Poetry - Lynn White

  Voice Of An Angel Once I thought love would be enough to fly us away spinning   past planets and stars reaching up to them breaking through   the atmosphere to grasp that moment and put it in a glass, our own shining orb that would stay forever gleaming and shimmering and singing at my touch with the pure notes of the voice of an angel breaking through   the atmosphere, your voice a voice so pure it will never shatter the glass. It’s lustre has faded now but it will stay forever a still shining sphere in my memories   and dreams. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/03/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Angels Wings I am pondering the nature of   angels wings. Fluttery things. Gossamer   like powdery moths or butterflies,   fluttering by. Or, feathered like a bird's. Made to hover and soar. To glide on the thermals, higher and higher, heavenwards. Not tight skin and bone like bat's   or scaly like dragon's. Prehistoric. Long before the birds   and the flutterbies. But, after than the angels, later than those fluttery things. So did the feathers come first and fall to earth becoming scales on the way down. How far did they fall before they left heaven   and hit the ground flying to metamorphose and make a scaly shell of skin ready to burst and open dustily.   Powdered. Clothed. Scaled like moths in clouds of dust Not so different then in the scales of things, those powdered creatures those fluttery things, those angels wings. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/03/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Metamorphosis   It should be the dragon that breathes fire, that’s him there above the horse, but he’s quiet and calm   in tune with the sweet music quite breathless just now while in flight clearly   still in metamorphosis. It’s the horse that looks dangerous, his breath steaming about to catch fire no doubt   about it they will surely change places when their metamorphosis   is completed and the music stops. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/03/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  In the Clouds I’ve seen a dragon in the clouds and a humming bird and a tea table set for tea. Some say they’ve seen Christ or Mohamed, or fairy kings and queens. They have all stayed a while, my shapes in the cloud. None have left. Not until now. Now,   when I saw the man   with his tufts of hair growing haphazardly here and there. With his open red mouth already blooded. With the sunlight shining through his eyes. I have never seen such colours in the clouds. And now   he seems to be leaving, not blown away, but stepping out looking hungrily towards me. https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2024/03/four-poems-by-lynn-white.html

  Friday Mornings The Presenters interviewed the excluded boy. Their stated aim was to understand, to see what could be improved, how it could be made better for everyone. “How did he feel about being excluded,” they asked. “Don’t matter” the boy said. “Don’t go anyway, ‘cept for Friday mornings. Just mess about on the street. Used to wind ‘em up when I went, ‘ave a laugh that’s all bit of fun messing.” “Why?” an Interviewer asked. “Borin’ innit. Pointless waste of time apart from Friday mornings. And I’m a waste of space don’t wanna go won’t go.” “So you don’t mind being excluded?” an Interviewer asked. “Naw, rather be out with my mates, they keep getting excluded an’ all,   there’s no point to it we can’t do it don’t want to try they’re all idiots don’t wanna go, ‘cept for Friday mornings. The questions came and went the answers repetitive but no one asked him what happened on Friday mornings. https://www.unlikelystories.org/content/friday-mornings-and-rip-john-donne

  RIP John Donne No man is an island wrote Donne centuries ago. He understood the predicament understood than man, or wo-man is one part of a whole which is one part of something larger and so on into mind-blowing infinity. No man, or wo-man can stand alone and reach their potential   in isolation or when isolated on some small island   however grandiose the delusion. And a small island cannot thrive. if it makes its sea an impenetrable wall to protect it from the to-ing and fro-ing of all but but the tides - except here in Britain of course. It’s Brit-ish-mus that makes the difference. Brit-ish-mus that will make it work or not. RIP John Donne https://www.unlikelystories.org/content/friday-mornings-and-rip-john-donne

  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://poetrywivenhoe.org/todays-poem/