Poetry - Lynn White

  Self Contained There used to be a man who would sit here on this bench every day gazing at the view. He was always alone. He would stretch out his arms   across the back of the bench so that he filled it, completed it. Though he was always alone there never seemed space for anyone else he seemed complete in his aloneness whole. So there were no conversations, or even “good mornings”. He didn’t seem to need them. So we all passed by. And now we can sit there with the view, with his view and wonder where he is. And wonder if he is still alone. And wonder if he is lonely. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08RH7MLY9/ref=cm_sw_r_wa_awdb_imm_t1_57t7FbQJ4BXPT

  The Breathing Days In the days when I still breathed air, the days before   living took my breath away, the days before   I knew my soul was there. I thought about this time, this time of no light, the forever night time with no breath, no air   to breathe. Just dust and darkness. And I pondered. Would there be slow decay   or fast. Stillness or movement. Now I know. I know everything about the dust and darkness. But I can't tell you. Not now in these days   of no breath,   no air to speak. Only my soul can speak. Can you hear me? http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_December2020.pdf

  Breakthrough It’s a long and desolate road. I think it’s always been so. Such a desolate road to travel before the brightness ahead, the light after desolation when the sun is freed from it’s winter shackles. Such a desolate road to travel waiting, hoping, searching for the brightness, the light after desolation when the sun breaks through to nurture and feed  the earth again. https://lawrencehouse.ca/breakthrough/

  The Circus of My Dreams In the circus of my dreams the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up, flashing their rain-bowed hooves, pointing with their golden horns, with their unique golden horns. Then, ridden by Leprechauns,   they’re dancing round and round the circle of the ring. Kicking up the gold dust ground   from their droppings into shimmering sawdust. In the circus of my dreams there is a rainbow. A rainbow that has painted   their hooves with it’s light as they climbed their way up and slid their way down to the crock of gold at the end. Time for the little people to dismount and mould the gold into hearts of love. Time for the unicorns to use the gold to nurture and replenish their golden horns, their unique golden horns. http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8257

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08R2CFDQ2

  New Times The birds are singing an opening chorus   for the pollen laden bees to hum over the flower beds in the park   which buzz as well as bloom. Summer is in full swing. But in the playground the swings are empty, the marks of courts and pitches have already faded. It’s deserted now. Since the lockdown no one plays outdoors. None of us play the old games anymore. There are new rules this summer as we stay at home   carefully distanced in our hazy miasma of enforced laziness waiting and hoping that the clouds hanging over us will be blown away before memories fade with the laughter of children   and the marks on the ground. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08QWHZ8XQ

  Mirror Image The mirror was old, not antique just old. Perhaps that was the reason it didn’t seem quite right, didn’t seem to reflect me as I expected. I looked harder. I could see my surroundings reflected as I thought they were, the curtains and the colours, the lamp standing naked all present and correct. But I wasn’t there. I am here. I know I am and I’m looking into the old mirror where I should see myself reflected but I can’t. I think it has swallowed me, body and soul. https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/2020/11/09/mirror-image/?fbclid=IwAR0fJFWFbxBRZ3Vqsrr-DKgKki_RL94YRF43t1Vo2bEYMIoyWNeeDDkHpEM

  Spidery   Hanging suspended like a puppet dancing in the wind, a marionette with a master working her strings, or blown this way and that buffeted by the wind. Until she rises to the challenge and takes control   herself, becomes a mistress puppeteer floating on a string of her own making swinging from tree to tree catching raindrops and her dinner as she weaves her wonder. http://lifeandlegends.com/lynn-white/

  One Way In The door was locked bolted   blocked against the entry of the merest draught shut tight all gaps closed against the ill wind Don’t let it in,   they cried we’ve blown it away, then closed up the gaps. But what about the gentle breeze? That should have space to enter. And will we know which one is blowing when we feel the first touch. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Blow it away, the ill wind. Don’t let it in. But if there’s a sweet breath within it that should have space to enter and there’s only one way in. for both. http://lifeandlegends.com/lynn-white/

  As The Crow Flies I think it’s always quicker to travel as the crow flies more direct, a Roman road without ups and downs, not that the crow notices such things. It needs no air traffic control system either has that built in and is never in collision. And has no call for oil refined to kerosene, just picks up fuel as it passes by with eyes sharp for road kill if it’s hungry and maybe even if it isn’t. It knows nothing of crowded airports   with security delays or blocked up motorways to be factored into journey time. The crow has risen above it all, it looks down on them and knows it will get there first. http://lifeandlegends.com/lynn-white/

  The Crow Remembers Through the mist the crow is watching the beach party as they pile up the stones. He watches them build them higher and higher but he’s not impressed, he knows that the stack of stones   was even higher once. Their ancestors built it first and the crow remembers them remembers their faces through the mists of time in life and in death. Remembers that it formed a stairway all the way to heaven. That’s what they told him in life. That’s what they tell him in death. https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/2020/12/15/the-crow-remembers/ https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/

  Christmas Tree Trimming the tree each Christmas Eve was my family’s ritual. My cousin would come to help my mum carefully take the glass baubles from the box that used to hold Topsy, her big doll. Then they would put them all in their place. “No the elephant doesn’t go there, that’s where the peacock should be and the Christmas pudding goes above.” Everything had it’s place on the Christmas tree in my family. There were shiny miniature crackers   never to be pulled and curly, coloured candles   never to be lit for economy. No cheating tinsel was allowed   only glass baubles should cover the tree,   hiding the green. The baubles had belonged to my cousin, so had the tree.   And earlier, to her mother and granny. They were part of the family. My cousin’s husband used to say with some truth, we were the only family to fall out over trimming a tree as every year the arguments were replayed. Then they drank Santa’s sherry and ate his mince pies. Must have need...

  As Winter Falls Willow don’t weep for me. Back in the summer I hid in the shadows of your leafy canopy. Now you have left me exposed waiting for the winter of my content   which falls every year as the lost leaves turn golden then brown with decay then white with the silence   of the first snowfall. I’m waiting for it to blanket me with light and make me smile. Willow don’t weep for me. http://www.sylviamagazine.com/as-winter-falls/

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  Hindsight We thought we’d done it! Created the basis for a future based on peace and love and civil rights. Even a pandemic couldn’t stop us at Woodstock. We were unstoppable! In diverse countries we saw the rebels become statesmen. We thought the struggle was over. And now with hindsight, I wonder if we would do it again now we know what happened next. And if I could go back with that knowledge, would I want to? Would I want   to face the person hindsight made me. And with hindsight, would I be there for me to find? https://eighteenseventy.poetry.blog/2020/08/29/three-poems-by-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR0UgAQD1Qr9ZjQOD3deb0HDMjtkanOVvEYL3PtbtwsVLJDU3kt09LN79_M

  Giants It takes a giant to take hold   of the sun and wrap it up like a lantern and hold it there  shining gold. There were such giants once, so it is said. They would light the way of travellers,   guide them through the darkness and shine a light for all of us, guide our way, so it is said. It is said that   we killed them all.   Even though it is difficult to kill a giant. We worked out ways to do it, worked out ways to kill them all. So now we just have only the sun and now it shines less than before. Now   we have no giants to capture it and wrap it up like a lantern. Now we have no lantern   to guide us through   the darkness anymore. https://issuu.com/poetraindog/docs/lummox9e-book