Poetry - Lynn White

Jacko I saw him flapping around in the grass, one wing at an improbable angle. I chased him, caught him, wrapped him carefully in my cerise and navy school scarf. Jack, jack, jacko.. Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet who set the broken wing, wrapped it carefully in plaster, a heavy pot. He was subdued on the bus home, but still managed to greet my mother, Jack, jack, jacko. He perked up later after tea and explored the living room placing bits of straw artistically and decorating them with pooh. Which was why he had to live at school, home only for weekends. Jack, jack jacko! But he enjoyed bus journeys now and greeted all the passengers, hopping from shoulder to shoulder, waking them up with a wang from his pot, nibbling an ear here and a nostril there. Most were charmed, but some were not. He was close to becoming the only jackdaw to be banned from public transport. Jack, jack, jacko!! And then disaster! the wing had not hea...

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I Am A Child I am a child of the revolution created by the wake of fascism and imperialism, that sought to construct a more just society. I am a child numbed by poverty, stultified by working class conformity, of a mother who wanted better for me, but also wanted to keep me the same. I am a child of these contradictions who became a rebel in the cultural revolution of the rock and roll generation. Who was liberated by student life, by control of fertility, by other places, by the music and art all parents hated. I am still that child. This is what made me. This is what shaped me and became part of my present, became part of my future. Sometimes I have tried to escape it. Sometimes I still do. http://heroinchic.weebly.com/…/two-poems-by-lynn-white14593…

Motherly Love I have spent a lifetime trying to break away, trying to break out, trying to find myself. Always on the edge, always on the outside, not quite a part, of it, not quite a beatnik, or a mod, hippy, or punk. I was early to realise that what she wanted me to be was what she had wanted for herself, about her, not me. I wanted to escape such love. I thought I could escape. I thought I had escaped. And I did, surely I did escape some of it. But not all. Not enough. So even now I feel tethered. After all this time of leaving her behind, I remain unsure of my own. First published in Yellow Chair Review, June 2016 http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal

My Bag I have a lifetime of projects, that I carry round in a plastic bag. A paper bag would be better environmentally, but plastic is more durable. And it needs to be. It has had to last a lifetime, my bag. A lifetime of ideas, thoughts, doings and sayings carefully annotated and stored for use sometime later. To be finished, or started sometime later. I can add an idea, capture a thought, write it down, so it will be there, safe, in my bag. It's getting heavy my bag. Who would have thought that dreams could be so heavy, even encased in paper. It's getting full my bag. So is my life empty with everything on the inside. Perhaps now it’s time to start emptying it out. Slowly though. One at a time, and with care. It's getting late. But not too late, I hope, to empty my bag. http://spillwords.com/my-bag/

On the Edge I’m standing on the edge, on the rim of the perimeter, on the outside, looking.... I’m not sure where I’m looking, outwards over the horizon or inwards to the inner depth, the inside of something. The inner void or the outer space. Face or about face. But there’s no confusion. Both faces are the same, I think... Can somewhere be full of emptiness? First published in Calliope, June, 2015 http://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.co.uk/…/on-edge-by-lynn-wh…

Unresolved I know that nothing will be resolved, there will be no solutions. So I will make no resolutions, not this year, not next. No, no more. I shall free myself from the unresolved, throw the past up in the air and not bother to catch it on the way down. I’ll laugh as it fragments, as it disintegrates, as it falls about my feet. I’ll kick it out of the way as I resolve to move on and leave the unresolved behind me. First published in Vox Poetica, January 2017 http://voxpoetica.com/unresolved/

Grains of Time Time is running out for me And I sit here gazing into space Watching each grain trickle away. I can't catch them, Can't stop them, Can't slow them down Or speed them up. I can only live the moment As it passes. First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, January 2017 http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems4/category/lynn-white

Weeping Mask The mask weeps diamond tears, turning ruby like as the blood flow starts. Then black like coal as decay begins and the mask itself begins to crack, to distort and disintegrate, to flake away, to disappear. As all masks will in the end. Until only the tears remain. First published in Magnolia Review, January 2017 https://themagnoliareview.wordpress.com/a…/volume-3-issue-1/

