Poetry - Lynn White

The Summer Of ‘89 The ice-cream man appeared   at frequent intervals on the corner of the street near the large grassy area in summery Sochi. He had no van just a barrow and two cardboard cartons of paper wrapped briquettes. He had no fridge, didn’t need one, everyone knew   Russian ice-cream to be the best, the best in the world and so never got time to melt! The evidence was all around. The grass was full of people enjoying the lazy sunshine, sharing their music, smokes   and iced creamy kisses in the Sochi summer. The perimeter of the grass was edged with signs. ”Keep Off The Grass”, an English speaker translated. She smiled. “But we take no notice!” https://feversofthemind.com/2023/03/31/poetry-art-anthology-the-whiskey-mule-diner-inspired-by-tom-waits/?fbclid=IwAR1k401OKuDPfLwjIRVZXjcP4tBxnZ8z2Gd3MFwiZ_fOiceYlVoMuXlpa30

  Come On In “Come on in the water’s lovely” they called out to me   with their arms outstretched and the sweetest of smiles. And I was tempted for sure, even on this cold winter night their smiles were as entrancing as sirens. But the arms waving a welcome reminded me of spiders with their stretched out legs waiting to pounce in this watery web. Come on in the water’s lovely lovely lovely lovely. The word echoes through my head enticing me for sure, entrapping me perhaps. I’ll soon find out. https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

  No Place The buildings line the street. Such bright colours lining the street of the holiday resort, a place near the beach, a living place. But if I should transform the cars, into their metal box shapes. If I should paint out their windows and doors,   and the windows and doors of the buildings in the street, it would leave me   with coloured squares and rectangles dividing blue from green or white with no life left there. No place, no place for life at all. https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

  Burning Up The sun has risen and it’s burning, burning up   everything. And I’m raising my arms to worship or plead. Not sure which. Praise or prayer, perhaps they’re the same. That’s my thought for the day. Quite profound, I think, for the day when I’m sure I’ll be going home. What do think? Are we of the same mind? Great minds thinking alike again. Come, it’s time to go. Hold my hand. https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

  Come Together  Here I am above you. I’m the god of all I see and I’ll take you under my wing so all of you can play your part. And you’ll learn your lines according  to my script. My wings may give you shelter but I also have talons to pick you up and drop you down and a sharp beak to gauge your flesh if you stray from the lines as they are written. The die is cast. You are all in it together. https://ibecomethebeast.com/autumn-2023/

  Sending Prayers They hang like towels. Towels hung out to dry in the wind line upon line of them blowing in the wind, prayer flags sending thoughts sending blessings wind dried leftovers   from days gone by when laundry was line-dried and peace and goodwill were sent as thoughts and prayers   on the wind not in the ether. But in the end it was never enough. In the end it made no difference   how. In the end they’re still hung out to dry. https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2023/03/sending-prayers.html

  Where To Begin I have to start with the skin I’m in. It’s as close as I can get. It changes. Expands to fit me as I grow. It changes. Responds to sun or rain. It changes covered or not by the clothes I wear, the jewellery, the mood I’m in. It changes By my hand as I draw on the important things the listening, the voices whispering, the joining together in love. It changes to dreams   in the end and memories when my number is called. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-romina-ciaffi

  Legacy 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 right. But even more than   the correctness of Vera and Lynn,   she abhorred diminutives. They were definitely not   right. 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 right. She needn’t have worried. But worry she did. So, Lynn it was and Lynn I am. My legacy from my mother. https://ephemeralelegies.com/2023/03/15/legacy-by-lynn-white/#more-1828

  Out From The Blue Blue skies splashed white to hide the horizon. And then, out of the blue, you. 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. https://jerryjazzmusician.com/six-women-poets-sing-the-blues/

  Roots 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   still.   https://womenspiritualpoetry.blogspot.com/2023/03/roots-by-lynn-white.html?fbclid=IwAR201wNb_Tdc7OusZ2uq7nuoroKP69arewl70ADoXfyqiyILK_k9WR-obW0