An Effin Poem With your effing this and effing that. You may think you’re Bukowski but you sound like a prat. http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/three-poems-by-lynn-white
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Empty Vessels They look like empty vessels jingle jangling, the green light given to their recycling. Still full of air, like air filled heads, filled with nothingness. Emptied of knowledge. Emptied of thoughts. Emptied of ideas. Ready for the crushing plant to squeeze out the air and recycle it for the next breath. Ready to begin breathing again, hopefully. http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1033
Bury Me Deep Bury me deep in the tall meadow grass and bury me deep in your arms. Lie with me here in the sun ripening flowers where the blue of the sky hides the clouds. Bury me deep in your cool white sheets and kiss my eyes and my mouth. And as the warmth of your body flows in to mine I’ll bury you deep in my arms. Oh, bury me deep beneath darkening skies and hold me close to your heart. And buried deep with our love complete we’ll sleep covered over in stars. But the future lies with us heavy and dark. It has bitter sweet memories of now. With the tastes of the past buried deep in our love the tastes of the future are sharp. I can see both the stars and the blackness of night, the blindness and brightness of love. The past and the future cast shadows of time so bury me deep in your love. And bury me deep in the tall meadow grass and I’ll bury you deep in my arms. And lie with me here in the sun ripened flowers where the b...
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...
Numbers How many times have we had this conversation? I don’t know. I’m not good with numbers and neither are you. Probably, it’s the same number of times as we’ve promised not to have it again. I’m not very good with promises either. And neither are you. How many times have we made a decision, a final decision, that has convinced us? Probably never, as we’re still having this conversation. I’m not very good at decisions either. And neither are you. Life has become too complex for us and the numbers don’t add up as we’d like them to. We want to stop at two, but there are other numbers in between. So, our numbers keep on adding up to nothing. Nothing except conversations and promises that we don’t want or believe in. And are unable to end. http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/three-poems-by-lynn-white
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. First publis...
Rabbit A rabbit ran out from the rocks and looked up. Bright eyes caught in the glare of my headlights. I swerved and braked. Probably should have done one or the other. Should have made a choice. There's hindsight for you. Did I hit it? Don't know. But was only a rabbit, a little furry thing with big ears. Insignificant. I drove on. Poor little furry thing. It might be lying there stunned. The next car up would run over it. Finish it off. OK, not much traffic going up here at two o'clock in the morning. But something has to be next and before too long. Should I turn round and check… No, it's only a rabbit, drive on. But perhaps it was a mother rabbit. All the baby rabbits would be waiting for her return, whimpering, crying, not knowing yet that they were going to starve to death. And it was my fault, my responsibly, the death of all those baby rabbits. Where's safe...
Gaza 20th July 2014 Thirteen soldiers died today. Soldiers. Soldiers not people. People could not do it. Could not do the things they did. The thirteen dead and the rest who live. Soldiers. Things in uniform obeying orders, yes sir no sir-ing their way into oblivion. They could do it. They would do anything, if told to. Humanity suspended or cuckooed. Killing machines, destroyers of dreams, burying them in the rubble with the bits. With the bits of bodies, the hands and the feet, the breasts and the balls. Things in uniform. Daleks of death. They did it. They killed every thing. Maybe if enough things die they will stop their slaughter. Maybe if enough things die they will become extinct like the dodo, the stuff of legend like the unicorn. I hope so. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-gaza-20th-july-2014
In The End In the end I'll be like you. Dust with flakes of skin and bone wrapped in long hair. Teeth chattering With no voice. No sense of taste - or smell. No reason. In the end we'll be invisible, impenetrable, anonymous, figments. But then, we always were you and I, we always were. First Published in In Flight Magazine, Paper Plane Pilots, January 2015 See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6304#sthash.ZWWmU9YW.dpuf
THE SCARLET WOMAN We called her 'The Scarlet Woman' and gave her sails of red and white like shiny scarlet lips astride pearls of white teeth. We roamed the seas in her. Entered every port in search of the scarlet women with hot ruby lips who would give us a hand to paint the town red. http://visualverse.org/submissions/the-scarlet-woman/
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? First published by Poets Haven, Vending Machine in Poetry for Change Anthology 2014 http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-a-rose-for-gaza
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?...
Expectations I had never been to the seaside. I knew what to expect, though. I had a book about it. There were lots of pictures of rock pools and the strange creatures living there. My favorites were the hermit crabs. I was looking forward to those the most. I had a little bucket to collect them in. But there were no rock pools, at this seaside. Just flat sand with a thin distant line of cold grey sea. Why? No one said. I found some shells to put in my bucket. I liked the tiny pink ones best. But most were broken and not worth collecting. Why? No one said. No shells, no hermit crabs, but they showed me how to put damp sand into my miniature bucket. with my miniature spade and how to pat it down and tip it out to make ‘sand pies’. I was supposed to like doing this. Why? No one said. They gave me some paper flags on thin wooden sticks. I could stick them in the top of my sand pies. I was supposed ...