Spinning I’m spinning a sphere of mirrored glass and I’m seeing my world differently. Upside down. Round and round. Making me dizzy. But perhaps it was always upside down and spinning out of control in any case. Perhaps. Perhaps it always will be. First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, January 2017 http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems4/category/lynn-white

Caged It’s pleasant enough wandering these pathways flanked by tall the rectangular cages, each protected by a steel door with a security code. Even pleasanter later, when the cages are lower and less daunting enclosures of decorative brick or pricey stone surrounding quiet green spaces, each protected by metal gates with a security code. Occasionally a creature emerges, sometimes with barred teeth, clenched fists, raised claws. But mostly looking sad and out of condition. Lost inside itself. Poor things. Lost souls searching. Mostly though, they are seen outside, moving purposefully to a destination, not free to wander random paths. Or heading back to their cages, hoping there is no diversion which may leave them lost. Leave them in terror of the unforeseen The unforeseen circumstances that may arise from freedom. Freedom to be lost. Poor things. Lost souls in or out of their zoo. First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, January 2017 http://www.scarlet...

Rejection It’s not that I’m not tempted, she said and I don’t want to offend you. She took my hand briefly, to show there was no offence intended, then let it go. I held on to hers as she explained. Then we walked in silence for quite a long way enveloped in the dark night. Hand in hand. Quiet footsteps that didn’t break the silence. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back. Or was I the first to smile and she smiled back? I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter, but we don’t remember. http://www.davidpfraser.ca/fridays-poems.html

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 spiraling 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. First published in Magnolia Review, January 2017 https://themagnoliareview.wordpress.com/a…/volume-3-issue-1/

Eye Contact Look at me. Hey, look at me. I’m here I’m real, a real person and I like you a lot. You’re really special. Hey look at me, look into my eyes. Look at me! How the fuck can I look at you when you keep kissing my eyes closed! First published in Rat’s Ass Review, Love and Ensuing Madness, 2017 http://ratsassreview.net/?page_id=1070#LWhite http://ratsassreview.net/?page_id=1070

For Charlie So many people marching and waving, waving pencils and pictures of pencils. Millions and millions marching with pencils, asserting their values, showing their power, paying their respects. But it's not what it seems. say the sideline snipers, the underminers, the false flag wavers, the pencil baiters, the Je Suis Fuck All-ers. They're pencilled pawns, just part of the plans of the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters, the manipulators, the plotters and schemers, the money makers. The bullets were blanks and, the dead, aren’t dead. Say the sideline snipers, the underminers, the false flag wavers, the pencil baiters, the Je Suis Fuck All-ers. just look who's leading from the front line. It's the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters. It’s proof enough What more do you need. But it's not what it seems. It's a trick of the ...

Transitions When I was seventeen it was seemed a very good year. I'd moved slowly back and forth across the threshold between child and adult for a long time. And it felt a long time still, since I'd been ready, ready to take that final leap. Now I was approaching a new threshold, hovering between ballroom and beat. Moving on from US rock to the Mersey sound and British Blues. Moving from home to a new town where I could escape the mother's mould and I was ready, ready to to take that leap and embrace independence. Ready. But less confident than the face I showed. Excited by the brightness of my future. Afraid of the dark mushroom cloud hanging above us all. And I was ready, ready to do what I could about it all when I crossed the threshold and moved on. First published in Silver Birch Press, January 2017 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/transitions-poem-…/

Tell Me, Mirror Tell me, Mirror, which face do you see? Is it a pale face, fairer than fair, unsullied by sun, moist and unlined,  unblemished by wind. Glowing white, white as virgin snow unbroken by footprints. Or is the glowing skin wrinkling, the shining white greying. As time has passed has it picked up some dirt in passing. Maybe it’s darker still in places as the whiteness decays. As it melts away like the snow. Tell me, Mirror, Which face do you see? First published in Verbal Art, November 2016 http://www.authorspressbooks.com/book_detail.php?preference=1081

Anxious I am dancing in the sunlight, 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. https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016

Sunshine and Shadows https://issuu.com/wandrmag/ docs/reflection_wr_mag_jan_ feb_2017

Light and Dark https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_jan_feb_2017 First published in Visual Verse, October 2016