Thursday 29 September 2016
Sunday 25 September 2016
Such Fun
It was such fun to jump in autumn puddles,
and pale, sun starved legs,
in weather too wet to kick up the leaves
that lay swept soggily into piles.
And when winter came, such fun
to leap into snow drifts
that came over the tops of my red wellies
and my extra socks
as I tested the deepness of the snow
and the slipperiness of the ice slide.
Come the summer rain, I tried on my red wellies
but they had grown too small or me too large,
so I got my feet wet when I jumped in the stream.
Such fun, but I missed my red wellies.
https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Circus-Fall-EAB-Publishing/dp/1537355457/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1474753123&sr=8-11&keywords=midnight+circus+eab+publishing
Friday 23 September 2016
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
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.
https://www.createspace.com/6575459
First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016
Thursday 22 September 2016
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,
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!
https://intothebardo.wordpress.com/portfolio/the-hoopoes-are-back/
First published by Furry Writers Guild in Civilised Beasts Anthology, 2015, Weasel Press
Tuesday 20 September 2016
It’s Clear
On a clear night
I should see the moon full silver
in a sky shot by moonbeams.
Not greyed by a smoky mist
and dust clouds rising from the ruins.
I should see a black, black sky.
Not bright from the orange glow
from the fires of hell on earth.
Which send sparks high enough
to compete with the stars,
the pinpoint moonbeam spangles.
Not beamed by lasers.
I should hear the silence
in the depth of the black night,
not the explosive cacophony
bought by the masters of war
and the silent screams
buried in the rubble.
I should hear people talking in the street
and the music and laughter of the night.
I should see them walking home
to feel firm flesh loving and soft
unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel,
masquerading as humanity and
wrapping themselves in the uniforms
of thousand years old myths
dressed up as history.
These should be my rights.
But they aren’t.
I have no rights.
Nor do you.
Only what they give us,
the men of the flags,
temporally.
First published by Harbinger Asylum, Literary Review, Spring, 2015
Monday 19 September 2016
Like Alice
I’m too big.
I’m too small.
I can’t I fit in,
fit into this, rabbit hole world,
any more than I did the other,
Both can’t be wrong,
can they?
It must be me
that doesn’t fit,
that can’t be made
to fit into them.
Me that’s wrong.
Both worlds can’t be wrong,
can they?
https://poetrybreakfast.com/2016/09/19/like-alice-a-poem-by-lynn-white/
Saturday 17 September 2016

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, 2016
https://bywriters.com/poetry/dreamers-583/
Thursday 15 September 2016
Dawn Chorus
It starts with one.
One skylark singing.
One Carson warning.
Then the robins and blackbirds join in.
The early birds, like Carson.
as the daylight warms them.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
The warning calls are warming up as well,
strengthening their numbers
as the bird song
dies away.
Listen.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
Listen.
Don’t sleep.
Don’t wait
to hear
the silence.
https://intothebardo.wordpress.com/portfolio/dawn-chorus/
Wednesday 14 September 2016
In The End
In the end
I’ll be like you.
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
http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/1155666?__r=116913
Monday 12 September 2016
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
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.
First published in Whirlwind, 2015
https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2016/09/12/washed-up-by-lynn-white/
Saturday 10 September 2016
Friday 9 September 2016
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.
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?
Thursday 8 September 2016
Moving On
They said that you never go back
once you leave home.
I was sure I would
and I promised
my mother
as we packed the big black trunk.
I was homesick and in tears those
first few days in college.
‘Hay fever’, I said.
In September!
I promised
I’d come home at the weekend
And I did, I did as just I’d promised.
But I didn’t want to go.
Didn’t want to leave
all my new friends
and all the new
though it was nice to meet old ones again.
I had lots to tell them about my new home,
my new friends and my new place.
And about all the excitement.
I planned for old friends
to visit my new home
and they did
eventually.
And then the new went to visit the old.
But ‘they’ were right to say that
you never go back home
once you leave.
I never did.
Not really.
I never
went back
to stay.
First published in Silver Birch Press, September 2016
https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/09/08/moving-on-poem-by-lynn-white-when-i-moved-poetry-and-prose-series/
Monday 5 September 2016
Anxious
I am dancing
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.http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/
Friday 2 September 2016
Does the horse believe what he's seeing
as the green dragon floats by
breathing rainbows
from flower filled puffs of breath.
Would you believe it?
Would I
believe it?
After all,
this is not the usual sort of dragon
whose fire filled breaths register alarm.
But alarm registers, never the less,
as this is not the usual sort of dragon
and none of us are sure
what will happen next.
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