Breaking The Ice

It needs strength to break the ice

when it’s frozen as solidly as

silence.

Or so I thought.

It needs strength to break the ice,

to break the mould and

reform.

Or so I thought.

But just suppose,

the ice gives up it’s power

and allows the colour 

to break through, bright

so the delicate flowers can form,

can bloom, can flourish fragile.

Will they then open up

through the self shattered ice,

and melt the frozen silence

to make a space,

an opening

for a warmth,

that will shatter

the now thinning ice?

I think so.

https://lawrencehouse.ca/breaking-the-ice/

 Home Coming

I think that today

will be my home coming day.

The day I’ve been waiting for,

when I’ll come back.

to where I came from.

Back

to here, where I belong.

Even though,

I was never here before,

never in this place,

never with this person.

I know I’m home.

I can feel it.

And know I will stay

and that it

and you

will stay

with me.

I must go outside sometimes,

leave sometimes,

of course I must.

But I’m floating free

and I will take it all with me.

It has become

part of my being,

so I can’t move away.

Can’t separate us.

This place and this person,

have engulfed me.

Surrounded me in sweetness

and brought me back

from wherever I was,

Brought me home,

made me complete,

but still free floating,

carrying them with me

always.

It’s the day I’ve been waiting for.

https://www.hiraeth-book.com/product-page/hiraeth

 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://pondersavant.com/2021/02/22/who-am-i-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

 Who Am I

When did I last know who I am?

I wonder if it when I was a child,

when I made up stories 

from my imagination.

Was I separate then

from the imaginary children 

with imaginary parents 

and imaginary friends.

knowing

where my story began 

and where I ended.

I don’t remember.

Perhaps the story ended before I began.

Perhaps the two began together.

Perhaps they may end together,

separately

or eternally 

entwined,  

inseparable. 

I cannot say. 

I never could.

Did I ever know who I am?

https://pondersavant.com/2021/02/22/who-am-i-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

 I Am A Child

I am a child of the revolution

created by the wake of

fascism and imperialism,

that sought to construct 

a more just society.

I am a child numbed by poverty, 

stultified by working class conformity,

of a mother who wanted better for me,

but also wanted to keep me the same.

I am a child of these contradictions

who became a rebel 

in the cultural revolution

of the rock and roll generation.

Who was liberated by student life,

by control of fertility,

by other places, 

by the music and art 

all parents hated.

I am still that child.

This is what made me.

This is what shaped me and

became part of my present, 

became part of my future.

Sometimes I have tried to escape it.

Sometimes I still do.

https://pondersavant.com/2021/02/22/who-am-i-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

 River

I look into the river and see myself in reflection.

Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in it’s flow.

I am constantly being moved and changed,

but left stationary, moved but not moving on 

like the fishes and pebbles. 

Here I am, disturbed and abstracted,

surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world, 

which leaves me unclear who I am and,

more unclear about the solidity of my background

and what is happening around me.

I look into two worlds which are intermingling,

becoming inseparable before my gaze.

My own distorted image fades and breaks

with the images behind and beyond me

in the background of my life.

This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion.

For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside. 

I am in danger of being broken up and washed away.

Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces,

undecided, lacking definition.

It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person, 

into the confusion and fragmentation beyond it’s edges,

into the reality outside, which is pressing in on me. 

It excludes any coming together, any resolution as

it embraces me in it’s ripples and sounds.

Such sweet, watery sounds, cooly relaxing my spirit.

Shutting out the incoherent babbling outside.

But still, even as I put my hands over my broken ears,

I know it will find a way inside and overwhelm me,

in any case.

https://pondersavant.com/2021/02/22/who-am-i-other-poetry-by-lynn-white/

 Remembrance

Don’t be sad.

I remember that

once you were golden.

Now the gold has darkened to sepia

but sometimes still the light shines through

in flashes of the old gold

when you remember.

Don’t be sad.

I still remember 

the gold

and nothing lasts for ever

not even memories.

https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/2021/02/19/remembrance/?fbclid=IwAR0_QR2kfiSGD5nOBKNO0Ci3eTg6EfFrp56_D6emUmzvWdEzqC9qggq5oio

 All That Is Solid

There’s an ill wind blowing,

gale force at least

laden with ice and snow

a real blizzard,

so keep your head down,

head for home,

don’t let it in

close up the gaps

and wait.

Wait

until the storm passes

leaving all eerily quiet.

Wait

for the sun to return

bringing rainbows.

and the breeze to grow gentle

with a sweet breath

and a warmth to break the ice

with colour.

Wait

for the delicate flowers to show

through the shattered soil,

melting the frozen silence.

Make a space then,

an opening

for a warmth,

that will shatter the ice.

