Poetry - Lynn White

Barcelona Sandals Standing in the Andorra snow shivering in our Barcelona sandals. Glad of a lift down to Foix as darkness was falling. And the driver knew a hotel, Hotel du Centre. Very grand and full of people looking down long noses. But the driver knew the owner who was a kind man, a nice man. So we shouldn't worry about the cost, he said. A lovely room and in the morning, breakfast! We must eat the owner said. Warm bread and jam. Coffee with hot milk which tasted sour. But I don't like the taste of milk, anyway, so most likely it was sweet. And then the bill. But there was no bill. Save it for the journey, the owner said. A kind man, a nice man, who believed the driver's story, whatever it was. A few years later, we returned to Foix and went to find Hotel du Centre. But it wasn't there. No one knew it. It didn't exist. Did it ever exist? Did any of it happen? Or did we somehow share a memory from our ima

Crossing Over Running downhill, on and on, the orange sun bearing down on me. Scorching me, burning me up until I come to a river cold with ice. Icy water flowing too fast. Too fast. Faster than I can run. Flaming under that bridge. A bridge to somewhere from here, from where I am. But where is here or there? And is the bridge real or a bridge of dreams. Or, a bridge for my dreams, leading nowhere. If I cross over will I plummet into the nowhere on the other side. Shall I try? Or shall I stay here running looking for the light until I find it. https://onedrive.live.com/…

Here And There I was always here, like you, or there, like you. Here when you were there. There when you were here. But sometimes now I think we were always separated. You were never really here, so we never made it there not then. And now we’ve come together. But I still feel apart. https://www.snapdragonjournal.com/…/%22Here_%26_Gone%2C%22_… SNAPDRAGONJOURNAL.COM "Here & Gone," Fall 2018, Issue 4.3 online art & literary journal geared towards the healing journey

https://issuu.com/…/docs/scrittura_magazine_issue_13_autumn_

https://treehousearts.me/…/artwork-by-lynn-white-mr-chagal…/

Legacy Vera Lynn was a famous singer, the Forces Sweetheart, no less. My mother was Vera, so I should be Lynn. My mother liked things to be right. But even more than the correctness of Vera and Lynn, she abhorred diminutives. They were definitely not right. So I must have a name which could not be shortened. Joy was a contender, but, just suppose that I was a weepy child. That name would not fit me. For me it would not have been right. She needn’t have worried. But worry she did. So, Lynn it was and Lynn I am. My legacy from my mother. https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/…/poetry-prompt-your-name/…

In Dreams Do you dream in colour,
 or are your dreams grey,
 muted monochromes,
 pale imitations of reality. 
Are they flat almost featureless 
in a blurred mist,
 or are they stark
 black and white.
 No grey.
 No doubt.
 Are your sleeping eyes prisms 
to reflect the outside in,
 in a spectrum of rainbowed glory.
 Or are you afraid.
 Afraid to let it enter 
your unconsciousness.
 Afraid to set it free
 to make a kaleidoscope 
of shades and tones
 to recreate 
a new reality
 in glorious colour.
 Do you remember? https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/2018/09/20/in-dreams/ By Lynn White Do you dream in colour, or are your dreams grey, muted monochromes, pale imitations of reality. Are they flat almost featureless in a blurred mist, or are they stark black and white? …

    Dog Don’t challenge his growls, said the man with no face.   Look down on the ground, be humble, not brave. Don’t cry if you fall, the blind girl explained. The field’s full of dog shit, so don’t touch your eyes. I loved my pet doggy, the dead baby cries. We all loved him so much until the day that I died. https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/dog-by-lynn-white/ https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/dog-by-lynn-white/

Not An Easy Chair It used to be said that a hard chair straight backed was best for you. Now though they say it’s ok to lounge, to slouch, to curl up in comfort like a cat at ease in an easy chair. But some chairs aren’t easy for lounging, or for comfort or for sitting up straight. They have a design problem that is not easy to resolve. It takes determination, a palette of positions and maybe a drink to find a way. And some deep thinking on the matter. https://blognostics.net/…/…/not-an-easy-chair-by-lynn-white/ https://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2018/08/11/not-an-easy-chair-by-lynn-white/

