Poetry - Lynn White

One Last Time Before the trees begin to fall I’ll take a walk through the woods one last time, hear the leaves glistening and shaking in fear of what is to come some are already fallen lying dying, it’s the season for it after all. I’ll see the light shining lighting on the leaves of grass that push soft spikes of green life in between the fallen see the light shining through the trees one last time. It lights up the white crosses chalked on the trunks as it passes by too many white crosses all ready to mark the graves of the fallen. It’s the season for it after all, always the season for it one more time. https://www.amazon.com/Endlessly-Rocking-Poem…/…/ref=sr_1_1… About This Website AMAZON.COM Endlessly Rocking: Poems in Honor of Walt Whitman's 200th Birthday These poems honor the memory of Walt Whitman as we consider his legacy 200 years after his birth. Whitman's work is revisited in an outpouring of literary energy as these poem...

Entertainment As usual, it was one tank that drew the crowd down in the museum’s aquarium. It was not the tank with pike gawping threateningly, their teeth barred in anticipation and hope of attracting an audience. No, though there was a monstrous pike in it, swimming with it’s mouth wide open. But it’s mouth was open wide in wonder, in wonder at it’s strange environment. Well, it’s not often that a pike gets to swim in a drawing room furnished from times past. It’s eyes bulged with the strangeness of it all. But it was a crowd puller, though still not enough to satisfy such an audience, the pike reflected, as it considered the strangeness of it’s very un-fishlike companion, the young girl costume dressed to match the drawing room, standing there dreamlike or maybe drugged, steadying herself with the chair. Perhaps earlier she was seated, when the water was lower. but now she has to stand. The water is already up to her waist and rising slowly. The audience gets larger, their eyes...

Lakeside When I was a child Lakeside was my favourite family outing. I loved the freshness of the cool air,  the grey bleakness of the water and the windblown beach that seemed to go on for ever. I would roll up my pants and race my sister to the water’s edge. We’d dare each other into the water. We knew it would be cold too cold to let it wet much of us, too cold to stay wet for long but we loved the comfort of the thick towels that would be wrap us round like blankets afterwards. We loved it like a perversion. We loved it all. I’m sitting there now all these years later perversely overwhelmed and overdressed. I hadn’t reckoned on global warming, hadn’t expected to see people swimming in the warm blue water, lying on the beach in the sunshine, hadn’t expected that I would be so overwhelmed and so overdressed. https://mercurialstories.com/…/…/19/volume-2-issue-7-heat/8/ MERCURIALSTORIES.COM Volume 2, Issue 7: Heat Last summer, the heat was a kille...

Wrapped They were wrapped like nuns but too young for nuns, or perhaps like babies but too old for babies. Shrouded in sepia tinted sadness they stood unposed for their picture with the dog, a black dog a hang dog the Black Dog threatening to engulf them all. http://www.ekphrastic.net/…/ekphrastic-writing-challenge-re Brushstrokes For Alfredo Fuentes Pons The niños play in the dark, singing mañanitas or humming. The earth’s colours are young again in their faces. Because reality... EKPHRASTIC.NET Ekphrastic Writing Challenge Responses: Fidelio Ponce de Leon Brushstrokes For Alfredo Fuentes Pons The niños play in the dark, singing mañanitas or humming. The earth’s colours are young again in their faces. Because reality...

Such Nonsense We had a new teacher, a student still in college. He read us a long poem.  I listened carefully trying to make sense of it. It was funny. Was it meant to be funny? or was the laughter of derision, to what sounded like nonsense. Laughter seemed allowed and that was unusual. School was not a place for fun. Well, maybe it was nonsense but I loved the imagery and the colours of the words. I asked if 'pea green' was the colour of mushy peas from the chip shop, or was it those in pods fresh from the garden. Nothing was clear, but it was fun. https://en.calameo.com/read/005408697656c2478a577 https://en.calameo.com/read/005408697656c2478a577?fbclid=IwAR0T3pIiAGAr7vYWx3RfUUTObQzLSYpCIaVhgjmVH6KntDBzCb9T4FQkr3I

