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/YEAR-RABBIT-ANTHOLOGY-SOURAV-SARKAR/dp/B0BW31X2W9?ref_=ast_author_dp&fbclid=IwAR0PgDsPEhlZhQjR3dx4WWMTx_KN3IiUUAJN5fB-Lnl0XuNcAyA-dYKqSxY

  The Curse Of Consumption I can hardly remember my early life when I wiggled and wriggled   embryo-like blindly   consuming all before me. I know I sensed the warnings not to bite off more than I could chew, but consumer of cliches that I was, I carried on regardless making a meal of everything I could swallow, even the words. I could feel   that change   was coming and eventually it happened! I made it happen! My curse became a blessing and I broke out   of my hard carapace, split open the shell that had become my prison, did my best to leave it behind to have a look at the world outside and continue my cruise of consumption. Nothing was sacred I ate it all and grew fat, so fat, too fat. So fat I felt ready to explode. And then it happened,   I swear, it was like a nuclear explosion inside me all the dust and debris of decadence   solidifying   into something unspeakable, mushrooming into something unintelligible to be spewed out of my big ...

  Waterfall They put a fence by the waterfall all along the high bank near the path. It was ugly, an eyesore but it was supposed to make it safer stop people climbing up the rocks at it’s side and jumping in though no one could remember an accident. It didn’t work. The children went under. The adults went over. It was more dangerous as the approach was much narrower now and slippery from the increased footfall  on the restricted area. But at least  there was no accident it was just ugly an eyesore until someone took a saw to it and threw the bits into the water to float away down river. They built it higher then a bigger eyesore and difficult for children to climb over. But they still do. After all, they've been doing it for centuries. It’s probably in their genes and no one can remember an accident. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/never-never-land.html

  Playtime Imagine a sitting room peopled with dolls an attic space filled with toy trains and cars adult places filled with children’s playthings passive playthings out of their time and moved on into a time when even the box with it’s wrappings and writings fails to excite us creating no spark, no glamour, only needy memories in passing as time moves on. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/never-never-land.html

  Game On Even as a child she could play a mean game of dominoes sometimes it was just against her mother, sometimes other members of the family as well, or her friends and their mothers. Games were always sedate, well mannered, even tempered dominoes carefully placed on the table with a gentle click clack. She usually won. Later she discovered that the pub game was quite different. Every move was contested. Dominoes were slammed down noisily  with a bounce which disturbed those already placed and led to heated debate about where they had been and where they should be now. And there was always an audience  which joined in as well shouting advice and abuse, whichever was deemed appropriate. Excitement mounted as the beer flowed. And she won again. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/never-never-land.html

  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://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/never-never-land.html

  Never Never Land My sister has gone to Never Never Land It’s where all 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 says  they stay children for ever and can play all day long. My sister was allowed to take her trike with her even though it was all smashed up. My mother says the magic people there will fix it. It sounds like fun there but my mother says she will never let me go, not even if I find a magic carpet to carry me up into the sky. Perhaps she thinks I’m getting too old go there. She says that the children there will grow wings  and become angels, I think angels are a bit like fairies, and when my sister gets her wings she will fly back home so we can be together again. My mother says, no, never, but I don’t know. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/never-never-land.html

  A Question Of Perspective The theatre was full of children. I was there with my mother and auntie. We were all excited, especially first timers like me. I’d been told it was a fairy story, Cinderella, they had said, but I couldn’t work it out. The prince was a girl, a ‘principal boy’, they told me. So why a girl? It made no sense. And the wicked step-mother   looked suspiciously male. A dame, they told me. So how can a dame be male? It made no sense, not to me. I guess it’s all a question of perspective. https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1351622

  March Hares They’re getting ready for the boxing matches where the winners will take all. Afterwards, they’ll stand still for a moment and sniff the air to check all is safe and then they’re ready to roll so climb on board feel the wind in your hair the witching hour has arrived at last and soon all will be transformed, renewed,   remade as they spring forward in any shape they choose. It’s like magic. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-jane-burn

  Far Out Like Stevie’s young man,   I was too far out   much too far out and not waving I didn’t want the attention that waving would draw to my foolishness or precociousness or my stubbornness when I’d gone too far, wouldn’t want to be judged on my waywardness. But I wasn’t drowning. I had my mask   and snorkel, even a wet suit of a homemade kind so I just floundered a bit before I found I could float, and go with the flow for a while and then kick off   against the current in my own direction. Sometimes I reached the safety of the shore and stayed close for a while but only for a while, only for a while I stayed too far out all my life but not waving or drowning. https://visualverse.org/submissions/far-out/

 https://linktr.ee/thegraveyardzine?fbclid=IwAR0ExB-cUa8LfzwmnaUjSxPHq6IAFl4v3fPl_Lr9aZWVZWv-noGje_GD9NI

https://thegraveyardzine.wixsite.com/my-site/issue-four  

  Moonshot We were timeless timeless as the moon. Full of ourselves full   of our opportunities shining like polished silver in the dark. We forgot about the tides the cycles the ebb and flow. Forgot we would be worn away to a crescent. We only remembered the renewal our chance to do it all again. https://www.whiskyblot.com/journal/moonshot-by-lynn-white

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  Vortex Weather wasn’t always like this forever winds   bouncing off the mountains   blizzards   bringing the chaos of flailing and falling   leaf heavy boughs,   their trunks lying   still broken   or uprooted and the gush   and rush   of wild,   wild water spiralling   in chaotic   cascades. I had thought that here we were sheltered by the mountains but now we’re in the centre of an angry vortex under the still blue sky, it’s a whirling blue vortex in this dervish of a blizzard. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges

  Spring Dreams I close my eyes  and listen to the first sounds of spring. Hear the bees fly past and feel their warm settling when sometimes they alight on me as if they wish to examine this strange creature, this lone interloper  in their world. I open my eyes  when I feel them so that I can admire their beauty and strangeness before they move on, flying or crawling, off to make their honey they leave me alone again. https://spectrumspringsolution.blogspot.com/2023/02/lynn-white.html https://spectrumspringsolution.blogspot.com/