Poetry - Lynn White

Skull The skull lies desolate on the bare mountain side. Lying among rocks and stones with a few accompanying bones. Each day it decays as nature weathers it and destroys all its form and substance so that it wastes away and fades into the landscape. If it had come to rest lower down the mountain it would have sunk into the boggy peat moss and risen with hair and hide intact with, the cause of death discernible, with its last meal of grass or rabbit still there inside its stomach. Preserved by nature. Preserved or wasted. It all depends on where you fall. First published in With Painted Words, September 2016 http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=1055

Roots It’s said that you should remember your roots, remember where you came from, remember where you belong, anchored by your long tap root. But I have fibrous roots too, growing out strongly from the main tap. I have spread them out and put them down in many places, taken sustenance from them. They’ve been part of my growth, fed my main stem and it’s splits and branches. I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all, all those places. And some rootlets have broken free and I’ve left them behind there no longer belonging to me. And I’ve left something of myself behind. Would I find it if I returned? I don’t think so. But others may still. Published in Reflection Wandrmag, Spirituality issue, November 2016 https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016

 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...

            Blue Blue skies, blue sea, a day of sparkling sunshine, with a shimmering horizon. And then, out of this blue, You, smiling sadly with your lovely blue eyes. I knew you from the back, you said, the cut of your hair, your bright blue mac. I wanted to see your face again, it’s only fair, you’ve seen mine. You must have done, me, being who I am. I wanted to smell your clean hair smell. So I took a chance, and here I am. I wanted to  abate the sadness. I nodded. Yes.  I know it’s true. It’s all been said  and we won’t be sad.  No blue moods on this bright blue day  of smiling sunshine. We’ll go together now,  for now  and be glad. After all,  one way or another,  everything will end in tears, I said, So let’s take our now time and chance the rest. Published in Spillwords, November 2016       ...

Home Coming I think that today will be my home coming day. The day I’ve been waiting for, when I’ll come back. to where I came from. Back to here where I belong. Even though, I was never here before, never in this place, never with this person. I know I’m home. I can feel it. And know I will stay and that it and you will stay with me. I must go outside sometimes, leave sometimes, of course I must. But I’m floating free and I will take it all with me. It has become part of my being, so I can’t move away. Can’t separate us. This place and this person, have engulfed me. Surrounded me in sweetness and brought me back from wherever I was, Brought me home, made me complete, but still free floating, carrying them with me always. It’s the day I’ve been waiting for. https://issuu.com/wandrmag/…/reflection_wr_mag_nov_dec_2016… First published in Silver Birch Press, I Am Waiting series March 2015

Picture of Maud I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. She never grew old, never even grew up. My father cried.. I never knew her, never even knew of her. But I know now. I have a photograph so I can see her, picture her as she was. And I won’t forget that I had a sister once. Her name was Maud. First published in Silver Birch Press' 'Prized' Series, November 2016 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/11/19/a-picture-of-maud-poem-by-lynn-white-my-prized-possession-poetry-and-prose-series/

Butterflies So many new warriors grown from the seeds planted by the invaders  sent by the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. So many dead warriors lying whole or in pieces, destroyed by the invaders sent by the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. Dead warriors. Soon to be transformed, transformed into butterflies, according to the Mayans who knew about transformations - and about warriors. