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://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/dreams-by-lynn-white.html

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic, February 2016

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, but

with the same person in it.

To change where I am is the easy part.

To change who I am is difficult, hardly possible.

But without this change, 

nothing will change,

except that summer will have gone,

winter will surely follow fall

and spring will be a long way away.

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/writer-highlight-fe…/

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, May 2016

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

in their forward march.

First published in Zombie Logic Review, October 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.

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 the village of Twee.

So are there still humans?
I've heard they're indoors
their legs long since wasted,
they're unable to walk.
So the robots took over
and they do what they can
to keep the thatch polished
and dig up the weeds,
to feed all that need it
and take out the waste.
And when work is finished their day will come,
when new robots grow older, they can move on.
Singing ‘tra lah lah, bye now and fiddle di di,
there’ll be no more humans in the village of Twee’

First published in Pillcrow and Dagger, October 2016

http://pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/

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, but

with the same person in it.

To change where I am is the easy part.

To change who I am is difficult, hardly possible.

But without this change, 

nothing will change,

except that summer will have gone,

winter will surely follow fall

and spring will be a long way away.

http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/two-poems-by-lynn-white6713263

First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, May 2016

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 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.

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/10/08/if-i-were-a-butterfly-poem-by-lynn-white-if-i-poetry-prose-series/

First published in Anti Heroin Chic, August 2016

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 only on the outside, 

that we have changed together.

First published in Anti Heroin Chic, Oct 4 2016

http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/two-poems-by-lynn-white6713263

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/