Poetry - Lynn White

Saturday Girl Two days after my fifteenth birthday I walked proudly into Newman Costumiers to begin my first job. It was 1960 and I would earn fifteen shillings, one shilling for every year, every Saturday. Knitwear and stockings were on the ground floor, all neatly stacked on shelves and in drawers. I didn’t work there. That was Enid’s territory - she of the bouffant hair and three inch stilettos. Above were the coats and above them dresses. All made in Britain, not China and so costing much the same as they would do today. Fifteen shillings didn’t go far. On the top floor was Alterations, two women stitching away with a nip or tuck here and a longer or shorter hemline there. No customer was allowed to escape without a purchase. We had to fetch the Manageress if they tried. She would offer inducements such as a price reduction or free alterations. Sometimes it was enough to secure a purchase, a tweak of the price, a nip or tuck here and a long...

I’m Tired I’m tired of trying to see the good in people. I’m tired of making decisions about good and bad. I’m tired of endless discussions in armchairs judging and justifying what is good or bad. I’m tired of procrastination, of enquiries and commissions designed to delay until death or forgetfulness. Tired of time servers, jobs worths, pocket liners. Tired of them all. So where shall I go now? First published in Tuck Magazine, February 2018 http://tuckmagazine.com/2018/01/30/poetry-1255/

Numbers How many times have we had this conversation? I don’t know. I’m not good with numbers and neither are you. Probably, it’s the same number of times as we’ve promised not to have it again. I’m not very good with promises either. And neither are you. How many times have we made a decision, a final decision, that has convinced us? Probably never, as we’re still having this conversation. I’m not very good at decisions either. And neither are you. Life has become too complex for us and the numbers don’t add up as we’d like them to. We want to stop at two, but there's another number in between. So, our numbers keep on adding up to nothing. Nothing except conversations and promises that we don’t want or believe in. And are unable to end. Borfski Press Issue 3, Three theme http://www.lulu.com/…/issue-iii…/ebook/product-23468081.html

Never Again Never again the holocaust of Jews, of dissenters, of the mixed or mismatched ethnicity. Gassed starved  beaten enslaved dying. Never again the swarms of refugees  left behind fleeing dying pleading  to be let in anywhere dying unwanted. Never again. That’s what they said then. http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6894

Empty Vessels They look like empty vessels jingle jangling, the green light given to their recycling. Still full of air, like air filled heads, heads filled with nothingness. Emptied of knowledge. Emptied of thoughts. Emptied of ideas. Ready for the crushing plant to squeeze out the air and recycle it for the next breath. Ready to begin breathing again, hopefully. https://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems…/category/lynn-white

The Christmas Treat It was my first Christmas in school and we were getting a treat, something special, something nice. Paper serviettes were handed out and we placed them on our desks, our mouths watering in anticipation. And then came the cake, a splendid fruit cake coated with marzipan, iced and cut into slices, one for each child. What a treat! I didn’t like marzipan, so I ate the icing and the cake and left the marzipan to be thrown away with the paper serviette. But this was not allowed, the teacher said. All of the treat must be eaten. I didn’t want to eat it. Well, adults aren’t made to eat food that they don’t like, are they, so why should children? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. The teacher disagreed. I must eat the treat, she said. So I threw it on the floor, and to make sure, stamped on it. I was made to stand on a chair in disgrace for not eating the treat. At four years old, it was my first encounter with irony. First published i...

Newt I can understand why on a hot, hot day, Lawrence’s snake appeared thirstily at his water trough. And why his lizard ran out onto a rock to flaunt himself in the sunshine. But why on a wet, wet day, a newt should leave her splendidly moist habitat and venture hazardously into the dry warmth of my kitchen, that I cannot understand. And, of course she couldn’t explain. https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/…/01/05/newt-lynn-wh…/ https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/2018/01/05/newt-lynn-white/ Newt – Lynn White I can understand why on a hot, hot day, Lawrence’s snake appeared thirstily at his water trough. And why his lizard ran out onto a rock to flaunt himself in the sunshine. But why on a wet, w… FOXGLOVEJOURNAL.WORDPRESS.COM

Sky Diving Stand back. You don’t have to push me, I’m going to jump. Here I go, I’m going to jump, stand back, you don’t have to push me, I’m going to jump! Here I go any second now. Stand back. Don’t push me. I’m ready to jump. Did I miss my slot? http://pilcrowdagger.com/subscriptions/

A Ray Of Sunshine It was my first attempt at DIY hair dying. My friend had transformed her dull brown into glossy chestnut and Patricia thought it perfect to transform her unnatural blond. So I helped her out. Tiger Lily, it said on the packet. Well tigers are a chest-nutty brown, Or so we thought. But on a base of blond the result was unexpected. Could any creature, any plant, be quite so bright, oranger than orange, more fiery than fire. And this was before the days of punk when the colour would have been lauded and sort after. Not then. Early for the emergency hairdresser, Patricia called into the butcher’s shop. In spite of the warm day she made sure that the hood of her duffle coat was pulled firmly forward, hiding what lay beneath. She told me later that she focused on the large spider on the coat of the woman in front of her in the queue to control her anxiety. “Did you brush it off for her,” I asked? “No,” “It seemed quite at home there”, she told me. Her turn came. and th...

