Burying the Hatchet
Where better to bury the murder weapons
than under the bodies
in their graves.
No one will know
and there’ll be no hard feelings then.
So that will be my strategy
to bury hatchets under buried bodies
so that all quarrelling will cease
and everyone will live happily ever after,
everyone still living, then.
https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2021/12/31/cajun-mutt-press-featured-writer-12-31-21/?fbclid=IwAR2DnJDT8EX6vpwzgtvcJUe9szJHcHE-hOvXaDczj7nkNqcToxQFgEjj7z4
To Be A Witch In Scotland
Scotland was not the place to be a witch,
it really wasn’t.
There were more than four thousand witch trials
in Scotland
putting Salem to shame,
the Witch-Finders boasted.
One would suppose that
wise women did not become witches,
but it seems,
many did
and paid a hot and heavy price.
So not many would be dancing,
even at Christmas,
even in spirit
few would rise
for the occasion
only the bravest
would celebrate.
But this Christmas in Scotland
there is something more
a vindication,
a recognition of innocence
that does not require bravery to celebrate.
Even though it’s three hundred years late.
https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2021/12/to-be-witch-in-scotland.html
Christmas Crow
We watched the crow with fascination
as it tap tapped on the window pane,
saw its black eyes gleaming,
its wet feathers shining
in the moonlight.
And we understood.
We understood that it wanted to join us,
to perch amongst the baubles
on our shining tree
to share our fireside warmth
on Christmas Eve
and escape
the cold winter rain.
We heard it promise
to sing for us
We opened the window
and let it in.
It crowed a Christmas carol.
https://spillwords.com/christmas-crow/?fbclid=IwAR042Op94_IJZUtgh4Gs8dGOQvPbQaTYUtchCQqDQmozVh8hSeOwNAQB7_M
The Usual Santas
She was not the usual Santa
corpulent and whiskered
in baggy red pants
and loose jacket
stretched to fit his belly.
No she was something special,
something out of the ordinary.
At first the reindeers were a little nonplussed
when her mini-skirted elves
with green spiked hair
and bright red lippy
loaded presents
on to the very ordinary sleigh.
But they were impressed
with the practicality
of her red stripy leggings
as she climbed up
into the driving seat
and were happy
to spread their wings
and fly through the stardust
at her command.
The presents were delivered as usual though
and this Santa enjoyed the mince pies and sherry
left out for her in every home.
Not everything had changed!
https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2021/12/22/the-usual-santas-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR3IbUwmyW9DJ1zDsgLqoRwhLaLvRKQBnpF3c6AxHURyN0Ohrat-pf8mpBk
So Many Things
What would you like for Christmas?
It’s a problem to decide
what to buy for the one who has everything!
There’s a birthday coming up,
what would you like?
It’s a problem to decide
what to buy for the one who has everything!
But now even our special things
are taking us over
growing like triffids
and suffocating us
spewing from our homes,
first to fill plastic bags
and then the land,
the seas,
the air
we breathe.
Too many things.
It’s all too much.
https://oddballmagazine.com/poem-by-lynn-white-9/
Memories
If I could choose my memories
I would keep the ones
that make me smile
still
keep them safe,
so I can revisit them
and throw away the rest
watch them blow away
in the wind.
But I can’t.
They’re self selecting
they chose
themselves
and I wonder
what choices will be left
for me
to the end of my days.
https://www.literaryheist.com/poetry/memories/
How To Float
They told me a stone would never float.
I didn’t believe them
so I threw it carefully on to the water.
It stayed there
on the surface,
a miracle!
So I threw another carefully to land on top
and then another
and another.
Now a stack of stones was floating
on the water.
They told me a stone would never hang in the air.
I didn’t believe them
so I threw it carefully upwards.
It stayed there
in the air,
a miracle!
So I threw another to land underneath
and then another
and another.
Now a stack of stones was hanging
in the air
casting its shadow on the water.
Believe in the miracles you can make.
Don’t believe what they tell you.
Cast a long shadow.
https://spectrummiracleexperiment.blogspot.com/2021/12/lynn-white.html
Alchemy
Still they try to find it,
the secret of eternal youth,
the women with their heavy made-up masks,
the men with their toupees,
the nip and tuckers,
the stretchers and smoothers.