My Father’s Son I never knew my father’s son. Even though I met him once, or maybe twice, I never knew him. And then I met his son. Caught him miraculously in a net. Held on to him tightly. And, I found that he hadn’t left early, my father’s son. He’d waited for me, wondering, for a long time. And so I found him, my father’s son. When he was just ninety six, I found him. But I was too late to know him. At ninety five, he was already dead. So I never knew him, my father’s son. https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/my-fathers-son-by-l…/

Once It Was The Smoke Once it was the smoke that made me cough and splutter every time I played a gig. Nicotine flavoured oxygen which made me long for a respirator. Now the problem is unseen. The air looks pure but I need a respirator now. Perhaps I should play under water a new version of Water Music. There may be more oxygen there, but I’ll take no chances. https://visualverse.org/submissions/once-it-was-the-smoke/

All In Order We built their cages. We gilded them. We listened to their croaks, no one could call it song, hear, hear, hear hear, chatter chatter, verbigeration to order. Order, order, keep them in order. Keep them stuffed with food and drink, we did that too, keep them fed and watered. No not watered they won’t drink water that would be out of order. Order, order. Keep them controlled. Don’t let them out. Watch them flapping their paper wings to order. Order order. We should give them orders. We pay the pipers, they should sing for us but they can only croak. hear hear, hear hear, chatter chatter, verbigeration for themselves. We don’t have to listen. https://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/beat-itude-10-year-ann… LOCALGEMSPOETRYPRESS.COM BEAT-itude 10 Year Anniversary Book ​Welcome to the page for BEAT-itude, the National Beat Poetry Festival's 10 year anniversary book. Now available for preorder! We have two

The Company of Butterflies In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and fly without boundaries. Flutter by and then rest in the sunshine and drink sweet nectar and dream and dream. In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and soar over fragile rainbows. Then stop in a fusion of colour to taste the gold at the end of my flight of fancy. In the company of butterflies I am boundless. https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/…/featured-writer-lyn…/ CREATIVETALENTSUNLEASHED.COM Featured Writer: Lynn White The Company of Butterflies   In the company of butterflies I can whistle up the wind and fly without boundaries. Flutter by and then rest in the sunshine and drink sweet nectar and dream and d…

Don’t Go When I’m with you I feel I am whole. Captured and completed. Engulfed by you. When you kiss me all my fears disappear in the kiss. Where do they go? I don’t know. Do you wrap them round your tongue and swallow them whole? I don’t know. I only know the comfort I feel, such peace. So don’t go. Don’t go. Please, don’t go. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1722360984/ref=sr_1_2… https://www.amazon.com/dp/1722360984/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1534255651&sr=1-2&refinements=p_27%3ASoodabeh+Saeidnia AMAZON.COM Persian Sugar in English Tea (Vol III): The Bilingual Anthology of Contemporary Love Poems (Volume 3) The present book is the third volume of the bilingual series of poetry collection, Persian Sugar in English Tea. The anthology includes short poems, micro-poetry and haiku by 59 new and well-accomplished poets from Canada, USA, UK, Ireland, India, and other Asian, Middle Eastern and European coun...

Spanish Room We were pleased when the smiling nun shook her head. They were full, the lorry driver told us. He was disappointed. He thought we’d be safer in the out of town convent than in the city. He’d grown concerned for our safety on our long journey through France. He was nice - ‘doux, comme la sucre’ my friend would often tell him. But he didn’t understand her accent. He said his lorry wouldn’t fit the narrow streets, so we took a cab to the pension he knew. Our first Spanish room and we were happy! The tiles were cool, if dusty. We covered the TV. We didn’t need it. Two single beds pushed together with one mattress to make a ‘cama matrimonial’, normality in Spain. The owner was nice, ‘doux, comme la sucre’ my friend told him. But he spoke no French. We shopped in the corner shop with it’s curved window and explored the streets of clubs and cafes and bars and lively people enjoying the night. And then we returned home. Home to a locked door