Poetry - Lynn White

Skull The skull lies desolate on the bare mountain side. Lying among rocks and stones with a few accompanying bones. Each day it decays as nature weathers it and destroys all its form and substance so that it wastes away and fades into the landscape. If it had come to rest lower down the mountain it would have sunk into the boggy peat moss and risen with hair and hide intact with, the cause of death discernible, with its last meal of grass or rabbit still there inside its stomach. Preserved by nature. Preserved or wasted. It all depends on where you fall. First published in With Painted Words, September 2016 http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1055

Roots It’s said that you should remember your roots, remember where you came from, remember where you belong, anchored by your long tap root. But I have fibrous roots too, growing out strongly from the main tap. I have spread them out and put them down in many places, taken sustenance from them. They’ve been part of my growth, fed my main stem and it’s splits and branches. I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all, all those places. And some rootlets have broken free and I’ve left them behind there no longer belonging to me. And I’ve left something of myself behind. Would I find it if I returned? I don’t think so. But others may still. Published in Reflection Wandrmag, Spirituality issue, November 2016 https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016

 The Funeral of Bosco Jones Twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life. His children, (long departed from their roots), returned. “Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything. We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers. A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life. They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear And join in the proceedings. There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity. The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying. She started to look around her and take in the proceedings. She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed. Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist, “I’m having none of this!” she cried, “My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!” Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again...

            Blue Blue skies, blue sea, a day of sparkling sunshine, with a shimmering horizon. And then, out of this blue, You, smiling sadly with your lovely blue eyes. I knew you from the back, you said, the cut of your hair, your bright blue mac. I wanted to see your face again, it’s only fair, you’ve seen mine. You must have done, me, being who I am. I wanted to smell your clean hair smell. So I took a chance, and here I am. I wanted to  abate the sadness. I nodded. Yes.  I know it’s true. It’s all been said  and we won’t be sad.  No blue moods on this bright blue day  of smiling sunshine. We’ll go together now,  for now  and be glad. After all,  one way or another,  everything will end in tears, I said, So let’s take our now time and chance the rest. Published in Spillwords, November 2016       ...

Home Coming I think that today will be my home coming day. The day I’ve been waiting for, when I’ll come back. to where I came from. Back to here where I belong. Even though, I was never here before, never in this place, never with this person. I know I’m home. I can feel it. And know I will stay and that it and you will stay with me. I must go outside sometimes, leave sometimes, of course I must. But I’m floating free and I will take it all with me. It has become part of my being, so I can’t move away. Can’t separate us. This place and this person, have engulfed me. Surrounded me in sweetness and brought me back from wherever I was, Brought me home, made me complete, but still free floating, carrying them with me always. It’s the day I’ve been waiting for. https://issuu.com/wandrmag/…/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016… First published in Silver Birch Press, I Am Waiting series March 2015

Picture of Maud I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. She never grew old, never even grew up. My father cried.. I never knew her, never even knew of her. But I know now. I have a photograph so I can see her, picture her as she was. And I won’t forget that I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. First published in Silver Birch Press' 'Prized' Series, November 2016 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/11/19/a-picture-of-maud-poem-by-lynn-white-my-prized-possession-poetry-and-prose-series/

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. Published in C...

Behind the Mask Will I ever see the man behind the mask? I think I can  sometimes through the eye slits, sometimes when they are open. Eyes are revealing, after all, and difficult to hide. Maybe they’ll tell me enough, tell me all I need to know. So I will have no urge to peel off the mask, to tear it away from the skin underneath. It would be too painful, anyway. Too raw, for both of us and would leave behind a soreness that would not heal. And still not all would be revealed by the exposure. Saudade Issue 2, 2016 https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?ie=UTF8&text=M.+Berza&search-alias=books-uk&field-author=M.+Berza&sort=relevancerank

Frogs That Can Fly Three rooks flew over loudly croaking. The frogs below were intrigued. “How do we fly?”, they croaked in reply. “How do we fly?” “How do we swim?” croaked the rooks in response. “If you fall from the sky we’ll teach you to swim,” leaping so high the frogs croaked in reply. “ So tell us, please, won’t you, how do we fly?” First published in Zombie Logic Review

