Poetry - Lynn White

Through The Glass Darkly The windows are all aglow. A cacophony of colour giving glimpses of other peoples’ lives. Snapshots into different worlds. Shapes still and moving. A little exposure sometimes a mystery revealed. Stories to be told from different imaginings. A cacophony of colour, until the lights go out. http://www.riverpoetsjournal.com/SpecialEditions-Anthologies.html

Skull The skull lies desolate on the bare mountain side. Just lies there among the rocks.  Lies still with a few accompanying bones. Each day it decays as wind and rain weather it and destroys its form and substance so that it wastes away and fades into the landscape and decays. 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. http://www.poetsinnigeria.org.ng/…/across-the-oceans-ii-is…/ http://www.poetsinnigeria.org.ng/index.php/across-the-oceans-ii-issue-7/ ACROSS THE OCEANS II (ISSUE 7) ACROSS THE OCEANS II (ISSUE 7) Three Poems by Lynn White CANDLES How many candles must I light to commemorate all the dead souls, all the lives wasted in wars without end. So many that candle makin… POETSINNIGERI...

Miss Pass My first best friend was Susan. We were inseparable. Soon we would be starting school. Starting at the same school. It shouldn’t be a problem. But Susan was three months older and this was a problem. She must start earlier and we would be parted. Unthinkable!! Such concern from our parents. But all was well. It wouldn’t be a problem. And all thanks to Miss Pass, the headmistress, a wonderful woman who understood the feelings of small children. We could start together and in the same class. She was a shining example to teachers everywhere. We knew it as we hung our coats on pegs next to each other in the cloakroom. But a few days later when we had settled in, disaster struck. We were to be in different classes. Such tears and trauma as we hugged and kissed and said goodbye at our pegs in the cloakroom each morning and afternoon. And all because of Miss Pass, the headmistress, a stupid woman who had no idea about the feelings of small children and should never have been...

The Lighthouse I was a little crazy to buy the old lighthouse. I knew it at the time. But I wanted to be somewhere, somewhere where I could shine, shine it’s lamps out into the vastness, shine like a beaming beacon. And it was so high. It matched my mood and then some. Higher than high. Higher than high. There was no housewarming. No one came. There was no one to come. So, only I could relish the exposure. Only I could walk round the top of the tower and look over the edge into the dark deep depths. Only I could see the swimmer, a mermaid, surely? waving. Or was she beckoning as she approached the mooring. Only I could come spiraling down. Come down from the heights to open the door, to run down the steps to the mooring. And then the lamps went out. https://blackpoppyreview.blogspot.co.uk/ https://blackpoppyreview.blogspot.com/

When The Mist Clears One day I’ll see through the mist. One day I’ll be back to find you again and uncover what I let slip away when I became lost in the fog and the maze of back streets and tall buildings. One day I’ll stop searching and meet the mist with a smile and watch it fade away. One day I’ll greet the sun again as the mist clears one day at a time. http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/ prompts Here's your prompt! Submit poem responses to: voxpoeticasubmissions@gmail.com. And if you have a photo or piece of artwork you took that you'd like us to consider as a Prompts image, send… VOXPOETICA.COM

The Scarlet Woman We called her ‘The Scarlet Woman’ and gave her sails striped red and white like scarlet lips astride white pearl teeth. We roamed the seas in her. Entered every port in search of the scarlet women with hot ruby lips who would give us a hand to paint the town red. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/…/poem-the-scarlet-woman-b… http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-the-scarlet-woman-by-lynn-white Poem: The Scarlet Woman by Lynn White Words by Lynn White Image by Christine Stoddard @cstoddard  QuailBellMagazine.com  *Editor's Note: This was first published in Visual Verse , Aug 2016. QUAILBELLMAGAZINE.COM

The Driving Instructor I needed rather a lot of driving lessons. My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help. Nor, did my occasional confusion between right and left. But, coming up to my test, my new instructor was sympathetic. We could go for a Sunday drive, he said. I could have a free lesson and maybe a drink after. Well, why not? He told me a story over the drink. He’d been in the war in Singapore. Such horror. And conscripts all. In the chaos an enemy soldier had shot his dog. Shot her. Killed her, dead. Such horror. And conscripts all. But, it was alright in the end, he’d ‘got’ the one who did it. ‘Got him.’ Shot him! Killed him, dead. Such horror. And conscripts all. The life of a man for the life of a dog. Both shot. Both killed. Both dead. It was the life of the man I valued most. And I said so using a lot of words. Yes, rather a lot of words loudly spoken. So no more free lessons, but I passed my test. First published in Silver Birch Press, Learning To Drive Series...

Image Somehow the mirror has broken fragmenting  my image, the image I have of myself, the one I like to project.. Was it the sunlight that cracked it, the exposure to brightness, an explosion of light. Or was it already a distortion ready to be destroyed by a different audience looking over my shoulder. Or was it self destruction which splintered my image to reveal the darker side behind the glass. https://literaryyard.com/2017/07/20/poem-image/ Poem: Image By: Lynn White Somehow the mirror has broken fragmenting my image, the image I have of myself, the one I like to project.. Was it the sunlight that cracked it, the exposure to brightness, an explos… LITERARYYARD.COM

It’s Clear On a clear night I should see the moon full silver in a sky shot by moonbeams. Not greyed by a smoky mist and dust clouds rising from the ruins. I should see a black, black sky. Not bright from the orange glow from the fires of hell on earth. Which send sparks high enough to compete with the stars, the pinpoint moonbeam spangles. Not beamed by lasers. I should hear the silence in the depth of the black night, not the explosive cacophony bought by the masters of war and the silent screams buried in the rubble. I should hear people talking in the street and the music and laughter of the night. I should see them walking home to feel firm flesh loving and soft unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel, unbroken by the metal clad monsters masquerading as humanity and wrapping themselves in the uniforms of thousand years old myths dressed up as history. These should be my rights. But they aren’t. I have no rights. Nor do you. Only what they give us, the men of the f...

