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.

The vicar, a dedicated professional, began to continue the service.

Mrs Jones stood up and began to sing ‘The Internationale’.

Most people joined in and no one could hear the vicar

Who became very angry.

“It was a riot”, Nina said, with a wry smile.

When they had finished singing, they started to shout at the vicar.

He shouted back telling them that he was throwing them out 

And they were never to come into his church (or outside it) again.

Everyone cheered, but no one left and Bosco made his last journey

To the sounds of ‘Bandero Rosso’ and ‘Joe Hill’ sung very lustily,

Which he would have liked a lot.

“It was a riot”, Nina said, casting her eyes upwards.

Afterwards, they all enjoyed eating the food that the children had organised.

And drinking the drink and arguing and shouting at those

With whom they had political differences and at those 

With whom they were in complete agreement.

The vicar stopped by and apologised to Mrs Jones, who was very rude at first,

But then happy to sit down and explain her position

While he listened.

People still talk about the riot at the funeral of Bosco Jones

Published in Tell Tale Inklings, November 2016

https://www.amazon.com/Tell-Tale-Inklings-Mignon-Ariel-Editor/dp/1539655121/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1479840575&sr=1-1&keywords=tell-tale+inklings+%232+mignon

            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 Cana de Resistencia issue 2, 2016

First published in Ealain, Karma Issue

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.

Who the fuck would steal my rockers?

They never rocked very well,

but even so, they were better than nothing.

And Mr Taylor was hard pressed 

to make new ones 

in time for the exam,

even with multiple,

“No problem, don’t worry, girl”s, 

I was concerned.

But in the end

we both passed.

First published in Algebra of Owls, November 2016

https://algebraofowls.com/2016/11/05/mr-taylor-by-lynn-white/

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, Issue 2, November 2016

http://cajaderesistencia.cc/caja-de-imprenta/caja1-numero2/white/

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.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1049

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.

The old woman was also a fixture, special like the tables.

I must have known her. She was a character.

The men were talking and laughing, doing deals, maybe.

She watched but said little to them, though they were friendly.

Pimps and gangsters, I was told later. 

But they told me the special knock so I could go in any time.

Just for a chat and a joke, which were free, no pressure.

The name has changed now, but the snug looks the same.

The special tables, the wall paintings still are there.

The fiddles and guitars and trumpets still hang.

It’s no longer my space, not really, only remembered. 

And no special knock is needed now.

The old woman has gone, like the pimps and gangsters.

No one remembers her. No one knows her.

I must have known her though, for a time.

I remember, she was a character.

First published in Literary Yard, October 2016

https://literaryyard.com/2016/10/31/poem-the-grapes/