Poetry - Lynn White

  Pathway She saw the night sky as a join the dots puzzle marking the pathway to the moon, to Venus, to the sun and beyond. You just had to join the dots and follow the paths to find your way to paradise. That was her dream pathway to follow. https://whispersandechoesmag.home.blog/2025/06/30/pathway-lynn-white/?fbclid=IwY2xjawLPSl9leHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHg2uZk4_8hqXqnHep8YlVd1VtIIV4ohh4K9g0gBuK_DbK17SxRZM5FU_OMfE_aem_2Xko6ljL0sEO8S4aJuPluw

  Part Of The Chorus “If I lived inside my dreams I could be most anything”, sang Ray Davies. It sounds personal when he lists the things he could have been, but I think it may be universal, a list of similar dreams that belongs to us all. Top of mine would be to sing. Not a singer on stage. On stage I’d be a dancer, or actor, No, I’d just be part of the audience, part of the chorus,   in tune with the rest, joining in the Happy Birthdays   and You’ll Never Walk Alones. Just part of the chorus, able to meet the eyes   of the rest without embarrassment. No one nudging me to sing more quietly. No one concerned that my discords would distract them from their tunefulness. A welcome voice, in the chorus, in tune with the rest. https://poetrywivenhoe.org/2025/06/day-938-part-of-the-chorus-white/

  Bread Or Bombs Until it lands we’re never quite sure if it will be bread or bombs. Whether it will be fired from love or hate. Either way if you’re in its path it will kill you. https://dsmag.in/2025/06/27/lynn-whites-three-small-poems/

  I Heard A Bird I heard a bird today, just one. I wasn’t alone, many people heard it, more came out to listen. So many tweets trending   for those lost tweeters. It flew a long way then it was gone. https://dsmag.in/2025/06/27/lynn-whites-three-small-poems/

  True Grit Surely no one could quarrel with schools   developing resilience in anxious and excluded children, helping them develop ‘grit’. And school takes up so much of their lives it should be where the support is focused and money spent by government   especially in Britain   where more grit is needed to survive. But to address the problems of schooling, requires the causes of the problems as well as the problems, so it needs to consider the curriculum, boring and inappropriate for so many children, to address the problem of exclusion and bullying so often related to an inappropriate curriculum, to recognise the stress of the pressure caused   by constant testing and exams   structured into schooling. To consider the resolvable causes of problems   as well as supporting those suffering and, to make changes so schooling becomes more appropriate   to children’s needs, now that would take true grit. https://dsmag.in/2025/06/27/lynn-whites-poem-tr...

  Mack’s Knife Threepence was not much for any beggar to sing about and the barrel organ had broken so only the choir of those in darkness could accompany his song. And he could see the sharks circling, their teeth gleaming pearly white not like his, broken and brown. But he hardly felt the bite and didn’t see the knife as he dropped from sight again and this time it all stayed dark. https://dsmag.in/2025/03/29/lynn-whites-two-poems-4/

  Poetry Pending I feel creative here alone awaiting something lingering lazily   on the beach waves lapping   gently I climb into my hammock and sway slightly waiting for a seed a spark to inspire to light my fire then I fall asleep. Perhaps I’ll dream. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/06/we-get-up-anyway.html

  Luck Of The Irish The Irish love their horses. It’s a long tradition which survives urbanisation among young working class people in parts of Dublin, people seemingly like me. They take them along the city streets, into supermarkets, on buses, even up in the lift to their new home  on the balcony of an apartment. The stories are legion. And the Irish love their stories. But I was not like them. I couldn’t be part of that story. I find horses just too big, too strong, too high from the ground. Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid I’d take a tumble from the saddle or be nudged and trampled into the sand. I was sure that it was only  by the luck of the Irish that I survived. Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish. But I know for certain now that when I join that wild eyed horse on the balcony the luck of the Irish is bound to desert me. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/06/luck-of-irish.html  

  The Circus of My Dreams In the circus of my dreams the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up, flashing their rainbowed hooves, pointing with their golden horns, with their unique golden horns. Then, ridden by Leprechauns,  they’re dancing round and round the circle of the ring. Kicking up the gold dust ground  from their droppings into shimmering sawdust. In the circus of my dreams there is a rainbow. A rainbow that has painted  their hooves with it’s light as they climbed their way up and slid their way down to the crock of gold at the end. Time for the little people to dismount and mould the gold into hearts of love. Time for the unicorns to use the gold to nurture and replenish their golden horns, their unique golden horns. https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/06/luck-of-irish.html

  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,...