Poetry - Lynn White

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? http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6306

Predictable I feel such a bright energy flowing, zipping through my veins. I can’t wait to move with it, to uproot myself, to be transplanted and reborn, to recreate myself  at the time when all of nature is recreating itself and starting afresh. I will be reborn too in another place. I’ve done it before and felt the new buds open, bursting and shooting into a new life. I've felt the excitement of the new spaces, embraced the interest in the new peoples’ faces. And then.. I’ve opened up my blowsy petals and let my heart show through pulsing, exuberant, ready to turn towards the summer sun, not believing it will destroy my bloom, make my petals fade and fall when the shock of the new wears off and the fresh green shoots start to brown, and prepare for the season of wrinkles, which always follows, as my life folds out as before. Soon I’ll be getting ready  for the ice of winter in this new place. A new place,...

 The Funeral of Bosco Jones Twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life. His children, (long departed from their roots), returned. “Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything. We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers. A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life. They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear And join in the proceedings. There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity. The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying. She started to look around her and take in the proceedings. She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed. Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist, “I’m having none of this!” she cried, “My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!” Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again...

Paris in the Spring We set out hopefully, hitching our way to Paris, in the spring. And we made it, even found the recommended hostel near Laumiere, Though a little disconcerted to be met with a closed door covered in signs which read  ‘FULL’ in every known language, we went in anyway. ‘Of course we’re not full  at this early hour’. ‘Anyway, no one is ever turned away’. They were planning a demonstration, a rehearsal for May 1968,  but of course, none of us knew that then. We could join if we wished,  but of course, we were too early, even for the rehearsal. It was only April. Just three days in April in Paris. We had coffee on the Champs Elysee and were shown Notre Dame  by someone we met there and then sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur to eat our French bread lunch. We held up the traffic at the Arc de Triumph, triumphantly succeeding in crossing the roads. And at the hostel the next day we...

Barcelona Sandals Standing in the Andorra snow shivering in our Barcelona sandals. Glad of a lift down to Foix as darkness was falling. And the driver knew a hotel, Hotel du Centre. Very grand and full of people looking down long noses. But the driver knew the owner who was a kind man, a nice man. So we shouldn't worry  about the cost, he said. A lovely room and in the morning, breakfast! We must eat the owner said. Warm bread and jam. Coffee with hot milk which tasted sour. But I don't like the taste of milk, anyway, so most likely it was sweet. And then the bill. But there was no bill. Save it for the journey, the owner said. A kind man, a nice man, who believed the driver's story, whatever it was. A few years later,  we returned to Foix and went to find  Hotel du Centre. But it wasn't there. No one knew it. It didn't exist. Did it ever exist? Did any of it happen?...

Little Sister Lost I woke in the sunshine and salvaged my book from the damp grass. I stretched.. I looked around.. She wasn’t there. I looked behind the stone, then under it. A pretty blue mouse scurried from under, but no little sister. Then I thought  of the rabbit hole under the tree where the scraggy, stripy cat had spat and snarled at us  earlier. I found the tree and the rabbit hole. Was she down there? It was too small for me to go. I shouted down and scraped and scraped and scraped to make it bigger. A rabbit would do better with it’s big feet. A rabbit, like the one standing behind me with such big strong feet. Help me. Help me. He sniffed disdainfully and removed one hand  from the pocket of his purple fur jacket to brush the soil I’d splatted on his white velvet breeches. Such big strong feet for digging. Help me. Help me. Help me. He gave me his spade. I start...

Turning to Ice 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. Time has past and they're already harder now, even though the sun is still shining and smiling. Blindingly bright. Crunchy crystals. Jewels glistening still. Shining like diamonds, but harsh in the sunlight while it lasts Cooler now as the light starts fading. The surface is melting. Shiny where the sun still catches, but fading, giving way to ice. Losing it's smile. And we're skidding, sliding beyond control. slipping away, blinded by tears of ice. https://treehousearts.me/