Friday, 31 July 2020


In this new society
of masks and miasmas
we are being suffocated
with pillows of power
and prejudice,
hardly hidden,
in the institutions
we were told would protect
us all.
Some of us
believed it.

But the old masks are off now,
forced off the face by lies.
All they hid is exposed.
We know it now.

So we put on our mask
to protect
Before we show them.
We know now
that we are all
George Floyd
later or sooner.
And we know
we are all his killers
later or sooner
unless we look behind the masks.…/breathless-and-our-street-poems/…

By: Lynn White Breathless In this new societyof masks and miasmaswe are being suffocatedwith pillows of powerand prejudice,hardly hidden,in the institutionswe were told would protectus all.Some of …

Thursday, 30 July 2020

That Was Us

That was us
who wandered through Europe without maps or money,
or sense of direction.
Who got lost a lot,
but didn’t get raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.

Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free.
Who got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere
for the first time in many years.
Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not speak,
why this was necessary.

Who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French
failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Sod off!

That was us
who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.

Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and the conversations interesting,
even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian, which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty roadside and fantasise
about the ice cold mountain water streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.

Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts and sandals
and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy Andorra,
at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy voices and fat wallets,
inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us drinks and hot food,
to warm us up, they said.
No chance!
No class traitors, us! Not us,
Not us.

They’re not like us,
these two old women in the mirror
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us,
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.…

For each issue of Necro Magazine there is an accompanying audio-ebook. Chick on the cover to read the corresponding issue Necro Magazine is a publication of Necro Productions.

Tuesday, 28 July 2020


It should be the dragon that breathes fire,
that’s him there above the horse,
but he’s quiet and calm
in tune with the sweet music
quite breathless just now
while in flight
in metamorphosis.
It’s the horse that looks dangerous,
his breath steaming
about to catch
no doubt
about it
they will surely change places
when their metamorphosis
is completed
and the music stops.

Sunday, 26 July 2020

Rhythms Of Time

Rhythms of time
gathering pace.
Working up to the wave
that crashed into me,
propelled me forward
and now sucks me back.
Thirteen decades.
To a place beyond my imagining,
so tidy now after the crash.
Gentrified now.
Rippling gently.
But before,
in my father’s time.
There was beer mixed mud
and crowding children.
And smells of horses
and metal.
Fire and metal work.
Children who
would leave behind
the mud,
and country
for the dust
and smog.
For the city grime.
Streets and factories.
More fire and metal.
And what then?
Still poor.
What then?
What secrets lie in those rhythms
of time
washing over me

Rhythms of timegathering pace.Working up to the wavethat crashed into me,propelled me forwardand now sucks me back.Thirteen decades.Back.To a place beyond my imagining,so tidy now after the crash.Gentrified now.Rippling gently.But before,in my father’s time,there was beer mixed mudand crowding chi...

Friday, 24 July 2020

The Skin I'm In

Am I still the same person
under the skin?
Are you?
I think I am.
The outside has changed.
But inside my skin
I am intact.
Myself as before.
I think.

Not quite so comfortable,

It doesn't fit me too well.
Doesn't always represent me.
Doesn't look like I still feel.
Like I still am?

What about you?
Are you still that person
in your new skin?
I'm not sure now

if it is only on the outside,
that we have changed together.…/the-skin-im-in…/

Thursday, 23 July 2020


It’s not that I’m not tempted,
she said
and I don’t want to offend you.
She took my hand briefly,
to show no offence
was intended,
then let it go.

I held on to hers
as she explained.

Then we walked in silence
for quite a long way
enveloped in the dark night.
Hand in hand.
Quiet footsteps
that didn’t break the silence.

She looked up at me and smiled.
I smiled back.
Or was I the first to smile
and she smiled back?

I don’t remember.
It doesn’t matter,
but we still don’t remember.

Rejection is a poem written and shared by Lynn White to The Ugly Writers under the theme After The Storm for the month of June.

Wednesday, 22 July 2020

Into The Light

I’m living through the time
of night without end.
The time when everywhere is transformed
into the underworld.
When everywhere is transformed
into that dark place,
deathly dark.
Only the dark gods
and the creatures of death can live there,
those who need no further sustenance,
who gave up on the light above.
I won’t give up.
I’m ready for the birth of a new day.
Ready for a pink dawn to rise

and break
full of possibilities,
as the light takes
over from the dark
and the day is born
I shall follow the road towards the light,
and leave the dark behind,
But I have found that the dark always follows.
Catches up with me, as if it were the past.
If I hurry maybe I’ll escape it this time.
Maybe I’ll catch the light
and hold on to it and
not let it break

The Stray Branch: Spring/Summer 2020

Tuesday, 21 July 2020


I can hear the flies buzzing
so I think I must have 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.
Now there is no window to be
We’re trapped in this closed space
with only our fears,
our most ancient fears
for company.
Eternal night.
No possibility
of freedom,
or escape.
Not for me.
Not for them.

I can hear the flies buzzing so I think I must have 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.…
About This Website
I can hear the flies buzzing so I think I must have 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.…

Sunday, 19 July 2020

Magical Child

In this strange new world
it’s hardly surprising
that a strange child
has slithered it’s way
through the dark passage,
the secret tunnel
that others have feared to enter.
In this strange new world
such magic is normal
and unsurprising.
So come to me,
magical child
and we will
find new secrets,
new passage ways
to a different future
and spread magic
as we breathe.