rest.

joining in the Happy Birthdays -

not God Save the Queen, though,

that would be a step too far.

But ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ 

at a football match would be cool.

Just part of the chorus,

able to meet the eyes of the rest

without embarrassment.

No one nudging me to sing

more quietly.

No one concerned that my discords

would distract them from their

tunefulness.

A welcome voice,

in the chorus,

in tune with the rest.

First published by Silver Birch Press, in My Imaginary Skill series, June 2016

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/06/13/part-of-the-chorus-poem-by-lynn-white-my-imaginary-skill-poetry-and-prose-series/

Cabbage Dreams

I am dreaming my cabbage dream.

I’m peeling off the outer leaves

to find what lies hidden beneath.

Looks much the same as the outer leaf,

a little less battered and crinkled

but fundamentally the same.

Now for the next layer.

There’s a drop of water 

shining full of light

and something darker, more solid,

the leavings of some hidden creature.

Another layer reveals the holes

and the sleepy caterpillar

dreaming...

without his pipe 

without his crown,

so unsure of 

his own

identity, 

much less mine.

If I peel off 

layer after layer until

I get to the heart of it,

will I understand where I’ve come from

and be able to unpack the dream,

find the pipe and put the pieces 

together, make sense of the

cabbage, crown the king.

First published in Poetry Breakfast, June 11, 2016https://poetrybreakfast.com/2016/06/11/cabbage-dreams-a-poem-by-lynn-white/

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.

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2016/06/11/shades-of-the-same-skin-lynn-white/

http://www.writersezine.com/2016/06/the-sound-of-silence.html#more

http://www.writersezine.com/

Caught In A Moment Of Time

Last night at the theatre

I saw you again, your smile

in a face so much younger.

And I caught the moment

stilled in shock

and

held on to it.

I held it

and

the past held

for another moment,

our past,

and then I freed it

to fly

away

like a bird.

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, May 2016

http://pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/

Unicorn

I shouldn’t have done it.
I’ve always shunned
the spotlight,
always feared it.
Unlike the horses and dogs
who play the game,
perform,
do what’s expected
by their human providers,
by their audience.
I’ve always been afraid
of being seen
onstage
just in case
I was taken short
and golden notes
fell from my arse
and made
rainbows
brighter
than the spotlight,
upsetting
the lighting engineers.
I think we’re all the same,
we unicorns,
shy creatures.
That’s why we’ve
survived,
hiding
in dreams.

First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, January 2016

http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/themusesgallery.html

After The End

The sideboard was full of magazines.

Not whole magazines but

pages torn from them.

Pages of recipes.

Meals never eaten.

Exotic desserts never attempted.

Guest never invited or entertained.

At least the furniture had been used,

had had many years of use.

The clothes had been worn,

the pictures admired and enjoyed.

But the recipes were the saddest thing.

So many of them

for so many people

who never came.

First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016

http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white