Poetry - Lynn White

  Criminalised Criminalised for a flag. Criminalised for displaying its colours, for wearing its colours, for painting its colours in the country where it arose from, in the country where it belongs. Criminalised for a fruit, for eating a fruit, for growing a fruit in a place where it should grow naturally. Criminalised by the occupation. Criminalised. But the seeds grew and still they grow   and spread the seeds. https://dsmag.in/2025/09/27/lynn-whites-two-poems-5/

  When Empathy Died When empathy was dead and only silence could be heard, Israel was supreme, godlike in its power. Humane rights were dead, humans followed, any of them. https://dsmag.in/2025/09/27/lynn-whites-two-poems-5/

  A State of Terrorism There are tunnels everywhere, they lie, under every road, under every building, every field and every tent, they lie. They are all terrorists, they lie, the old men and women, even the children,   even the babies born and unborn, they lie. The journalists are terrorists, the aid workers are terrorists, the artists and poets are terrorists, the medics and nurses are terrorists, the teachers and cooks are terrorists, the dying, the dead and the buried are terrorists. In a state of terrorism, a state of terrorists, they will lie and they’ll lie and they’ll lie. https://dsmag.in/2025/09/27/lynn-whites-two-more-poems-2/

  Forest Dances Spirits of the forest come dance with me come swirl and twirl   in your bleached bark robes I see you there in the bone white trees come dance with me on this black black night bleak black and bare hooded and hidden   but black bare beneath I see you move in winter white trees barely living   and black as hell. So spirits of the forest come dance for me tonight. https://www.darkwinterlit.com/post/forest-dances-by-lynn-white

  Where The Stars Are Buried Come with me to the place   where the stars are buried under a roof of rain. I won’t get lost. I’m following the silver snail trails and the muddy pools with the little shimmers of spangles. When I get to that place I shall dig a little,   just enough to let a glimmer of light out. Just enough to let my love sparkle and sizzle in the light before it burns. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FSNM6KWN?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&bestFormat=true

    At The End of the Universe It was a splendid coffee shop, cakes made with flair and imagination a perfect cup of coffee and an even more outstanding   pan galactic gargle buster cocktail, easily the best drink in the universe. I discovered it when I was hitchhiking, travelling through the galaxy with Arthur. He was similarly impressed, so much so that he asked for the name of their suppliers so that we could fill our backpacks for the next stage of our journey They told us that everything came from the Heaven And Earth Grocery Store   and gave us precise directions of how to find it. But as usual, our sense of direction failed us and we lingered   for some time before the next ship stopped for us. And it was no help, it was as lost as we were. And that’s how we realised a Guide was needed, a specialist hitchhiker’s Guide to the galaxy. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FSNM6KWN?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X6...

  Orion’s Belt Orion is back.   He’s hunting again, his sword sharpened, his belt tightened. The animals insects   birds fish are all falling. And this time Gaia thinks not even the scorpion will survive. But she still has some hope   and pins it on the cockroach as she loosens his belt again. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FSNM6KWN?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cp_ud_dp_EX9X691B9NFJWEQ236CK&bestFormat=true

  The Melon Market It was a small town, Pec, in Kosovo now, then in Yugoslavia. It was 1966, the year before watermelons became illegal   in Palestine. It was a small restaurant with no menu so communication wasn’t easy. But the guy on the next table spoke French opening up a channel of communication for us. John wanted to eat melon but there was no melon. Our French speaking friend, he was a friend by now, Had a late night solution. He took us to a large dry field, a melon market, he said. There were huge heaps of watermelons, dark green globes waiting in heaps. Each heap with its sleeping seller resting on a bed of melons. He shook one seller awake   and carefully chose a melon. We all went home with him, he called the neighbours in and there we had a melon party eating great juicy slices   off tin plates in a small house in Pec in 1966, the year before Israel banned watermelons in Palestine. https://keepingtheflamealive.wordpress.com/ktfa-magazine/

  A Rose For Gaza Gaza is a garden full of roses. Stone roses. Rock roses. No petals to crush and bruise to release their fragrance. Only dust. Dust and the stench of death. No green space left. No sweet tranquility, peace or quiet. No escape. No garden of Eden here. No gateway to paradise. Rubble and rock roses. So I shall plant a rose for Gaza in my green space, in my tranquil garden. I won’t bruise it, just gently sniff its fragrance and hope that one day fragrant roses will bloom again in the garden of Gaza. What else can I do? https://alienbuddhapress.wordpress.com/2025/09/27/verses-against-the-siege/?fbclid=IwY2xjawNF1sVleHRuA2FlbQIxMAABHmWDZqAtmwq91QF7G9C8RI57wtK8k0imlgNijhazxx7euiznwWFPQWRKdyQQ_aem_GrUCDunyg3TQ-PZbFuOKnA