Poetry - Lynn White

  Down The Rabbit Hole I woke in the sunshine and stretched sleepily. That was when I saw the hole under the tree where a scraggy, stripy cat had spat and snarled at me earlier. It was too small for me to go down. so I scraped and scraped to make it bigger. A rabbit would have done better. I found a stone  and started to dig, dig till it was big enough for me to go down. Scrabbling falling scrabbling falling, looking for the end wondering why there was light there wondering if I’m awake. Then I saw the rabbit. https://stephdaich3.wixsite.com/phoenix-z-publishing/post/down-the-rabbit-hole-poetry-by-guest-author-lynn-white

  It’s Clear On a clear night I should see the moon full silver in a sky shot by moonbeams. Not greyed by a smoky mist   and dust clouds rising from the ruins. I should see a black, black sky. Not bright from the orange glow from the fires of hell on earth. Which send sparks high enough to compete with the stars, the pinpoint moonbeam spangles. Not beamed by lasers. I should hear the silence   in the depth of the black night, not the explosive cacophony bought by the masters of war and the silent screams buried in the rubble. I should hear people talking in the street and the music and laughter of the night. I should see them walking home to feel firm flesh loving and soft unsplintered and unblemished by shrapnel, unbroken by the metal clad monsters masquerading as humanity and wrapping themselves in the uniforms   of thousand years old myths dressed up as history. These should be my rights. But they aren’t. I have no rights. Nor do you. Only what they give us, the m...

  Coffee Calling One day I’ll manage  to stop procrastinating, stop the coffee calling, stop the sunlight  casting shadows which distract me and tempt me outside to see the river. Those soporific shadows which cross the water. And as I watch they move  in effortless formation negating the coffee and lulling me  to sleep  again. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CWDXVN8P?fbclid=IwAR2FkpsTWAhBcsHFXPPpAR6B3qFznwuBJwIF5oKMYC3DAvtyT3DPNKmfYHI

  Times Passed As each day ends I tick it off on my calendar. Finished! Done! Gone! Lost! But some will remain intact to be pictured   sometimes even heard almost re-lived as my memories. If only   I could choose   the ones to remember, open a window and look through, revisit those days and throw away the rest. Watch them leave forgotten, lost, gone really gone! But I can ’ t. They’re self selecting, those memories of passed days ebbing and flowing outside my control. https://www.lulu.com/shop/pure-slush/loss-lifespan-vol-9/paperback/product-95qk7vk.html?page=1&pageSize=4

  Caged Birds Singing She asked me why the caged birds sang. I couldn’t tell her, not for sure. No mate will arrive this year, just like last year. I wonder if they remember, perhaps they still live in hope.  She asked me if they heard the bombs falling and if they felt fear. I couldn’t tell her,  not for sure. Perhaps peace will arrive this year, unlike last year. I wonder if they remember peace, perhaps they still live in hope as we all do here  where the bombs never stop.  https://dissidentvoice.org/2024/02/caged-birds-singing/

  For Stella He wonders where she’s gone, the woman who would sit   on this bench on the Heath every day singing softly   sometimes singing sadly solitary. She would stretch out her arms   across the back of the bench so that she filled it leaving no space for anyone else no space for him passing by so sad so lost so full of loss. He named her Stella. And now he sits there remembering her notes   in his ears, her face in his head wondering   where she is if she remembers him passing by. He sits there solitary sipping his tea wondering how   not to forget his Stella. https://www.lulu.com/shop/peter-a-witt-and-lynn-white-and-karen-warinsky-and-mike-turner/whose-spirits-touch/paperback/product-2mmyk77.html?q=orenaug+mountain+publishing&page=1&pageSize=4

  Mermaid It was the change in her hair she noticed first growing now like harsh thin weed but attached firmly attached and inedible. She tugged at it but the pain was too great   to separate it from her head. And then her scales began to disappear her beautiful shiny scales washed away with her gills. Her brothers and sisters and the rest of the school swam around her still but she couldn’t hear them, couldn’t understand   what they were saying. The art of communication had been lost washed away   with her gills. What was she now? Neither fish nor fowl. Fowl, where did that come from? She ran her fingers over her skin, still smooth unfeathered up to now. She waited waited to see what would emerge. Then the next wave came and carried her to the beach so she crawled along the sharp sand uncomfortably   on her swollen belly until she found a rock   and clambered up then slithered down algaed slime into a recess a safe cave a haven with a shallow pool left by ...