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

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 blue of the sky meets the clouds.

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2016/08/25/writer-highlight-featuring-lynn-white-2/

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 fly on to the next.

Yes.

If I were a butterfly

that’s where I’d fly.

If I were a butterfly

then where would I fly?

I would grace every home

bringing good luck every time.

I would 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.

First published in Anti Heroin Chic, August 2016

 http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/three-poems-by-lynn-white

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 published in Ealain, Karma Issue

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal

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 to turn?

I know! 

The garage.

There it is. 

Sheesh..

That did my tyres no good!

Here I go 

back 

to the scene.

Stop. 

Get out the car. 

Walk back

in the dark, 

no torch, 

of course,

searching.

There it is,

one dead rabbit,

ears sticking up.

Squashed.

Ah well, in the midst of life

and all that.

Back in the car.

Off up the hill.

Nice glass of red waiting

for when I get home.

Straight up the hill.

And then..

A rabbit ran out from the rocks.

A furry bundle with big ears

and a white tail.

I caught it's frightened eyes 

in the glare of my headlights,

braked and swerved.

Another squashed rabbit.

Was probably the dad.

First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, August 2016

http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poemsaug2016/category/lynn-white

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?

Or did we somehow

share

a memory 

from our 

imaginations.

https://www.ucm.es/data/cont/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

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 to like doing this.

Why?

No one said.

I thought I’d save up my flags

until I’d climbed the mountain

at my auntie’s.

When I got to the top

I’d arrange them into my initials

so everyone would know I’d been there.

I started to practice this.

But they said the mountain 

was a slag heap, not a mountain

and therefore out of bounds.

Why?

No one said.

We stayed on the beach a long time.

Then we went to a toy shop.

My father bought me a doll 

with real hair, they said.

But it was made of nylon.

I called her Gloria.

That was the best bit.

but nothing was 

as it had been

inside my head.

First published in Silver Birch Press, Beach and Pool Series, 2016

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/08/01/expectations-poem-by-lynn-white-beach-and-pool-memories-poetry-and-prose-series/