Poetry - Lynn White

  Walled Up They usually left something behind, the builders who finished the job, something hidden in the walls something that had been part of their life a mark made a bottle from a lunchtime brew a crusty remnant of a meal   consumed or something more poignant that would protect the house that would protect their work bring luck to those following. Old shoes were popular especially children’s because the spirits of children were stronger though any shoe would do at a pinch. But this builder needed his, he had none to spare now his work was done. So he left behind his glove the one that he’d worn to protect his hand from the rough. A hand shoe, as good as a foot shoe he must have thought. He knew that tools were popular leavings but he had none to spare now his work was done his tools were for sale. So he left behind screws two screws two new screws. He thought it an appropriate leaving for one who had been well and truly screwed. He hoped that those who came after would und...

  What Lies Beneath I dug up so many things   to create my garden not only rocks and pieces of slate but tools from those who had worked in this difficult land. I built walls from the rocks and edged my new pond in slate. The tools became decorations to tell the story of the land. Then I found the tractor, or so I thought, a toy   that some child had played with dreaming of flat land with good soil. Then I looked more closely and saw it was a soldier in the driving seat. Not a tractor then but some sort   of killing machine I buried it back where it came from. It seemed the best thing to do with it. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1093166916?ref_=pe_93986420_774957520&fbclid=IwAR3ZAwVi_yPEd3D3pd7hfyZYYehd2HHhaSZ-ngNZuWi1G-IHfAe8JDTbI_4

  The Eyes Have It We have learned to smile with our eyes, we children of the masked generation. You’re smiling too underneath, you’ve learned that trick, but can you see my smile? Well, only if I let you, what you see is up to me for the eyes are all we have, we children of the masked generation. And we see you all unmasked exposed.   We read you well as we smile with our eyes. We know who you are. We know what you are behind your shields, under your visors we know that the eyes are all we have. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1093166916?ref_=pe_93986420_774957520&fbclid=IwAR3ZAwVi_yPEd3D3pd7hfyZYYehd2HHhaSZ-ngNZuWi1G-IHfAe8JDTbI_4

  Ghosts of Christmas Past:  Father Christmas I was so excited. It was nearly Christmas and I was going to meet Father Christmas himself. I was so excited,  wearing my best coat and bonnet, hopping from one foot to the other in the long queue of children waiting with their mums to be allowed into Santa’s Grotto. I was so excited. We were nearly there. I could see the grotto with it’s tinsel and fairy lights twinkling. I was going to sit on his knee  and have my picture taken, and that was in an age when photographs were even rarer than Christmases.. I was so excited. There were the elves... But wait.. they were cardboard. Where were the real elves, the magic ones, why weren’t they there? “They’re much too busy”, my mum said. “But Father Christmas will be real”. We paid our money and there he was. He really was. I couldn’t wait to climb on his knee and examine his beard. I’d never seen a beard before. But he was very tetchy when I pulled at it and told me to stop. The...

Prayers For This World Like towels hung out to dry in the wind line upon line of cloths   colourful clean cloths pegged out   prayer flags sending thoughts sending blessings no longer moist and living but 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 made no difference   in the end   it makes no difference   how they’re hung out to dry. https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2023/12/21/prayers-for-this-world-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwAR2bN2HRbJtkdgjHu0mSWh545C2buBuD62i2PgLsmUFFpamG3ZDDTv14h_U

  The Spirit Of Christmas To Come The ghost slid down the rabbit hole on a dark wintery night. He expected to arrive in Wonderland if such a place exists and he believed it did, just as he believed in ghosts and Santa Claus. It was as he expected. There was a full glass on a table. He looked for a label saying: “Drink Me”. But there was no label. So he drank it anyway. It left a nice warm feeling inside him, “spirit for the spirit”, he laughed aloud. There was a plate of pastries. He looked for a label saying: “Eat Me”, but there was no label. So he ate them anyway, all of them every last crumb, every succulent morsel of mincemeat. He lay back contentedly   then smiled somewhat sheepishly at the old man dressed in red carrying a large sack who must have followed him down the rabbit hole. He was looking none too pleased at the scene. “Well”, said the ghost, “Anyone can mistake a chimney for a rabbit hole and we need a new Christmas story.” https://spillwords.com/the-spirit-of-c...

  Santas Of War Genocide Joe is strutting his stuff getting ready to deliver   for Christmas. Santa came early   to the north, as he does and now his sack’s laden   and he’s moving south   playing toy soldiers   with real missiles and bombs. For children alone and families fleeing terror   the bombs make a carpet of what once were homes. The tanks crush out lives there’s no where to go, no where to hide for the starved   and the maimed they’ll remember this Christmas from Genocide Joe. Armed to the gums their neighbours afraid helpless and hating and hate breeding hate and more hate breeds power for the fear of today is the might of tomorrow. Some history is made by these Santas of War and more history is made by new Masters of War and both the living and dead will judge Genocide Joe. https://oddballmagazine.com/poem-by-lynn-white-13/