Washed Up

So many dead people 

caught in the crossfire

created by the the money men, 

the arms traders,

the super ego-ed politicians.

They lie dead where they fell.

Flesh and blood transformed to 

fertiliser to nurture the seeds 

and grow the crops, in a future

they will not see.

Their bones decaying to dust

to form the building blocks 

of homes they will never inhabit.

Dying where they fell, 

over there, not here

and not looking like us.

Unseen or soon forgotten

by us here. 

But the dead washed up

on holiday beaches

look like our flesh and blood.

They’re wearing our clothes.

They’re washing up to haunt us

in the Old World.

Then there’s the living,

washed up alive 

and by any means necessary

moving on to bear witness, 

if any one is listening.

To bring the horror home 

to those who created it

in the Old World.

Bringing it home to the Old World,

soon to the New.

https://www.rudderlessmarinerpoetry.com/blogpoetrysubmission/washed-up-by-lynn-white

 Orange Light

Orange is at the cheerful end of the spectrum.

It should spill out it’s zest so I can live and love

in a golden shower,

taste exotic fruit, engulfed in an ecstasy of orange light,

be part of a story with a happy ending, full of sunshine.

Bright gleaming reds and yellows are not far away.

Orange is their combination, inevitably. 

Yellow and red.

Cowardly, acidic and dangerous when parted from each other. 

Colours have different moods when separated. As we do.

So this palette can hide more than it reveals.

And now it forms a mask on the face of black despair,

a bright new dawn 

that breaks the surface, but one which is not wanted, not desired.

A flash of lightening breaking up the continuum of my horizon.

There’s a cloud of bright dust swirling in a stormy sky, 

with darkness following blocking out the sun, 

destroying the light

Rain like tears must follow as the light disperses

and the golden sun is cracked open to reveal it’s inner stone.

This bright cloak of orange light is wrapped round me

like a comfort blanket hiding my spilt zest in it’s brightness.

Fear, sourness and hurt

lie within, inseparable and undiminished by the brightness outside, 

the golden glow which is coating this time with sadness.

https://orangeblushzine.wixsite.com/home/obz3

 Luck Of The Irish

The Irish love their horses.

It’s a long tradition

which survives urbanisation

among young working class people

in parts of Dublin,

people seemingly like me.

They take them along the city streets,

into supermarkets, on buses,

even up in the lift to their new home 

on the balcony of an apartment.

The stories are legion.

And the Irish love their stories.

But I was not like them.

I couldn’t be part of that story.

I find horses just too big, too strong,

too high from the ground.

Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid

I’d take a tumble from the saddle

or be nudged and trampled into the sand.

I was sure that it was only 

by the luck of the Irish

that I survived.

Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish.

But I know for certain now

that when I join that wild eyed horse

on the balcony

the luck of the Irish

is bound to desert me.

https://orangeblushzine.wixsite.com/home/obz3

 The Fall

I'm running downhill

running 

faster and faster.

I'm crossing the bridge now,

still running,

running

to the end of the bridge,

trying to see the end.

But there is no end

and I'm falling now,

falling,

falling.

falling into the arms

of the demons below

with their waving arms

outstretched

and their claws primed

waiting to break my fall

and swallow me up

into their depths.

I grasp at the air,

cling to the wind

flailing,

falling.

flailing.

Then,

I’m clinging 

to a hopeful ray of sunshine

to carry me up,

to take me with it

into the light.

Now

I'm floating,

floating,

floating upwards or down.

It's not clear,

am I still falling or am I

floating upwards

into the light.

https://orangeblushzine.wixsite.com/home/obz3

 Refugees

At school there was a weekly collection 

for charity.

I saved up my biscuit money

so that

I did not seem different, more impoverished

than the rest.

And so that I had something to give to those

less fortunate.

I knew what charities were, you see.

Well, except for the one called

‘Refugees’.

I did not know what refugees were.

This was 1956.

Only six years after the ending of a war

creating millions

of refugees

and I had to ask what they were

several times.

Even then,

I didn’t understand.

It made no sense to me.

I didn’t understand.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/various-authors/land-and-territory-anthology/ebook/product-24340595.html?fbclid=IwAR1wL9iv5Y18X5suNi_n7MOq5O8yZsLAxGpGMXJjx8-1LHv2E139n7ljUdA&page=1&pageSize=4

 The Spirit Of Christmas To Come

The ghost slid down the rabbit hole

on a dark wintery night.

He expected to arrive in Wonderland

if such a place exists

and he believed it did,

just as he believed in ghosts and Santa Claus.

It was as he expected.

There was a full glass on a table.

He looked for a label saying:

“Drink Me”.

But there was no label.

So he drank it anyway.

It left a nice warm feeling inside him,

“spirit for the spirit”, he laughed aloud.

There was a plate of pastries.

