Poetry - Lynn White

Once Once I was whole. Complete. Unbroken. Once I breathed air. Once I walked. I spoke, I smiled,  I looked sad. Yes,  once I had feelings. And then, my sadness was selected. Chosen and frozen in it’s beauty. And then, the rest of me decayed, vanished, returned to dust. And now even the effigy is broken, the marble decaying. Only sadness remains. And soon,  even that will join me in the dust. http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/

Oranges Little paper people eating oranges. Big paper people eating oranges. Brown paper bags full of people eating oranges.  First published in Zombie Logic Review, October 2016 http://zombielogicreview.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/welsh-poet-lynn-white.html

       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. http://stanzaicstyling...

God Save the Sheep God save the sheep baa aah. Where would we be without them. Who would lead if no one followed? Why bother to whip up their storm of frenzy, to feed them on blades of rumours  ready to become knowledge, to become fact. Baa aah.  Say it again, baa aah. And only white sheep allowed, of course. No black or pink or purple  to shatter the consensus. Colours cannot be tolerated, along with druggies and drunks and survivors of abuse. Oh dear me, no, not appropriate here. Baa aah And suppose they stay?  Baa aa aah Plant their hooves in our cheap wet fields, sneak inside our friendly flock and contentedly munch a thistle here,  a spikey rush there. Baa aah. Drown them out baa aah, baa aah. God save the sheep. https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2016/10/26/god-save-the-sheep-by-lynn-white/

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,...

In Dreams Do you dream in colour, or are your dreams grey, muted monochromes, pale imitations of reality. Are they flat almost featureless in a blurred mist, or are they stark black and white. No grey. No doubt. Are your sleeping eyes prisms to reflect the outside in, in a spectrum of rainbowed glory. Or are you afraid. Afraid to let it enter your unconsciousness. Afraid to set it free to make a kaleidoscope of shades and tones to recreate a new reality in glorious colour. Do you remember?

Shrouded They’re following me, stalking my dreams and waking times, shrouded in mist almost as dark as the shrouds they wear to cover themselves, to cloak themselves for their journey. Shrouds like dusty abayas uniformly grey, shapeless, bloodless, formless, lifeless grey. Only their mouths still red, stained by their final feast. The feast of what was left. And now there’s nothing, nothing any more. No more. Nothing. http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/1180336

Bobbley Things Those knobbley, bobbley things  are marching forth covering the sidewalks  in a pavement proliferation of ever wider strips, ever steeper ramps, ever stranger cambers determined to catch you out. I know that they are only really designed  to trip up those who can’t see very well, but they are a problem for everyone those knobbley, bobbley things. I wonder, was the man designing them  bitten by a vicious guide dog, out of control? Or perhaps he was floored by the too eager  waving of a white stick? I think something has caused him  to bear a grudge. But it can’t be justified. when they are difficult for everyone those knobbley bobbley things. And yes, I know it’s a ‘him’. No woman would endanger  her high heeled strut in such a way. They are a male invention, those knobbley, bobbley things. Man made and increasingly creating problems for everyone. Seemingly unstoppable i...

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? https://intothebardo.wordpress.com/portfolio/a-rose-for-gaza/ First published by Poets Haven, Vending Machine in Poetry for Change Anthology 2014

Aftermath How can it be that someone I don't see,  only think  about sometimes, but never contact, or try to, leaves such a gap, in their final leaving. My life has not been changed. All is the same. So why the difference now that you're really in the past, when you were already part of my past and not of my future. Nothing has changed for me, not really, not in reality. So why do you occupy my thoughts in a different way. Why does my future feel different now you cannot be part of it, even though you never would be and I knew it. Perhaps because I can no longer dream you there. But why not when you could never be there and I knew it the same then,  as I know now. Why is it different, now even to dream? http://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/afrermath-by-lynn-white.html First published in With Painted Words, July 2015

Separate Development We must develop separately, you and I, you on your side, me on mine. The wall between us unscalable, impenetrable, unfathomable. They built it so. We must undermine it, you and I, you on your side, me on mine, Burrow beneath   the rocky foundation, scratch away, one stone at a time. Wall fall down. https://intothebardo.wordpress.com/portfolio/separate-development/

Doll My little princess. My china doll with your peachy skin and golden hair.  In pink frills I dressed you up, combed you and curled you. Made you into my special pet, my little angel, to be loved and cherished. My creation. My little girl. But all the time you were making up yourself, getting ready to  smash the porcelain, and break out to become  the creation you had already made up even before you painted  and inked your pearly skin, combed your hair straight, and gelled it  into jagged spikes with a pink splash. Shockingly, piercing the past, you broke out into your future. For you were never a princess, never a doll, and most of all, little girl, you were never mine, never mine to mould. https://writinginawomansvoice.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/doll-by-lynn-white-my-little-princess.html

