Thursday, 16 March 2023


Vera Lynn was a famous singer,

the Forces Sweetheart, no less.

My mother was Vera,

so I should be Lynn.

My mother liked things to be


But even more than 

the correctness

of Vera and Lynn, 

she abhorred diminutives.

They were definitely not 


So I must have a name

which could not be shortened.

Joy was a contender, but, 

just suppose that

I was a weepy child.

That name would not fit me.

For me it would not have been


She needn’t have worried.

But worry she did.

So, Lynn it was

and Lynn I am.

My legacy

from my


 Out From The Blue

Blue skies splashed white
to hide the horizon.
And then,
out of the blue,
Taking me back
in that moment
to the sunshine
of the past.

So no blue moods
on this bright blue day
where the future is as hidden
as the horizon
together now,
for now.

And after all,
everything ends in tears
and loneliness,
so let’s take our now time
and chance the rest.

Wednesday, 15 March 2023


By Lynn White


It’s said that you should remember your roots,

remember where you came from,

remember where you belong,

anchored by your long tap root.

But I have fibrous roots too,

growing out strongly from the main tap.

I have spread them out and

put them down in many places,

taken sustenance from them.

They’ve been part of my growth,

fed my main stem and its splits and branches.

I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all,

all those places.

And some rootlets have broken free

and I’ve left them behind there

no longer belonging to me.

And I’ve left something of myself behind.

Would I find it if I returned?

I don’t think so.

But others may 



I’m spinning a sphere

of mirrored glass and

I’m seeing my world 


Upside down.

Round and round.

Making me dizzy.


perhaps it was always

upside down and

spinning out

of control

in any 



Perhaps it always will be.

 The Skin I'm In

I used to wonder

how I would grow

and yet still fit in the skin I'm in.

If we would grow together,

me and my skin.

Well, we seemed to have done

quite well

for a long time.

I used to wonder

how you would grow,

and if you would still fit 

the skin you are in.

And if we would grow together

and stay intact in our

separate skins.

Well, we seemed to have done,

for a long time 


Now I wonder…

Am I still the same person

under the skin? 

Are you?

I think I am.

The outside has changed.

But inside my skin

I am intact. 

Myself as before.

I think.

Not quite so comfortable 

in my new skin, though.

It doesn't fit me too well.

Doesn't always represent me.

Doesn't look like I still feel.

Like I still am?

What about you?

Are you still that person 

in your new skin?

I'm not sure now if the inside 

has also been renewed,


And if it is only on the outside, 

that we have changed together.

 On A Sunny Sunday

It was a sunny Sunday,
a perfect day.
So he dressed them in their
Sunday best
and they went to the park
to play on the swings
and roundabouts.
My father.
My half brother and sister
on a sunny Sunday.
They were surprised
to meet her
as they walked home.
They were surprised
to see that
she was carrying a suitcase.
They were surprised
when she said goodbye.
They didn’t believe it 
so they went home
to their new council house
to wait.
She never came back.
It had not been a happy home.
She could be violent.
But it was their home.
She never came back.
So they moved to his parents
where they were 
only grudgingly accepted.
It was not a happy move
but it was the best he could do.
Sometimes on a sunny Sunday
she would leave the hospital,
escape in search of her family.
But they never found each other

 A Question Of Identity

On her 90th birthday she looked in the mirror

and tried to identify the face looking back.

She felt the same as ever

but the face,

that was the mystery

how could she connect the two,

how she felt and how she looked.

Perhaps a mystic would tell her

that the face had been through the fire of life,

but so had everything that made up her identity,

or more accurately, her multiple identities,

different ones for every occupation,

every relationship

and every situation.

The ones foisted on her by parents

were soon rejected and replaced

by the ones she made up for herself,

different identities 

but always the same person,

easily recognised

but not in that mirror

but something to celebrate.

 A Model Woman

She set out to become a model woman.
It was what her mother taught her.
But her mother’s models 
were rooted in the past,
mannequins really
and no longer in vogue,
so her attempts were confused.
Conformity was the issue
but to which age,
which youth
should she conform
now or then.
It took her a long time,
a lifetime.
A lifetime
of making up,
of trying on and discarding,
a lifetime of self discovery,
a lifetime
to throw away the wigs
and become herself.

Tuesday, 14 March 2023


The puppets are drowning now 

their useful time has passed.

They were always made 

to become shadows

to be discarded 

by the string pullers

when the audience was sated.

The glove puppets and sock puppets

are floating away 


tumbling like clowns

in the waves

and soon

even the shadow puppets will vanish

maybe then 

the puppeteers will reveal themselves

put their power on display 


For soon it will be time

for them to change 

their shape 

and re-emerge

to find new clowns,

new clowns to seduce the audience.

Sunday, 12 March 2023

Saturday, 11 March 2023

 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.

 Still Searching

Angel came down 

from heaven to earth.

It was part of her

once in a lifetime tour

of the earth’s solar system.

She chose to visit the earth first

as word was that it was the most beautiful,

so beautiful that it had been the model

for the paradise that was heaven.

She had never really believed it

some things just weren’t believable,

like heaven, few people believed in it


she found

even fewer

believed in paradise

whether earthly or heavenly.

Angel realised that she didn’t believe in it either.

She believed in herself though,

believed in the angels.

She met quite a few

on her travels,

she told me so.

I told her how pleased I was to meet her,

how glad I was that I’d believed in her,

how sorry I was that she had to leave

before she found paradise.

But that’s life.

I waved her goodbye

as she mounted her unicorn

and rode away, still searching.