It’s Raining Again The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh. She’s tried. She’s really tried. She’s wept tears of frustration. She’s wept tears of anger. She’s wept tears of sadness that flow from the mountains to the sea. It’s the vowels she finds hard. And the consonants. And the mutations. And the way it’s spoken form changes over the distance traveled in the time it takes her to make a small cloud and a tiny puff of wind. A tiny puff, not enough to to raise the cloud above the mountains. So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist. Or blows in angry swirls. And still she tries. She really tries. She weeps tears of frustration. She weeps tears of anger. She weeps tears of sadness. Floods of tears. Lakes. Tears which fall in cascades from the mountains to the sea http://pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/ Subscriptions We publish 8 issues per year. You can subscribe to receive a print version or a digital version. This first issue, January 2015 Winter Stories To Salt Your Icy ...

Desolate Road It’s a long and desolate road. I think it’s always been so. Such a desolate road to travel before I see the brightness ahead, the light after desolation reflected in the water of the lake, And the wire fence is no barrier to this vision of my future brightness. And the gate looks open ready to welcome me through. Sometimes a gate has seemed closed, only to open with a degree of pressure to allow me through. Sometimes it has stayed closed set firmly against me. But this one is seems open, or partly open, no barrier to my passing. But as I draw closer I can see the chain and the padlock. Open so far, but no further. I can go so far, but no further along the desolate road. So far, but no further towards the light unless I climb. http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems4/category/lynn-white Category: Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She i...

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. http://spillwords.com/bobbley-things/ https://spillwords.com/bobbley-t...

Paris in the Spring We set out hopefully, hitching our way to Paris, in the spring. And we made it, even found the recommended hostel near Laumiere, Though a little disconcerted to be met with a closed door covered in signs which read ‘FULL’ in every known language, we went in anyway. ‘Of course we’re not full at this early hour’. ‘Anyway, no one is ever turned away’. They were planning a demonstration, a rehearsal for May 1968, but of course, none of us knew that then. We could join if we wished, but of course, we were too early, even for the rehearsal. It was only April. Just three days in April in Paris. We had coffee on the Champs Elysee and were shown Notre Dame by someone we met there and then sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur to eat our French bread lunch. We held up the traffic at the Arc de Triumph, triumphantly succeeding in crossing the roads. And at the hostel the next day we did our best to be helpful, getting up early (too cold to sleep), and cleaned the kitchen and...

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The Old Curiosities Shop “Curiouser and curiouser”, cried Alice as she rummaged through the remnants of other people’s lives, now offered for sale to become part of another person’s life. “Curiouser and curiouser”, she said holding up two fat schoolboy salt and pepper pots. “They look like real characters, I shall name them Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber”, for now. She searched in vain for a looking glass to see if she could walk through it. She had heard this was sometimes a curious possibility. But among the objects in a large shiny bag, she did find a set of playing cards with a fearsome looking Queen of Hearts. “I could write a good story about her”, she thought. She found the butler with his empty tray somewhat unsatisfactory. So she removed the tray and hung a tape measure round his neck and put a thimble on his finger. Now he could measure his former master for a new suit, she thought. She was pleased with the transformation and thought that maybe it was now time to tra...

Expectations I had never been to the seaside. I knew what to expect, though. I had a book about it. There were lots of pictures of rock pools and the strange creatures living there. My favorites were the hermit crabs. I was looking forward to those the most. I had a little bucket to collect them in. But there were no rock pools, at this seaside. Just flat sand with a thin distant line of cold grey sea. Why? No one said. I found some shells to put in my bucket. I liked the tiny pink ones best. But most were broken and not worth collecting. Why? No one said. No shells, no hermit crabs, but they showed me how to put damp sand into my miniature bucket. with my miniature spade and how to pat it down and tip it out to make ‘sand pies’. I was supposed to like doing this. Why? No one said. They gave me some paper flags on thin wooden sticks. I could stick them in the top of my sand pies. I was supposed to like doing this. Why? No one said. I thought I’d save up my flags u...

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. http://arielchart.blogspot.co.uk/…/07/how-will-i-know-you.h… https://www.arielchart.com/2017/07/how-will-i-know-you.html How Will I Know You Ariel Chart is an online journal focusing on poetry and short fiction written by talented writers from around the world. Who Cares Wins! ARIELCHART.BLOGSPOT.COM

Nightfall It’s that time when Day closes, down, shuts up shop draws down the blinds, so that Night can fall down. And it does, every day, shutting out the light until Day breaks and the sun shines through rising up through the dark, only waiting for Night to drag it down again. http://www.poetsinnigeria.org.ng/…/across-the-oceans-ii-is…/ http://www.poetsinnigeria.org.ng/index.php/across-the-oceans-ii-issue-7/

The Breathing Days In the days when I still breathed, the days before living took my breath away, the days before I knew my soul was there. I thought about this time, this time of no light, the forever night time with no breath, no air to breathe. Just dust and darkness. And I pondered. Would there be slow decay or fast. Stillness or movement. Now I know. I know everything about the dust and darkness. But I can't tell you. Not now in these days of no breath, no air to speak. Only my soul can speak. Can you hear me? https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com/ppp-ezine/ https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com/ppp-ezine/ PPP Ezine Lux et dulce POETRYPOETICSPLEASUREEZINE.WORDPRESS.COM