Yes, even the solid will melt away

and make it all worthwhile.

https://www.amazon.com/blizzard-Nightingale-Sparrow-Literary-Magazine/dp/B08WSFX17T/

 Glitterati

See how they shine,

hair sprayed and polished,

lips glossed,

sequinned gowns shimmering

like sapphire stardust

to march their sparkling eyes.

But I wonder,

if you peel them 

like the ripe fruit they seem,

will you find

lusciousness inside

or only dry flesh

and a dusty kernel,

no stars or sapphires,

only dust that’s lost it’s glitter.

That’s when you’ll know

it was all just art.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1070035

 Where The Lost Children Go

My mother told me that 

my sister has gone to Never Never Land.

It’s where the lost children go,

those who don’t find their way home

and those who fade away and die

like the wild flowers I pick for the house.

My mother told me that

they stay children for ever

and can play all day long.

It sounds like fun there

but my mother says

she will never let me go.

She told me the children there will grow wings 

and become angels.

I think that when my sister gets her wings

she will fly back home.

My mother says no

but I shall wait.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1070035

 

https://www.facebook.com/nightingaleandsparrow/photos/pcb.1109344206181224/1109344089514569

 https://www.facebook.com/nightingaleandsparrow/photos/pcb.1109344206181224/1109344166181228

https://www.facebook.com/nightingaleandsparrow/photos/pcb.1109344206181224/1109344129514565

 It’s Only Make Believe?

The little cinema was packed,

even if fictional, films about the locality were rare.

And later, in the bar there was much discussion.

The shots of the sheep blocking the road were appreciated.

Well, our sheep were famous for their techniques of blockade.

This was no fiction.

There was insider knowledge here!

It was the mass action that was shown. 

It brought the occupants out of their cars

to wave their arms and shout in angry frustration.

But the individual acts of defiance by escapees

were not shown.

This was considered regrettable.

It was felt the film should have acknowledged the action 

of a single ewe lying nonchalantly chewing 

on the tarmac while the cars stopped 

and drivers moved rapidly from

“awww cute sheep” to louder and more frantic hooting 

and then to arm waving and shouting outside,

There was no discrimination, after all.

Old cars, new cars, large cars, small,

the ewe would eyeball them all impassively.

Locals just drove round her.

But the main discussion centred on the two elderly sisters

who lived up the mountain.

They drove a very old car.

One of them had learned to drive in the War

and no one had thought to check if she still held a licence.

But, no matter,

she could still drive well enough

even though blind.

Her sister could see fine. 

And even though she could not drive

she was adept at giving instructions.

Well, it was only fiction!

Or was it?

The audience doubted it.

All could almost remember these women,

or similar ones.

More insider knowledge was suspected 

as they argued happily

about the identities of the eccentric drivers.

https://poetryandplaces.com/2021/02/15/its-only-make-believe-by-lynn-white/

 Better Together

We will always be together,

said my little sister

if she felt lonely

or if we were sad.

I would give her a hug

to comfort us both 

we will, we will.

We will always have each other

always walk together

even if broken into little pieces

even if distorted by pain

we will pick up the pieces somehow

and put them back together

even if they’re re-arranged

even if not in the same places

we will still be us

together.

But later

we forgot

and walked away

from each other.

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/ekphrastic-challenge-responses-theodore-chasseriau

 What Else Should I Say

I unscrambled my thoughts

to text you my love.

Babe.

On Valentines Day 

it’s the most I can do 

in this strange

distanced year

when there is 

so little new 

to tell you.

It’s inadequate

but what else should I say

when it’s your touch I long for,

your strokes

and caresses

and they’re as un-textable

as you are untouchable.

So what else should I say

only that 

you’re still the one,

it’s still you 

I’m looking for,

Babe.

https://visualverse.org/submissions/what-else-should-i-say/

        Dreams

One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams.

You'll be dead by then,

unable to protect them

any more.

They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams.

They'll want them for sure,

they'll want them.

They'll want them to try and find you,

to try and discover who you were.

They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt,

seeing what they can find.

Digging up the dirt

to see what they can find 

in there.

They'll discard this piece here, another piece there.

Dross from the dried up remnants,

They'll hang on to the moist bits.

The juicy bits are worth further analysis.

You may be in there.

In your dreams.

Someone else will scrabble to catch 

the dry pieces,

those fragments of dreams thrown away.

The little pieces blown away in the air.

Little snippets,

dreamlets.

But there are flakes of gold hidden there.

I hope they don't find them.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-l7xIAUiUTDNtpMRLzFI8cBjU_6PvtK_/view?fbclid=IwAR3Fg3sLUrcclMWDeyvTRUZRZagYImnxostDncgM-pPzDRi--shY_itwaA0