Poetry - Lynn White

  Zest We feel free again out here on the wild heath and we’re whirling and twirling like a dervish with the devil in us reclaiming our wildness that was hidden for so long when we were just hanging on our spirits sapped   at home alone. But we’re out now feeling reckless   with excitement, jumping for joy leaping with faith ready to go again. https://70abfc6e-82b1-4f23-b97d-8c7d779b3319.filesusr.com/ugd/5e3cbf_206e18dabc534ae5980ae4d667cfc6bf.pdf

  The Place Where The Stars Are Buried I’m on my way to the place   where the stars are buried under a roof of rain. I won’t get lost. I’m following the silver snail trails and the muddy pools with the little shimmers of spangles. When I get there - to the place where the stars are buried. I shall dig a little, dig just enough to let a glimmer of light out. Just enough to let the love sparkle and sizzle in the light before it burns. https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/isabella-vazquez-and-nico-vazquez-and-veronica-mattaboni-and-braxton-kocher/moonshot/paperback/product-kgyv7y.html?page=1&pageSize=4 https://www.peachvelvetmag.com/summer-21?fbclid=IwAR0I-6KsmZd6UEC4EZwbmvuueUeFg8vKJIiEtnLNUioQxh1jEnuzbhvU5C4

  Look We Have Come Through Gather round the camp fire there’ll be music and dancing later but first, a picnic! What a spread! And none of it from a factory, none of it well travelled over turbulent seas or skies so eat and enjoy then we’ll show you how to make it for yourselves and after, we’ll celebrate how we have come through with such joy. https://visualverse.org/submissions/look-we-have-come-through/

  Scorpio’s Secret I’ve kept our secret a long time,   the mystery of our passion and, ever resourceful,   I stored it deep in the watery underworld. But now I’ve forgotten   where   I buried it and my crabby comrades are long gone. Their hard shells tell me nothing, perhaps they never did, but it was guarded by Pluto to make sure it was safe. We had a deal then, back in the days   when I thought him reliable now I’m not sure if I can trust him. Perhaps he’s already dug it up I won’t know till I find him, if I can find him, and when I do   it’s resting place will remain my secret. I’ve already lost our passion, it’s buried for ever. And now I shall become a hermit, give up my hard shell keep myself secret, I need no one else. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/WhctKKXHBTzgVnlZTvjThJppKczSqlpbRSqhRMBljdPwxSxFZgmLdvDXnPPqJPCLjrwRTqQ

  Such A Wonder They’re such a wonder! They never eat their fellow creatures, or trample them under hoof. They don’t require the speedy dispatch of rain forest acres to meet their culinary needs. Those in my garden don’t eat the plants and happily allow me to garland them with flowers fresh each morning and allow the myriad of insects   to alight and feed on them without so much as a flick of the tail or a toss of the head. Such a wonder. They’ll come for a walk with no need for lead or muzzle as they don’t chase the sheep or greet passers by with a growl or take a hefty bite from an ankle   or calf, or shit on the street or path. Truly a wonder these unicorns. And they’ll inhabit your dreams with smiles. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/WhctKKXHBTzgVnlZTvjThJppKczSqlpbRSqhRMBljdPwxSxFZgmLdvDXnPPqJPCLjrwRTqQ

  Aliens They emerged from the eggs  of our snow white Silkies. Every one a cockerel when grown, we decided to have one for dinner. The skin was blue, under the white plumage, which was quite a shock, a little alien, but cooked, it was fine. Normal. And the flesh was white, But when carved, the bones were blue. Disconcerting. A little alien. And now these red feathered birds have appeared as if from nowhere, their eggs pink.  When they hatched and grew, all were hens,  their clutches carefully hidden, each batch of chicks larger than the last. A little strange, a little alien. And then, at last, there were cockerels, too many and too large.  We decided to have one for dinner. The skin was pink under the red plumage which was quite a shock. A little alien. But cooked it was fine. Normal. And the flesh was white. But when carved the bones were pink, Disconcerting, more than a little alien. There are more of them now, growing ever larger. I think that soon the dinn...

