Poetry - Lynn White

  To Rest In Peace They were men of the north suitably suited in black dense as new hewed coal or dark grey shiny as wet slate or, rarely, the midnight blue of a northern night sky. It was a formal occasion this laying to rest of the dull grey past known, of the bright red future hoped for. They laid them to rest with broken flowers petals crushed with ashes and dust. It was a formal occasion this laying to rest in peace or not. https://www.amazon.com/Harbinger-Asylum-Winter-various-authors/dp/B08TSHJ4B1/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=harbinger+asylum+winter+2020&qid=1612019946&sr=8-1

  I’m Tired I’m tired of trying to see the good in people. I’m tired of making decisions about good and bad. I’m tired of endless discussions in armchairs judging and justifying what is good or bad. I’m tired of procrastination, of enquiries and commissions designed to delay until death or forgetfulness. Tired of time servers, jobs worths, pocket liners. Tired of them all. So where shall I go now? https://www.amazon.com/Harbinger-Asylum-Winter-various-authors/dp/B08TSHJ4B1/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=harbinger+asylum+winter+2020&qid=1612019946&sr=8-1

  Wild Fruit I like the wild berries best. Juice spilling over. Bursting, staining my tongue purple or my lips red. Each one a new sensation. A little harder to come by, than the bland clones, the cultivars. A bit more of a struggle. And, it must be said, not always sweet. One never knows with these wild fruits. With each taste comes a surprise. Spit out the sour, take in the sweet. Such joy! Oh yes! the wild berries are the best. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087FJD9JF/ref=sr_1_15?dchild=1&keywords=The%20Stray%20Branch&qid=1587600873&s=books&sr=1-15&fbclid=IwAR3de6iykORgoPKlUskE91TZ8mdHY3QOd1A4m22uR3CSsBh6j83aUTJ_q4o

  Behind the Mask Will I ever see what lies behind the mask? I think I can   sometimes through the eye slits, sometimes when they are open. Eyes are revealing, after all, and difficult to hide. Maybe they’ll tell me enough, tell me all I need to know. So I will have no urge to peel off the mask, to tear it away from the skin underneath. It would be too painful, anyway. Too raw, for both of us and would leave behind a soreness that would not heal. And still not all would be revealed by the exposure. http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=8259

  Buzzing   I can hear the flies buzzing since I 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 offered and escape. Now there is no window to be   opened. This is a closed space. Eternal night. No possibility of freedom, or escape. Not for me. Not for them. https://www.amazon.com/Tricksters-Treats-Coming-Charity-Anthology-ebook/dp/B08HDGKJGN/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=trickster%27s%20treats%20%234&qid=1600779071&sr=8-1&fbclid=IwAR3hWBa5b124Nbl8CrLv4srgz0HIPPJqpLIpY0oOvyKjvzYU32B2d4glsf4

  A Blue Whale Look at them all   swimming round me taunting me   waving their legs at me   tickling me pinching me and swimming away constantly taunting me. No wonder I’m depressed. What a wheeze to make me the largest creature on the planet   need to eat one of the smallest. Well Joker, I’m not laughing. Forty million krill a day I need to eat according to Wiki. Yes, I keep up. I’m well informed but it doesn’t help me doesn’t make me feel better. To add to the insult I was given a tiny mouth, too small for the job. See, I’m hardly a basking shark swimming round all day with my mouth open so they can swim straight in. No, it’s open and close open and close till my jaw aches. No wonder I’m blue. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/01/three-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  A Timely Revolution “I’m late, I’m late again”, said the White Rabbit staring at his pocket watch with exasperation. He turned the minute hand back a little and perused the new time with satisfaction. He knew the effect would be limited, that there would be no revolution in time unless   he could turn back the hands on all the clocks everywhere, but it made him feel better briefly. He had pondered this issue of time many times. He knew that the revolutions of clocks   and watches were irrelevant to it’s passing, which made him feel better   about his manipulation. Philosophically speaking, he knew that he could change the time. He could break the watch and freeze it. Break all the wheels that revolved inside. Smash them to smithereens. But even then, even when   broken, he knew the wheels of time would keep turning,   that even,   given time,   there would be no timely revolution. The wheels would still turn time after time. https://lothlorienpo...

