Poetry - Lynn White

For Charlie So many people marching and waving, waving pencils and pictures of pencils. Millions and millions marching with pencils, asserting their values, showing their power, paying their respects. But it's not what it seems. say the sideline snipers, the underminers, the false flag wavers, the pencil baiters, the Je Suis Fuck All-ers. They're pencilled pawns, just part of the plans of the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters, the manipulators, the plotters and schemers, the money makers. The bullets were blanks and, the dead, aren’t dead. Say the sideline snipers, the underminers, the false flag wavers, the pencil baiters, the Je Suis Fuck All-ers. just look who's leading from the front line. It's the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters. It’s proof enough What more do you need. But it's not what it seems. It's a trick of the camera, another pretence to diminish the distance between them and the leaders behind them...

Behind the Mask Will I ever see the man behind the mask? I think I can  sometimes through the eye slits, sometimes when they are open. Eyes are revealing, after all, and difficult to hide. Maybe they’ll tell me enough, tell me all I need to know. So I will have no urge to peel off the mask, to tear it away from the skin underneath. It would be too painful, anyway. Too raw, for both of us and would leave behind a soreness that would not heal. And still not all would be revealed by the exposure. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-u…/poem-behind-the-mask

Leaving Last night at the theatre I saw you again, Your smile in a face so much younger. My confusion, my thoughts, my stares made him turn and your warm smile chilled me with ice melting now from the long frozen lock, the key turning freely to let out our past. And my past, and it’s future all came flooding back, the shock of sensations long gone. The dance and the music, the books that we read, the memories that we must both have of the pain and the pleasures,  that were part of our love such a long time ago. So I ask myself now, can anything stay to give pleasure to us in remembering those days? For my remnants now seem to be only pain, and their sadness engulfs me  and halts my return. So I left, in the end, as I left you, my love, Saying nothing, taking nothing, leaving nothing behind. Without saying goodbye. http://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2016/03/29/writer-highlight-lynn-white/

Washed Up So many dead people caught in the crossfire created by the the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. They lie dead where they fell. Flesh and blood transformed to fertilizer to nurture the seeds and grow the crops, in a future they will not see. Their bones decaying to dust to form the building blocks of homes they will never inhabit. Dying where they fell, over there, not here and not looking like us. Unseen or soon forgotten by us here. But the dead washed up on holiday beaches look like our flesh and blood. They’re wearing our clothes. They’re washing up to haunt us in the Old World. Then there’s the living, washed up alive and by any means necessary moving on to bear witness, if any one is listening. To bring the horror home to those who created it in the Old World. Bringing it home to the Old World, but not as yet to the New. Reprinted in Harbinger Asylum http://www.amazon.com/Harbinger-Asylum-Spring-v...

End of the Season The season of wrinkles and over ripeness has arrived too soon. Shriveled buds. Fruits bursting open, their seeds drying out, beginning to crinkle and wrinkle. Beginning to split and break. Beginning to moulder and dribble with damp. Their past spring a distant dream. Or not remembered at all. Faded away like the fresh shoots of hopeful green growth. Even the memories of the florid, blowzy summer’s blooms are fading. Fading fast and faster. Perhaps this season of dry dampness has been here a while and I haven’t noticed. It’s been approaching a long time. Slow at first imperceptible. Speeding up, then quickening. But still imperceptible almost unnoticeable as everything slows down quickly. So quickly now. I think that winter has arrived. The season is over, finished lost beyond returning. ​ http://www.versewrights.com/white-lynn.html

    Getting Married Let’s get married, you said. I sat up quickly and  just in time, stopped my mouth saying,  After two days? You’re going mad! Why? Where’s the gain? We’ve already said we’ll stay together, You with me or me with you, and care for each other, and make love to each other. We don’t need a piece of paper saying Mr and Mrs. Anyway, you don’t have a good record when it comes to marriage. Or so I’ve heard, I said. I think I want an extra tie, another binding, a public one. So that your friends  would ring you up, concerned, and warn you not to go ahead. And mine would try to find you to do the same and worry about my sanity. But not for long. We’ll do it quick, you said. And then we can smile behind their backs as they check our progress down the years, amazed that we’re still together, still like each other, still love. And, after all, I have a much worse record  of not ...

Caterpillar When I was nine, by accident, I stepped on a caterpillar, stepped on one end of a caterpillar. And it’s caterpillar shape, bright emerald green, shot out the other end. Since then, I have taken great care never to step on a caterpillar. First published in Harbinger Asylum Literary Review, Spring 2016 https://www.shopswap.com/harbinger-asylum-spring-2016-book-createspace-independent-publishing-platform