Poetry - Lynn White

The Empty Room When I was small my grandparents occupied the empty room - all eight of them. I know now that my great grandparents must have been there before. But I hadn’t heard about great grandparents. I knew about grandparents because other children had them, though I never knew mine. They were always in the empty room. They left only to make way for my father. My mother joined him later. later still my brother displaced them. He’s there still, but fading. But then, he always was a flimsy figure, hardly more real than my grandparents. It’s still locked to me. I still can’t get in. But I will one day when my brother leaves. I don’t know when, though. Don’t know how soon that will be.

Perpetrators vs. Apologists I think I am beginning to despise them more, the apologists. At least the perpetrators have a certain honesty and visibility to go with their power. Like all fanatics they are focused forward. No lateral vision. But the apologists are safely waiting ready to lend a hand. Some, like all fanatics they are focused forward. No lateral vision. Unable to see the context. or ignoring it or denigrating it as whataboutism. But some, should know better. They understand the context but with eyes and ears closed, they too join the chorus, ignoring the context or denigrating it as whataboutism. Yes, I am beginning to despise them more even than the perpetrators. https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/…/perpetrators-v-apolog…/

Grey Place This is a grey place, there's no denying. Grey slate, grey granite. And it rains a lot, there's no denying. But when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides shimmering across the slate and falls in bright white tails or snakes like silver spilling heavily over rocks, it’s cascades catching rainbows as they crash then spitting them back out in a fine spray of colours. No grey at all in this place now, there's no denying. https://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/…/may-activity-…

Shoes Sometimes shoes can become iconic, represent us, make a statement about ourselves, about who we are. Sometimes, about who we are eternally only wearing heels, only wearing trainers, only wearing boots. Sometimes, about our temporary selves, tonight in heels, with platforms, or without. Tomorrow in trainers, or maybe boots, or sandals, depending on the weather. Or piles of shoes heaped up like bodies any old how in a mass grave. Or laid out in lines ready for disposal in a graveyard neatly represent ourselves, us, how we were, how we are, what we have become. https://uglywriters.com/2018/05/21/shoes/ https://uglywriters.com/2018/05/21/shoes/ Shoes - The Ugly Writers Sometimes shoes can become iconic, represent us, make a statement about ourselves, about who we are. Shoes is a reflective poem written with love by The Ugly Writers contributor, Ms. Lynn White UGLYWRITERS.COM

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 spiralling down. Come down from the heights to open the door, to run down the steps to the mooring. And then the lamps went out. http://spillwords.com/the-lighthouse/

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://www.weaselpress.com/mentalillness Degenerates | Mental Illness Get active! Send us your protests through art! WEASELPRESS.COM

Out Of The Blue I’m wondering what will fall out of the misty blue sky. Perhaps there’ll be light spangles and dew drops and rain puddling the road. Chagall would have a horse or two hanging there, or a fish, or a face. He’d make flowers of the dewdrops and have the road run pink. He’d put birds on telegraph wires and suspend them upside down ready to fall. I’m wondering if someone is up there with his paintbox ready. Already knowing what will fall out of the blue. http://blognostics.net/…/…/27/out-of-the-blue-by-lynn-white Out Of The Blue by Lynn White Out Of The Blue by Lynn White I’m wondering what will fall out of the misty blue sky. Perhaps there’ll be light spangles and....READ MORE BLOGNOSTICS.NET

Golden People We were the golden people then, flying high above the rest, shimmering like the arrogant angels we saw playing way above the clouds. We could almost touch them with our arms outstretched as we danced our way through a youth of endless possibilities. But the grey people were unimpressed. They had no wish to touch the angels, or reach the stars, even if they could. They looked down to us, not up. Laughed and shook their heads at our strangeness and waited for our dreams to fracture as theirs had done. We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices. Did not see their once golden dreams split open and rot away, consuming them in the decay. Now we have become grey like the rest, tarnished and knowing that we were not so golden, even then. Just practicing for a life that would dull our shine as our dreams remained dreams. Dreams which became decayed imaginings growing grey and dusty with time and fading. Like them, we were consumed in the rot of our dreams as drabness r...

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. https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/writer-highlight-fe…/

Bath Time The bath used to hang on the wall in the scullery. Not our scullery. His scullery. We borrowed it from Mr Neil who rented us the rooms at the front of his house. One down, one up. My mother would knock on his door and he would lift it down for her. But she had to carry it to our living room. It was heavy, made of zinc she said. It took a lot of water which had to be carried from the outside tap and then heated on our gas ring. It took a lot of hot water and had to be filled and emptied with a jug. Sometimes it was just too much work for her and she washed me in a bowl as I sat on her fat lap. It was snuggly. I preferred it really. https://visualverse.org/submissions/bath-time-2/

Look This Way Look this way. Turn away from the salt wind. There’s nothing to fear. Let me see your face. I know mine looks a little strange, but there’s nothing to fear, nothing. It’s just that I’ve been away a long time. I have a long life history, you see. Look this way. I’ve brought you flowers. I found them when I woke up, when I rose up. I didn’t see who left them. I hope wasn’t you. It would be discourteous of me to return your gift. But at least you know I’m no thief, no grave robber, just someone who has been away a long time. Look this way. Let me see the salt wind blow back your hair, let me see your face. https://uglywriters.com/2018/03/13/look-this-way/ Look This Way - The Ugly Writers Look this way. Turn away from the salt wind. There’s nothing to fear. Let me see your face. I know mine looks a little strange, but there’s nothing to fear, nothing. UGLYWRITERS.COM

Green Dragon Does the ghost believe what he's seeing as the green dragon floats by breathing rainbows from flower filled puffs of breath. Would you believe it? Would I believe it? After all, this is not the usual sort of dragon whose fire filled breaths register alarm. But alarm registers, never the less, as this is not the usual sort of dragon and none of us are sure what will happen next. https://btwnthelines.com/ Between the Lines Publishing BLP's bookshop offers something for everyone. From an anthologies challenging traditional norms and stereotypes in folklore and literature to a cozy mystery with characters who will wrap around your heart. If fantasy is more your style, check out R.E. Fisher's latest offering. Authors seeking to pub... BTWNTHELINES.COM

The Revolution Is Postponed The revolution is postponed until the towels are on, so they once said. Until last orders had been called and the beer pumps covered with towels to make it clear that they would be pulled no more that night, ten minutes drinking up time then it was, “do your talking while you’re walking”, we’ve had your money, now piss off, and a beery smokey exit. Unless there was a lock-in in which case the revolution would be postponed again. Now they’re open all hours. There’s no last orders, no need of towels to cover the pumps. No ten minutes allowed to drink up. They’re open all hours and the revolution is postponed. Again. https://literaryyard.com/…/poem-the-revolution-is-postponed/ https://literaryyard.com/2018/05/02/poem-the-revolution-is-postponed/

The Hedgerow Fairies Where have they gone, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats? I used to see them sitting under their leafy roofs stitching their summer dresses of poppy and mallow petals with long silk threads catching the summer sunlight as the smiling spiders spun. I miss them so, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats. I used to see them collecting armfuls of meadow sweet to stuff their nighttime mattresses, making doorways in their new toadstool homes with sharp stones. Maybe they’ve gone underground to escape the passing cars and tractors. Maybe they only come out at night now and stitch and stuff under the moonlight. I don’t know. But I miss them so, the hedgerow fairies in their harebell hats. https://www.amazon.com/Pilcrow-Dagger-February…/…/1986076210