  Rookery Soon the light will be fading and the rooks are circling in a cawing cacophony   of confusion trying to understand the changes   to their once familiar roost, searching in vain for the water which would explain   the duplicity of their treetop canopy now a mirror-less reflection. They’re searching for something,   anything to give them a bearing, to show them whether   to fly up or down which way is up or down in this rookery of dreams, rootless as a dream. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/07/four-wonderful-poems-by-lynn-white.html https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/WhctKKXHBTzgVnlZTvjThJppKczSqlpbRSqhRMBljdPwxSxFZgmLdvDXnPPqJPCLjrwRTqQ

  Rise And Fall We thought we’d fixed it buried the monster with a stake through it’s heart so it could never rise again, created something better with our blood and sweat and tears. We’d seen the rain wash away all the traces. We’d seen the sun come out. We’d seen the colours of laughter in the streets. We’d thought it would stay there for ever. But we were wrong the monster was not dead just lying dormant it’s heart still throbbing pulsing   thrusting out the rotten stake. And now there’s no laughter in streets full of grey people carrying grey umbrellas knowing that it’s raining again washing away the sunshine this time, waiting for the blood to flow. And here am I re-reading the old words re-living the old times re-viewing the album   of old photographs of people locked in their past forced to live there again history gone in a flash then now renewed placing us on a treadmill taking us back to the beginning   to start over as the clouds gather and the rain starts...

  Waiting, Still Waiting I’m still waiting for the revolution in thinking, in acting, in feeling, to happen. I’m still waiting for it all to collapse so we can reform reshape remake   it from the ruins. Still waiting, waiting it’s too long   to be waiting for growing, restoring, recreating rethinking and then to watch them rebuild it the same. Only the masks are new. I’ve not waited for that. No, I’ve not waited for that. https://selar.co/WAIL?fbclid=IwAR3hqsStOR0kt91-0K_QL3V9Iq2tViUN78tWa6mvI6pgH3r3f_nUjXIAEJg

  Only Believe If I could only believe   I would   lie in sweet flower scented water and dream ever sweeter dreams undisturbed. If I could only believe   I would lie there   still at peace   and wake   at peace still. Whether fish or fowl, dove or eagle fly above me it wouldn’t matter if I could only believe that peace lies within. If I could only believe. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-marian-spore-bush

  Snakehead What a fearsome beast she became. Beautiful humans often do when they make themselves up to honour   the myth-like Medusa   of their imagination. To dress for power or style or fun. To tempt, or not to tempt, that is always the question to tax your thoughts till it makes your head ache with the stress of it. If the answer lies in the hair lying in it’s snaky tendrils ready to pounce then cut it off! Cut it off! But it won’t help. It’s just a distraction from those killer eyes that will leave you standing still. She’s no guardian angel but she’ll take care of you her way and there’s no safety in her death. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B098WBJ7XH

  Did You See My Father? You can see how small I am, my mask is my protection my only protection   self protection. I’m not like you with your head to toe suiting, your visors, your helmets,   your shields and sticks. I have only my mask. But it keeps me safe   from contamination. And if I’m contaminated, it keeps others safe from me. That’s what my mother says. My father says the same but I don’t know where he is now. He went towards the square where you’ve come from where history repeats itself, that’s what he said. Did you see him there? He looks a lot like me, a mask is his protection his only protection self protection keeping him safe from contamination. Did you see him there and protect him He had only his mask for protection and it may not be enough   if the sticks start hitting and the bullets start flying   to stop the contamination to halt the spread, to give protection or self protection as history plays its old game. I’m not sure how to stay sa...

  My Old Blue Pumps I kept them on, my old blue pumps. You see, I could see a broad band of sharp shells and pebbles and other flotsam between me and the sea so I kept them on, my old blue pumps, until I’d crossed over. I eased them off carefully but even so the sharp sand grazed my heels. Never mind, the sea would sooth them, wash away the pain with the ingrained sand. And it did as I swam. But at the end they were no longer waiting for me on the shoreline, my old blue pumps. No longer waiting when I emerged healed and refreshed, no longer waiting but captured by the sea and washed away with the rest. http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/themusesgallery.html