
The Suitcase
Back then, we had a theory.
We thought that a suitcase
was easier to get into cars
than a rucksack and thus,
drivers were more likely
to pick up hitchhikers
with a small suitcase.
It worked like a dream
and it carried our dreams.
Yesterday
I came across our old suitcase
buried in a heap of debris in my attic.
It was battered from it’s long journeys
and even longer vacation.
Its clothing was torn
exposing its cardboard credentials.
I haven’t opened it yet
so it’s unclear
if it’s still full
or if it’s empty.
Once we packed it full
of our dreams,
but now
I wonder
if any remain,
caught in the lining perhaps,
or if they’ve all have been carried away
with our lost memories
or buried in the debris
of the past.
https://thepangolinreview.wixsite.com/mypoetrysite/issue-14-8-january-2020?fbclid=IwAR1ak_eHa7rhaXF5Q9lCJXse57Ct5JQAus3bPDigNE_r-uFqD1_fMFTXIjg
Spider
She hangs
suspended,
like a puppet
dancing
to the tune
of the wind.
Blown this way,
blown that,
buffeted,
but only briefly
before she takes control
like the mistress puppeteer
she is
powerful
free
to spin her silk
to weave her web
as she wills.
Or so she thinks.
But it’s an illusion.
She’s trapped.
Trapped
and wrapped
by her dna
as securely
as any fly,
her patterns
pre-ordained
pre-programmed
destined
to be repeated
millennia
after millennia
in her genes.
https://issuu.com/freshwaterliteraryjournal/docs/2020journalmockup-2
Ripples
Ripples of time
gathering pace.
Working up to the wave
that crashed into me,
propelled me forward
and 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 mud
and crowding children.
And smells of horses
and metal.
Working.
Fire and metal work.
Children who
would leave behind
the mud,
and country
smells,
for the dust
and smog.
For the city grime.
Streets and factories.
More fire and metal.
Bigger.
Grander.
And what then?
Still poor.
What then?
What secrets lie in those ripples
of time
washing over me
now.
https://freeverserevolution.wordpress.com/2020/10/25/sunday-best-ripples/
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://ephemeralelegies.com/2020/07/08/i-remember-my-father-by-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR0MdqNQtLDFWPDRT3s2RQ_2pDHXOQdgKG5PLmfwJ1y3eC-vRmaA8hste3Y
Perfectly Imperfect
It started when we stood hopefully,
with our thumbs outstretched
by an English roadside.
We were heading towards Italy and Yugoslavia
without maps or money,
or sense of direction.
And we made it to Italy.
and swam off the rocks,
with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And we 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.
And we made it to Pec and 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 fantasize
about the ice cold mountain water
streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.
And we made it back home.
We had got lost a lot,
but hadn’t got raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
What perfection.
https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/summer-2020---on-the-road?fbclid=IwAR00HKFIeDPBRdEldNDVWeuhwaRzFzL9Zrq62YPiizJ_FpdFSs9_v9lpVZo
All The Devils Were There
I used to dress in bakers white
and take a basket of bread
to Halloween parties.
I never found many takers.
Spiced pumpkin,
apple cakes
and candy
were always more popular.
So I had a re-think.
Now I take a basket of babies.
They can’t get enough of them
all of those devils out there,
even those who come as angels
gather round for a bite.
Just one bite will transform them
so they’ll leave as devilish
as the rest.
https://spillwords.com/all-the-devils-were-there/?fbclid=IwAR2FGPLTuNu2fc3osEU71U9Z47cmHqy9rpx0pElQHs63fDVtPVM9cdNnIs0
The Sun Is Burning
The sun is melting little by little
falling to earth like blown glass
Turning the sea to fire first.
The land will be next.
It looks like a bright angel now
but the angels have burned
and this final fire will pipe the last post
leaving nothing, but darkness
when the fires burn out
and the light melts away.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08L9962ZW
Plague And It's Doctors
It must have been terrifying,
a deadly illness airborne
spread by miasma.
It sounds like a conspiracy theory now.
Perhaps some thought so then.
It all sounds so familiar
the specially made Personal Protective Equipment
required for those treating the afflicted.
Boots and gloves,
head to toe waxed covering
with sweetly pungent perfumes underneath
and a stick to make sure people kept their distance.
It all sounds so familiar
the distinctive mask,
so distinctive
it is popular in events today.
But the shape was necessary then,
utilitarian,
it’s long beak delaying the passage
of miasma to the doctor’s lungs,
with a cocktail of disinfecting herbs
inside
for further protection.
It all sounds so familiar.
But is efficacy was limited.
They had misunderstood
the causes and remedies.
We have more evidence now
but still wrestle
with competing theories.
So when all is stripped down
and the masks are off
we are still ill equipped.
It all sounds too familiar.
https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/autumn-2020---a-new-world
Marked Out
The marks are fading now
in the old playground.
It’s deserted now,
and since the crisis
no one plays games anymore.
I try to remember the the rules
but my memories are fading
like the laughter of children
like the marks on the ground
there are new rules now
but no games to play.
https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/autumn-2020---a-new-world
Lest We Forget
We think you can see us,
you know who we are
behind our masks
Not everything is hidden.
We are not hidden.
We are out
in the open
in plain sight
even if masked.
So join us for a snack,
a glass of wine,
a coffee.
Enjoy!
Take a sip with us
lest we forget
what to do
when we go outside.
Step back in time
one taste at a time,
one sip at a time.
Remember
the first time
is always challenging
and won’t ever be forgotten.
Remember!
As we will remember
the ones behind the masks
and the ones in hiding,
the ones we know are there
but cannot see.
We know who you are.
No one is forgotten.
Nothing is forgotten.
That’s our promise
one sip at a time.
http://www.praxismagonline.com/lynn-white-three-poems/?fbclid=IwAR0Xt71zA_cSk-B3F2xBFbGNEgQLdjJjg59s0TL8Qf3uCmwaSrzteFEtEv0