Poetry - Lynn White

  We’re All Doomed “We’re all doomed”, he said. Well, so we are! From the moment of our birth, no, before then some don’t make it that far, expelled by the body to parts unknown. As I child   I thought that living with such knowledge should be hellish, impossible to live with happily. If I were god, it would be my little joke. Forget Satan   and his fiery furnace, the nonsense of an underworld, the craziness of constant rebirth. Life is hell. I explained my theory at Sunday School when aged nine and three-quarters. It didn’t go down well. But it still seems to me that god is the creator of the first conspiracy theories and humans still don’t get it. So he still has the last laugh after all! https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#search/stray.words%40outlook.com/WhctKLbVgdTGcscsNsrnWFzWqsnGxhSLvcpVpQqHmHrXHHzTvmWGxnxvxbLbTQqrDPgVNSV

  Treasure On each beach they’ve been different. washed up gently by lapping waves or thrown by high seas. to a new home. Pretty shells from a bay in Minorca, where I swam when the sea was freezing and the sun bright hot above. Oysters so decorated with barnacles and wormy fossils they looked as if they had tried to swallow stones. Smooth sea-glass pebbles from the day-trips of childhood shining bright like jewels in every colour I could imagine. All captured memories now treasures plated cordon-bleu style here,   in my home. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/

  For Those Lives Blighted Once, in Ireland one million died and we’re still counting. One million fled   for their lives and we’re still counting. Equivalent to the population of Gaza before the avalanche   of violence spread so thickly it destroyed all in its paths. And its paths were everywhere, rubble strewn deep as an Irish bog. And before the aftermath when starvation ruled the land. Starvation had ruled the land in Ireland when the potato crop was blighted. Without potatoes there was no food. Without potatoes there was no money for food. Without money for rent colonial landlords evicted, and slave labour of starving men women and children   followed the rule of law through occupation and colonisation. And no help came. No Aid came to help them. And still potatoes were exported. And still the landlords did well. All the colonialists did well. They always do. So Ireland knows how it feels in the depth of its turf, in the depth of its being, its rock, its stones,...

  Winter’s Tale Slowly at first almost imperceptibly the days become shorter minute by minute as winter whispers  her arrival once again. Listen carefully but take care. Soon you will cover your ears  as she learns to shout. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/02/whispers-of-winter.html

  Snowman We rolled the snow to make a jolly body to the soundtrack of your cascade of laughter. And as we did, a couple walked by, she said “hello,” like her joy was blowing bubbles. She gave us a pipe to put in his mouth, but he could blow no bubbles from it, which was a shame. But with his jaunty hat and bright scarf he mirrored her joy and your laughter as he stood on his icy dais, before both of you  melted away. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/02/whispers-of-winter.html

Worn Words The winter chill froze the words into remnants. Tattered pages, empty envelopes  and empty words worn and shrivelled ghosts of our love that I try to forget and try not to forget. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/02/whispers-of-winter.html

  Transient Snowflakes lit by sunbeams blowing gently, fragile as shadows making rainbows in the sun. Smiling in the soft light. So soft. So soft. Catch them quickly in your hair  to melt them while the sun  is still shining and smiling.  For only as long as it falls, can the snow renew them  when they melt away. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/02/whispers-of-winter.html

  As Winter Falls Willow don’t weep for me. Back in the summer I hid in the shadows of your leafy canopy. Now you have left me exposed waiting for the winter of my content  which falls every year as the lost leaves turn golden then brown with decay then white with the silence  of the first snowfall. I’m waiting for it to blanket me with light and make me smile. Willow don’t weep for me. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/02/whispers-of-winter.html