He looked for a label saying:

“Eat Me”,

but there was no label.

So he ate them anyway,

all of them

every last crumb,

every succulent morsel of mincemeat.

He lay back contentedly 

then smiled somewhat sheepishly

at the old man dressed in red carrying a large sack

who must have followed him down the rabbit hole.

He was looking none too pleased at the scene.

“Well”, said the ghost,

“Anyone can mistake a chimney for a rabbit hole

and we need a new Christmas story.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P135XHL?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860&fbclid=IwAR1RH1bDrBH0sg1tbiXz2PLs5SiFRZ1y582dae4p3072OlUHa5Eq200AFmo

 Father Christmas

I was so excited.

It was nearly Christmas

and I was going to meet

Father Christmas himself.

I was so excited, 

wearing my best coat and bonnet,

hopping from one foot to the other

in the long queue of children

waiting with their mums

to be allowed into Santa’s Grotto.

I was so excited.

We were nearly there.

I could see the grotto

with it’s tinsel and fairy lights

twinkling.

I was going to sit on his knee 

and have my picture taken,

and that was in an age when

photographs were even rarer

than Christmases..

I was so excited.

There were the elves...

But wait..

they were cardboard.

Where were the real elves,

the magic ones,

why weren’t they there?

“They’re much too busy”,

my mum said.

“But Father Christmas will be real”.

We paid our money

and there he was.

He really was.

I couldn’t wait to climb on his knee

and examine his beard.

I’d never seen a beard before.

But he was very tetchy when I pulled at it

and told me to stop.

Then it went lop sided

and I realised 

it was a false beard

and I told him so, angrily.

He put it back.

“Stop thy wriggling”, he said.

“You’re not the real one,

I don’t want to sit on your knee” 

Flash went the camera.

And outside there was a queue of children

waiting 

to be addressed.

Hands on hips.

“He’s not the real one.

He’s got a false beard.

He’s not magic at all,

they’re cheating you!”

It’s a swiz!

Then the store manager came..

I was so excited.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthology-Askew-007-Thrills-Anthologies-ebook/dp/B08273FPKH?fbclid=IwAR2dI5xCBKyEExtPQN74z-Mva0e_CI2Fm9ERmsnaOgAOd7sRrOcQq-5JiV8

 It’s Raining Again

The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh.

She’s tried. 

She’s really tried.

She’s wept tears

of frustration.

She’s wept tears 

of anger.

She’s wept tears 

of sadness

that flow from the mountains 

to the sea.

It’s the vowels

she finds hard.

And the consonants.

And the mutations.

And the way it’s spoken form 

changes 

over the distance traveled 

in the time it takes her 

to make a small cloud

and a tiny puff of wind.

A tiny puff,

not enough to to raise the cloud 

above the mountains.

So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist.

Or blows in angry swirls.

And still

she tries.

She really tries.

She weeps tears

of frustration.

She weeps tears

of anger.

She weeps tears

of sadness.

Floods of tears.

Lakes.

Tears which fall

in cascades

from the mountains

to the sea.

It’s Raining Again

The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh.

She’s tried. 

She’s really tried.

She’s wept tears

of frustration.

She’s wept tears 

of anger.

She’s wept tears 

of sadness

that flow from the mountains 

to the sea.

It’s the vowels

she finds hard.

And the consonants.

And the mutations.

And the way it’s spoken form 

changes 

over the distance traveled 

in the time it takes her 

to make a small cloud

and a tiny puff of wind.

A tiny puff,

not enough to to raise the cloud 

above the mountains.

So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist.

Or blows in angry swirls.

And still

she tries.

She really tries.

She weeps tears

of frustration.

She weeps tears

of anger.

She weeps tears

of sadness.

Floods of tears.

Lakes.

Tears which fall

in cascades

from the mountains

to the sea.

https://poetryandplaces.com/2020/11/22/its-raining-again-by-lynn-white/

 A Model Woman

She set out to become a model woman.

It was what her mother taught her.

But her mother’s models 

were rooted in the past,

mannequins really

and no longer in vogue,

so her attempts were confused.

Conformity was the issue

but to which age,

which youth

should she conform

now or then.

It took her a long time,

a lifetime.

A lifetime

of making up,

of trying on and discarding,

a lifetime of self discovery,

a lifetime

to throw away the wigs

and become herself.

https://www.amazon.com/Under-Blushing-Sky-Poems-Beginnings/dp/B08NF36J8R/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=under+a+blushing+sky&qid=1606069177&sr=8-1

 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

again.

I shall follow the road towards the light,

and leave the dark behind,

again.

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

again.

https://www.amazon.com/Under-Blushing-Sky-Poems-Beginnings/dp/B08NF36J8R/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=under+a+blushing+sky&qid=1606069177&sr=8-1