  St George And The Dragons A long time ago St George killed all the dragons in England. All of them, the black ones,  the green ones and the white. He killed all the dragons in Sweden and in the Middle East. He killed all of them, the black ones, the green ones and the white. But the red dragons defeated him, hid in the rainy Welsh mountains. Leapt out and and ambushed him. Bent his sword with the heat of their fire. Ate up his horse, so that he had to run away, slipping and sliding over the wet rocks, into the muddy dense wood in fear. Yes,  the red dragons defeated him and left him hiding in his cave, in fear. So,  come for a walk with me. This is the dragon’s country. They are very shy and secretive these days, even though St George...

  Progress “Put your best foot forward,” the hesitant are often told, but I am never sure which is my best foot, if it’s the right, my push off foot for a great leap forwards or upwards, or my left on which   I can stand balanced for a long time. I have to choose to soar or stay stable. I have to choose otherwise I shall make no progress at all. http://www.praxismagonline.com/progress-by-lynn-white/

  The Devil It Is Play me a tune a little light music to sooth my soul, to bring me cheer in these troubled times. Play it louder louder play louder all of you together. Summon the angels. Don’t let the devil seduce me don’t let him take me don’t let him carry my soul away. https://litbreak.com/odyssey-in-the-afternoon-the-power-of-gods-a-familiar-story/?fbclid=IwAR057MLsmTNf52Dp_2whvoO2ivaPtioXqJtFADWkUpzufeq1RpI89BmIiA8

  Gloria I called the doll Gloria. I no longer know why. My father bought her for me on a trip to the seaside, on my first trip to the seaside. I was bored with the endless sand and the cold grey sea and with the effort of pretending to enjoy myself on my expensive treat, at the seaside. We went to a toyshop after and my father bought me the doll. I called her Gloria. I no longer no why. Perhaps it was the name he suggested. Or maybe my mother suggested it when I couldn’t decide. I don’t remember. But I remember the doll. She had real hair that I could comb. But it turned out to be plastic, nylon, I think. And   after I had combed it a few times, the whole lot came off leaving her bald. Yes without her wig she was completely bald, my Gloria. https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/winter-2020---childhood

  Gaping We found a gap in the fence. Someone had made it,   that gaping hole in the wire, hoping to climb through,   hoping to head towards the light,   to leave the darkness behind, to escape the madness here, hoping, hoping. But now the light has become too bright. It’s blinding us. We can see less than in the darkness. Our mouths open, aghast with the horror of it all, gaping, gaping through the gap that leads to nowhere. https://visualverse.org/submissions/gaping/

  https://onceuponacrocodile.weebly.com/amalgamation-by-lynn-white.html

  Our Street This was us our street before the bombs fell and turned it to rubble and ashes and turned us to dust and ashes. This is us our street where the lights shine brightly and the Liquor Store is open for party goers, where the buildings stand neatly in line, where tomorrows are as predictable as todays still. This is the US where the bombs don’t fall. https://www.bardconvirtual.com/beat-gen-anthology.html?fbclid=IwAR0xjldl8DkPWdHG911qMEIGG8dPfgNAvJPsMqlwY9EnGR10sGqsyS7-Qus

 On  The Beach Nature is the best of artists,   able to render down to beauty the decayed life forms of the past into a form that can grace my walls and shelves and remind me of the stories about where I found them, about where they washed up,   the chances they took. I strain to hear their stories, strain to hear the trees from Loch Ellen once blown by the wind   now rustling silently. But I think the dragon fish can hear them. He looks as if he’s speaking,   telling them all about his journey   from a living tree to driftwood on the shore and now he’s here on my wall. waiting for the next wave to break waiting to see what happens. http://www.activemuse.org/Shishir_2020/Poems/Lynn_White.html

  Imagination’s Real Back in the day   before elderly women   preferred to become blonde, grey turning to blue was common. “Look at that lady there, she’s got blue hair. Look, mummy!” he said loudly,   “I don’t like blue hair, do you!” as she squirmed with embarrassment. Blue was a dead give away   of aged artifice as, unlike blonde natural hair can never be blue, it doesn’t bend the light like feathers to make that specialist refraction of reality. So it was a dead give away of pretence or fantasy,   of unreality, or imagination. But sometimes that’s perfect, perfectly fit for purpose. “Look at the horses in that painting. they’ve got blue hair!   Look, mummy, look” he shouted,   “I like their blue hair, don’t you? It makes my imagination real!” She laughed in agreement   and thought there was an artist in the making. https://asitoughttobemagazine.com/2021/01/04/lynn-white-imaginations-real/