Poetry - Lynn White

Penetration You tell me I can look inside you penetrate you, delve amongst what’s hidden there, know you. And yes, I know you. Know that you hide yourself  in subterfuge. Know there’s both fantasy and fact in the mixture you expose in your stories. And they’re hidden inside. I know that you bar the door,  and don’t let anyone in. Make up stories. Or spit out what comes first  into your head. Let it escape. Then, if it’s true,  hide it, cloak it in make believe,  in fantastic lies. So no one knows  you. Yes, I can see inside, see the grand mixture of nonsense, of deceit and anxiety,  truth and concern for privacy. But I can’t separate out one from  the other. And it doesn’t matter, you see, I like the mystery. But you are wrong to think that when I look inside you I know who you are. Only that you are a mystery. And that I like mysteries. I can understand them....

Rosie Can I be a rose? Yes, I think so. It’s my calling, after all. And I have pinkish skin and rosy cheeks. And I am as multi layered,  as complex, as any petalled rose worth my name. Yes, that’s for sure. Is there a fragrance  on my breath? I like to think so. And will it be discernible, sniffable, rosily perfumed? Yes, especially  in the moist evening, but take care not to  disturb my roots, to cut me off and watch me fade away. https://electronicpamphlet.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/rosie-by-lynn-white/

Transient Snowflakes lit by sunbeams blowing gently, fragile as shadows making rainbows in the sun. Smiling in the soft light. So soft. So soft. Catch them quickly in your hair  to melt them while the sun  is still shining and smiling.  As, for only as long as it falls, the snow can renew them  when they melt away. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1540883868/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1482012062&sr=8-1&keywords=midnight+circus%3A+winter

End of the Season The season of wrinkles and over ripeness has arrived too soon. Shriveled buds. Fruits bursting open, their seeds drying out, beginning to crinkle and wrinkle. Beginning to split and break. Beginning to moulder and dribble with damp. Their past spring a distant dream. Or not remembered at all. Faded away like the fresh shoots of hopeful green growth. Even the memories of the florid, blowzy summer’s blooms are fading. Fading fast and faster. Perhaps this season of dry dampness has been here a while and I haven’t noticed. It’s been approaching a long time. Slow at first imperceptible. Speeding up, then quickening. But still imperceptible almost unnoticeable as everything slows down quickly. So quickly now. I think that winter has arrived. The season is over, finished lost beyond returning. https://treehousearts.me/2017/02/22/poetry-by-lynn-white-dandelion-seed-end-of-the-season-and-in-the-end/

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. First published by ITWOW, She Did It Anyway Anthology, May 2015 http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal

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...

Fragment It’s all that’s left. A gossamer fragment, The headband still attached but nothing left to cover the face. I wonder, what happened to the rest of the veil. I wonder, if it went the way of the marriage. The way of the faces hidden behind the net curtains. It’s all that’s left now. A gossamer fragment floating like a cobweb in a dusty room Ready to be swept away with the rest. First published in Visual verse, January 2017 http://visualverse.org/submissions/fragment/

The Best Medicine Humour heals better than hate. You can confront hate with reason but humour is best if unreason prevails, if more hate is your only return. You can wind up the anti, add hate to the hate, add aggression to aggression, madness to madness. But he'll like humour less. Anyway it's more fun. https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/three-poems-17/ First published by Harbinger Asylum, Literary Review, Spring, 2015

In The Balance Again, I wonder, Is this a dream that I am here with my feet in the air and my head down below, maybe getting ready to bury it in the sand. If it’s not a dream, I can’t explain this terrifying topsy turvy world where everything hangs in the balance. Will I ever be the right way up again, I wonder. I don’t want to have my head in the clouds, just five feet four inches above my feet, which used to be the norm for me. Now I’m like a fly without wings. And with no suckers I’m ready to fall off the ceiling in this upside down world where everything hangs in the balance. Will it ever be the right way up again, I wonder. http://visualverse.org/submissions/in-the-balance/

Janis Every time we listen, a little piece of her heart cries out. https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/three-poems-17/

Regrets Regrets are best forgotten, laid to rest in peace or  in restless confusion. Dump them with the other debris, the detritus of the past no longer needed. They will be taken away in time,  disposed of in the future, by the future. Displaced by more things  to regret and forget. And by more things to keep and remember.