The Village of Twee I am just arrived in the village of Twee with its little front gardens carefully wild, with its thatch nicely polished,  its flowers dust free. I wonder who tends them in the village of Twee. Who shampoos the pinks who waters the pots, who sweeps up the leaves and prunes all the phlox. There’s no humans to see in the village of Twee, just cars with their robots, red, white and pink. They wave as they drive through with shopping piled high singing ‘tra lah lah, welcome and fiddle di di. There’s a welcome for all in the village of Twee.’ They park right outside, with the pavements long gone to give wider roads for motoring robots. So how did it happen, this robotic coup. There must be a story or legend to tell to explain the strange culture I came across there. Well, pavements weren't needed with no humans to walk and that’s how it started if truth it be told. And it’s ‘tra lah lah, welcome and fiddle di di’ as the robots drive smiling through...

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,...

Mirror, Mirror Mirror, mirror, tell me who do you see. Is she white, snow white, whiter than white, fairer than fair. White as virgin snow unbroken by footprints, unblemished, unsullied. Or is her snowy white greying as time passes, picking up some of the dirt in passing. Maybe darker still in places as its whiteness decays  and melts away. Tell me, mirror, who do you see? https://writinginawomansvoice.blogspot.co.uk/ First published in Silver Birch Press ‘Same Name’ series, Feb 2016

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...

At Night I think I am less afraid of the dark than the light. Night time engulfs me, covers me gently with it’s thick darkness, comforts me with it’s curtains  of blackness. I don’t need to hide. It hides me.  Hides me from exposure, hides from me that which I fear  to see exposed. When the light falls I can see the ruins surrounding me and I am afraid of what lies within. Afraid of what will be exposed by the light, afraid of what I will expose in the light. First published in Poetry Breakfast, October 2016 https://poetrybreakfast.com/

Light And Dark The light always seek to hide the dark. The dark, the infiltrator of the light, the secret side emerging uneasily, ready to cast a shadow that will add to your mystery. And, just maybe shine a light inside your depths. The dark revealing what the light was hiding.  Not everything, not all, but some things that were hidden by the light. Enough. First published in Visual Verse, October 2016 http://visualverse.org/submissions/light-and-dark/

The Skin I'm In I used to wonder how I would grow and yet still fit in the skin I'm in. If we would grow together, me and my skin. Well, we seemed to have done quite well for a long time. I used to wonder how you would grow, and if you would still fit  the skin you are in. And if we would grow together and stay intact in our separate skins. Well, we seemed to have done, for a long time  anyway. Now I wonder… Am I still the same person under the skin?  Are you? I think I am. The outside has changed. But inside my skin I am intact.  Myself as before. I think. Not quite so comfortable  in my new skin, though. It doesn't fit me too well. Doesn't always represent me. Doesn't look like I still feel. Like I still am? What about you? Are you still that person  in your new skin? I'm not sure now if the inside  has also been renewed, changed. And if it is onl...

The End Once up on a time  he thought the worst would be not knowing what happened next, not knowing  how it all ended. Now, with the madness spiralling  into an ever tighter vortex, he no longer wants to know more. Now  he thinks  there will be no end  to the madness. Only his end with his death.

A Disappointing Day If they hadn’t asked her to smell the nice scent. If she hadn’t remembered the scent from before. There would have been  no screams, no stamping  up and down on the trolley. The nurse would still  have her cap on and the doctor would have no fist or feet marks on his white coat, no red hand mark on his pale cheek. There would have been no shock, horror reports to those who had put away Red Riding Hood and were waiting anxiously for news of their little girl. But they did ask her. They did ask her. The scent wasn’t nice. She knew it. And there was no ice cream afterwards either. They’d lied about that as well. A disappointing day. http://www.versewrights.com/ First published by Calliope, February, 2015

The Fall I'm running downhill running  faster and faster. I'm crossing the bridge now, still running, running to the end of the bridge, trying to see the end. But there is no end and I'm falling now, falling, falling. falling into the arms of the demons below with their waving arms outstretched and their claws primed waiting to break my fall and swallow me up into their depths. I grasp at the air, cling to the wind flailing, falling. flailing. Then, I’m clinging  to a hopeful ray of sunshine to carry me up, to take me with it into the light. Now I'm floating, floating, floating upwards or down. It's not clear, am I still falling or am I floating upwards into the light. First published in Spillwords, October 1 2016 with artwork by Lynn White http://spillwords.com/the-fall/