Shadow Man Hello my shadow man. You have been behind me all my life. But now I can turn and face you, as I turn my life round. See your features, see what’s there, know who you are, then put you behind me, maybe. Maybe, as I move on. Or, perhaps you’ll step forward out of the shadow to greet me, and I’ll see your smile, and greet you and then, and then we’ll walk side by side into my new life, maybe. Maybe, as I move on. http://voxpoetica.com/shadow-man/

May Queen They crowned her the queen of May, the little girl. Chose her for her purity. Pure and white and smiling. Unblooded. Golden curls held by red ribbons, and entwined with flowers topped with sweet smelling may. Spring is here, you see. New shoots springing into life, so we’re ready to be reborn and ready to play the game. Ready for the circle. Ready to go round and round again. Like the dancers she watches weaving their ribbons round the maypole. The maypole phallus they’ve planted in the ground and bedecked with ribbons. Red and white. Red and white ribbons of menstrual blood and semen. Round and round She watches from her throne. Round and round. Then come the Morris Men. Bells jangling their presence. Sticks clashing with their power. Flags waving to announce their virility. They crowned her the queen of May, the little girl. A crown of sweet blossom and hidden thorns. https://www.etsy.com/shop/paperandinkzine ...

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 dedicat...

Rebirth http://www.thephoenixsoul.com/bravefirststeps

The Vase The kitchen looked tired and worn like my mother did, the last time I saw her there. I felt no nostalgia for it. It was not my childhood kitchen. It held no special memories, I thought. And then, I saw the vase on the counter top. My friend found it on the Kings Road. Bought it and brought it home. I’d asked her to buy me something, a souvenir of swinging London. She bought the vase. I never much liked it. Dark and bulbous, it spent most of it’s time at my mother’s, though she didn’t like it much either. Then time stole it away, took it from my memory, erased it. And now, here it is again, sharp as ever bringing the past home as it stands empty on the counter top. It seems that her death invested in it a poignancy that it had not known before. I took it home with me. https://eventhorizonmagazinecom.files.wordpress.com/…/issue… https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692934758/

No Place The buildings line the street. Such bright colours lining the street of the holiday resort, a place near the beach, a living place. But if I should transform the cars, into their metal box shapes. If I should paint out their windows and doors, and the windows and doors of the buildings in the street, it would leave me with coloured squares and rectangles dividing blue from green or white with no life left there. No place, no place for life at all. http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/ http://voxpoetica.com/prompts/

Living Alone and Loving It I’m living alone and loving it, that I am. I had a good ‘un though, but wouldn’t want to train another. Takes years to train ‘em. That couple last night, what a one she was. You could see who was boss in that marriage. Ain't it funny that you picked up on it as well! I don’t like the shows, though. That magician was terrible. Worst I've seen. Mind you, magicians are old hat, In my opinion. Still, better than sitting on our own watching the telly. I think we only watch it out of boredom, being on our own. I wouldn’t want another, though. Well, I had such a good ‘un, it would’t be fair. Couldn’t believe it when she said: “I told my first that I’d divorce him if he got a pot belly and look what I’ve ended up with!” Must have hurt him! No equal partnership that! You could see she was boss. Fancy you picking up on it as well. Must have hurt him. Living alone and loving it, I am. Wouldn’t be fair to have another. I’d be making comparisons. He wa...

Fairy Queen She wanted to be queen of the fairies and live on the top of the tree displacing the star. That should belong in the sky, she thought. So she picked it up and threw it away, watched it float upwards to join the other stars. And then it snowed starlike snowflakes which engulfed her even on the top of the tree. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/…/poem-fairy-queen-by-lynn… http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-fairy-queen-by-lynn-white

Smoke and Magic I remember the children’s party. There was a magician. I had never seen a magician before. I’d heard they could pull a rabbit from a hat. Or saw a woman in half and put her back together again unharmed. This magician had a hat. But it stayed empty. He did tricks with cards like my uncle Percy, but not as good. Then he waved a stick called a wand and a puff of blue smoke came out, like magic. And hidden in the smoke were flowers, real flowers showing through a gap in the smoke. Since then I have discovered that there is usually a gap in the smoke where the light shines through, like magic. Usually. https://visualverse.org/submissions/smoke-and-magic/

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. https://treehousearts.me/ …/poetry-by-lynn-white-its-rainin…/

Dreamers The sun is standing still for them Standing still for the streams of dreamers. Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere else. From somewhere that has become nowhere. Dreaming of escape. Dreaming of a future, any future. Dreaming of the life they once had. Dreaming of normality, whatever that means. Dreaming of returning when the sun comes up again, if ever it does. http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/

Will I will hereby  testify that it is my will that soon I will cease to be, whether it is midnight or not. That I have had enough of it all. That I have seen as much as I want. That I have been there and done that. That I have changed what I could change and made the best of the rest. And that now I am ready, ready for another change, a change of place, a change of form. Ready to go back to the earth and nurture new seeds and forms. To form new attachments. Freed from old ones. Yes, this is my will. and I will do it, for sure, I will. Will you ? https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/2018/…/02/three-poems-35/

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...

The Hoopoes Are Back The hoopoes are back, even though the walls and holes they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders four years ago, when there was a housing boom and money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were destroyed by human nest builders three years ago, even though, there was no market for nests and no money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in were washed away two years ago, as the walls that stopped the storm flow were destroyed by human nest builders, to prepare the ground for money to be made. The hoopoes are back, even though their nesting places are hidden, buried under growing mountains of rubble brought by the human nest builders a year ago as there is no demand for human nests and no money to be made, except from rubble. Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them! The hoopoes are back! https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/...