Every Breath It's interesting to consider that every breath I take has already been breathed by someone else, another person or creature. Been part of their breath. Perhaps that dog over there, smelly and hairy, licking it's own arse. I would prefer not to have molecules of oxygen from it's breath entering my blood stream, giving me life. But there's nothing I can do about it. Have to take what comes. Breath the air that's there wherever it's been before. Rebellion is not an option. http://writingknightspress.blogspot.co.uk/…/dangerous-submi…

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. https://literaryyard.com/2017/01/31/poem-once/

Beauty Parlour Step inside my parlour, my pampering parlour. You will be remade, reborn, stroked and smoothed, petted and prodded, cosseted and curled, given the attention you deserve as well as a new face and shiny new hair. In Pampers Parlour we’ll recreate you. We’ll reboot your confidence and give you a new chemistry as we gloss your hair and lips. As we shape your face with new shadows and glows. As we apply layer upon layer of chemical shit topped by nose retching fragrances. You won’t know yourself when you step outside dolled up to perfection, protected in your new mask. And what then? Will you go home and comb it all out and wash it all off, preferring, after all, the person, with the old skin and fresh air colour to the new robotic doll. The pampers product is designed to be disposable, after all. Or will you keep it as long as you can.. Try not to move your new face. Try not to upset your new hair. Place a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign o...

How Will I Know You How will I know you, the man behind the mask. I can recognise you with the mask in place. And sometimes it may slip and reveal .... another layer, another mask, perhaps masquerading as an unguarded comment wearing stage clothes, even if naked. You are in there somewhere. But even though I peel off layer after layer, uncover mystery after mystery I still never find you. First Published in Firewords Quarterly, Issue 6, 2016 http://heroinchic.weebly.com/…/two-poems-by-lynn-white14593…

Lotus If in the afternoon I come upon a land and find the lotus blooming there, Will I recognise it’s flowers and fruits,   I wonder. Will I remember it’s story, I wonder. And in the evening,   after sniffing the fragrance of the flowers and tasting the fruit, will I have forgotten to wonder. First published in Miscreant, April 2016 http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/

I Remember My Father I remember my father. Remember being carried high on his shoulders when he was walking into town. I remember that I was scared. I had never been carried on shoulders before. Was there a bus strike or no money for the fare? That I don’t remember. I remember my father sitting in a chair, a passenger on a bus or tram, as I collected his fare and gave him a ticket. He drove trams once and then later he cleaned them. I remember my father. Remember sitting on his knee looking at Rupert Bear books. I knew the stories by heart so people thought I could read and were very impressed. But I could only remember. I remember my father. I don’t need photographs to jog my memory, which is just as well since there are none, None of him whole, anyway, just one of his legs in loose grey trousers, sitting by me as I planted seeds in my first garden. http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems4/category/lynn-white

Wanderers All those lost people wandering the streets, perambulating among the passers by, who are walking with purpose, or texting for contact or comfort. Loose souls, dreaming products waiting to be fixed in frames, or pencilled in, placed on a page, or stage, stabilised, finished by my hand. Finished off. They are the products of my day or night dreams. They don’t draw glances from the others even though they are not quite right, just a little strange, or a lot. Eccentric beings who don’t quite belong here wandering, perhaps falling, tumbling, waving their arms, or wings. And the others pass by determinedly, oblivious. Sometimes though, they may inhabit the others, briefly take over the passers by, the purposeful ones who know who they are and where they are going without my intervention. Then I can watch the strangeness develop. Can transform them into wanderers. Make them speak unheard words that I understand. I hear them perfectly and re...