Like the alchemists of old searching
for the secret of turning base metal to gold,
they’re searching,
searching,
searching,
endlessly searching
magic and science
as they get older
and older
still.
And still
the fountain of youth eludes them.
And all the alchemists are dead.
https://spectrummiracleexperiment.blogspot.com/2021/12/lynn-white.html
Beyond Our Control
Beneath the surface of the night
the daylight is hiding.
I saw it disappear
as the sun sank
beneath
the straight line of the horizon.
It’s still there somewhere,
hiding here
but showing itself
shining roundly
somewhere else
in a different place,
a different hemisphere.
That’s how it works
this day and night business
that’s in control,
that tells the flowers
when to close up their petals
and the animals to sleep
and dream.
Every day
it happens,
a shining
sinking
miracle
hiding
beyond our control.
https://spectrummiracleexperiment.blogspot.com/2021/12/lynn-white.html
Winter’s Tale
Slowly at first
almost imperceptibly
the days become shorter
minute by minute
as winter whispers
her arrival once again.
Listen carefully
but take care.
Soon you will cover your ears
as she learns to shout.
https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2021/12/14/winters-tale-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR3ULpucY45vI2Zrp2dJ0_vWfogu6gz_njb-UHsNVuH1Gw8xMxQruvyToxU
Life After Death
Something startled me:
where I thought I was safest
where I thought I belonged
so I will follow Whitman—
avoid the still woods I love
and fields where I used to walk.
I won’t emerge from my home
to meet friends in open spaces
or hug them and share a coffee,
there are no cafes anymore.
Even the ground has sickened.
Men in white spray disinfectant
over streets to stem disease.
Yet, I’m alive to sounds of spring
rising from death and decay of winter.
I’m alive to the prospect of summer
when death-fertilised ground shows life
where even death had planted blooms.
https://adrpoetry.com/fall2021/december2021/life-after-death-by-lynn-white/
The Crossword Man
We saw him often during our stay in Moscow.
Every time we passed the opulent public building
he’d be sitting there in his ‘Enquiries” cubicle
intent on his crossword.
We watched in awe
as the small queues formed,
marvelled at the increasingly imaginative ways
devised to attract his attention.
All failed.
The women in high heels,
the men in smart suits,
the young people in jeans,
the workers in uniform,
there was no discrimination
they were equal
in his resolution to ignore them.
It was sometime later at the end of an era
when I saw him again.
He was sitting there at his desk
intent on his crossword
and then came the breakthrough1
We watched in awe
as he leapt up,
rushed animatedly to the door
shouting and gesticulating
to the camera crew who had opened it.
They were making their way inside
as I watched on the television News.
Now I know,
all that is needed is a camera!
https://terrorhousemag.com/crossword/
Lost At Sea
I’d had the dream before
so I’d seen the waves,
heard them
roar
and there was I
my childhood self
immersed
but still upright
still on my feet
playing games
in spite of it all.
And there am I again
my teenage self
immersed
but still upright
still on my feet
looking cool
riding
the rough
and the smooth.
And here I am now
my adult self
pensive
trying to work it out,
somewhat lost
all at sea
trying
to let it wash over me.
But as the images flash past me
along with the jetsam and flotsam
I don’t think I’ll wake up this time.
https://terrorhousemag.com/crossword/
Magic Words
They say you have a magic tongue
that can weave the words
falling
from your mouth into tapestries
laced with gold thread.
Curl the words into scented ringlets
of flowers
formed by petals shining like
stars even in the sunlight.
I want to catch them and hold on to them
without any rearranging.
To soak myself in their perfection,
indulge
so I can keep them with me
when the magic turns dark
black
and the golden threads hard,
when you turn them to sharp steel.
They’re still your words with a kind of magic
twisted together by your tongue
but they have become
projectiles,
explosions of your anger and despair
falling,
but no longer falling
gently.
I’m going to catch them and hold them now
so that I can rearrange them
back
to what they were.
https://ephemeralelegies.com/2021/12/06/magic-words-by-lynn-white/
