Poetry - Lynn White

  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/

  Winter 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://www.sylviamagazine.com/winter/

  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/

  Looking Glass I’m gonna break that looking glass. Too many of them are walking through it. I’m gonna break it. Then I’m gonna stamp on the shards grind them to powder so the fuckers can’t get back. 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/