Mr Taylor Probably a polar bear was not a good choice for my first attempt at whittling.  A hamster would have been simpler and avoided the multiple leg fractures.. “Don’t worry girl, no problem”, Mr Taylor said, when I showed it to him. “Leave it to me.  Bit o plastic wood,  That’ll soon sort it” and it did. The tail was more challenging. But all was not lost, just the tail, and I managed to convince the Examiner that polar bears don’t have tails. Maybe they don’t. I’m no expert. I progressed slowly, and probably  a rocking elephant was not the best choice for my Final Piece. There was a lot to cut out, a lot of curvy bits. The huge electric saw bench loomed ominously in the corner. “Don’t you go near that, girl” cried Mr Taylor if I glanced in it’s direction. “Here, give it here,  Leave it to me.  There you are. Now just a bit o plastic wood...” And then disaster! Someone stole the rockers. ...

Death at Work Such a terrible thing, to go to work and not come home. To put yourself in danger, risk a fall or an infection just to do your job, earn your bread without hurting anyone. An accident happened or someone was negligent. So much grief unheard except by those close. Personal grief staying personal. Maybe some were heros, maybe not.  Some good, some less so. Just people. Soldiers though, they are always heros, especially when dead. Those sent out to kill for the politicians and the generals. It's automatic, goes with the territory, whoever's territory it is. Heros when they kill the other guys. Heros again when the other guys kill them. Murdered heros the courts say now, unlawfully killed killed by criminals who should be brought to justice. Not corporate manslaughter to be forgotten. Criminals or someone else's heros. Depends on your territory. Caja de Resistencia. Revista de Poesía crítica, Is...

http://inflightlitmag.com/issues/issue9/ Lino cut by Lynn White

Who Am I When did I last know who I am? I wonder if it when I was a child, when I made up stories  from my imagination. Was I separate then from the imaginary children with imaginary parents and imaginary friends. knowing where my story began and where I ended. I don’t remember. Perhaps the story ended before I began. Perhaps the two began together. Perhaps they may end together, separately or eternally entwined, inseparable. I cannot say. I never could. Did I ever know who I am? First published in Literary Yard, October 2016 https://literaryyard.com/2016/10/31/poem-who-am-i/

    Angels Wings I am pondering the nature of  angels wings. Fluttery things. Gossamer  like powdery moths or butterflies,  fluttering by. Or, feathered like a bird's. Made to hover and soar. To glide on the thermals, higher and higher, heavenwards. Not tight skin and bone like bat's  or scaly like dragon's. Prehistoric. Long before the birds  and the flutterbies. But, after than the angels, later than those fluttery things. So did the feathers come first and fall to earth becoming scales on the way down. How far did they fall before they left heaven  and hit the ground flying to metamorphose and make a scaly shell of skin ready to burst and open dustily.  Powdered. Clothed. Scaled like moths in clouds of dust Not so different then in the scales of things, those powdered creatures those fluttery things, those angels wings. http://www.withpaintedwor...

The Stack of Stones The stack of flat stones was piled much higher once. It formed a rough stairway all the way to heaven, till someone took it down to pave their patio. https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/157e4d2a8e46abef

            The Grapes The pub on the corner was known as ‘The Grapes’. I used to go there a lifetime ago, with one friend or another.  It was my local, my space, my place, friendly and safe. I had no money, just bought a half now and then. I was not a good customer, I remember. The people in there were smiley and friendly. They showed me the special knock, I can still remember. It allowed me in at any time of the day or night  without any hassle or hanging about, even though, I was not a good customer. I remember the old woman dressed in a shapeless coat,  and always wearing a head scarf. She sat in the corner  with her glass of mild or Guinness placed firmly on one of Peter Kavanagh’s special tables. Yes, I remember her. She was a character. I remember that snug with the dark scenes painted on the walls and the shapes of music   hanging from the ceilings above the special tables. Th...