Carrot Fantasia Marx thought he knew all about the contradictions of capitalism. He understood the imperative to modernise and analysed it’s effects. He knew about monopolies and cartels and exchange. And that modernisation would lead to cost cutting and job losses and resistance from those workers affected. But with self check outs the resistance has been from customers not workers. Marx could never have imagined that it would be self checked “carrots” that would kick the keystone away and start the edifice falling. No, Marx never knew about “carrots”. https://en.calameo.com/read/005408697656c2478a577

Summers Survivors It’s that season of mists again. The season of damp decay, of naked trees, of fallen leaves ready to be walked through, kicked up, thrown around, admired, pressed, preserved for prosperity, for the future. The season of mists which blurs the landscape, as it strives to cover the nakedness of the trees, as it hides the future which will surely emerge. Maybe this time the future will be orange like the oaks now, the summer’s  survivors , the last of the clothed trees, clothed in orange now. https://blognostics.net/…/…/ summers-survivors -by-lynn-white/ BLOGNOSTICS.NET Summers Survivors  by Lynn White Summers Survivors  by Lynn White It’s that season of mists again.The season of damp decay, of naked trees, of fallen leaves ready to be walked through....READ MORE

Shrouded They’re  shrouded  in mist almost as dark as the shrouds they wear to cover themselves, to cloak themselves for their journey. Shrouds like dusty abayas uniformly grey, shapeless, bloodless, formless, lifeless grey. Only their mouths still red, stained by their final feast. The feast of what was left. And now there’s nothing, nothing any more. No more. Nothing. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthology-Askew-006-…/…/ref=sr_1_5…

Buzzing I can hear the flies buzzing since I died. In life I could shoo them away, open a window to persuade them through, though usually they were too stupid to grasp the chance of freedom offered and escape. Now there is no window to be opened. This is a closed space. Eternal night. No possibility of freedom, or escape. Not for me. Not for them. https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/buzzing-by-lynn-white/ https://outlawpoetry.com/2018/buzzing-by-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR08NMl7VYB7samd_Kg1IV3SKN1o2rY6JG3VcYPnYpWm0vUTnnCuBgbeC0M

Making History Ever since I was a child they always told me that I would go down in history. It’s still too early to know if they are right. But I am still to write a poem that will bring me fame or paint a masterpiece that causes people to stand and gaze in awe as it hangs on the gallery wall. I’ve never been much of an actor and, to my great regret, I never could sing in tune. But a few nights ago, I had a dream. I was living in an Old Folks Home and was upset about something. In the way of dreams, I couldn’t remember what on waking. But I did remember the protesters outside, (well I could always organise a demo, I learned it first in Primary School), and the newspaper interviews in response to the letters I’d written, (well I was always good at the ‘letters to the editor’ stuff). I remembered the headlines locally and nationally and the fuss. So at least I made history in my dream! The thought amused me and I related the dream to my friends. I thought they’d laugh, but they did...

Entertainment As usual, it was one tank that drew the crowd down in the museum’s aquarium. It was not the tank with pike gawping threateningly, their teeth barred in anticipation and hope of attracting an audience. No, though there was a monstrous pike in it, swimming with it’s mouth wide open. But it’s mouth was open wide in wonder, in wonder at it’s strange environment. Well, it’s not often that a pike gets to swim in a drawing room furnished from times past. It’s eyes bulged with the strangeness of it all. But it was a crowd puller, though still not enough to satisfy such an audience, the pike reflected, as it considered the strangeness of it’s very un-fishlike companion, the young girl costume dressed to match the drawing room, standing there dreamlike or maybe drugged, steadying herself with the chair. Perhaps earlier she was seated, when the water was lower. but now she has to stand. The water is already up to her waist and rising slowly. The audience gets larger, their eyes...

Goldfish Her favourite foods were prawns and chocolate. I wondered if she would be fooled by torn pieces of plastic heavily disguised. She ate them eagerly. And then spat. Spat them out her look of disgust clearly expressing her thinking, ‘I’m not one of them brain dead sea fish, you know! Oh, and cut out the raspberries, I’m not a fuckin’ blackbird either!’ Then she blew a few bubbles, swished her tail and went in search of tadpoles. https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/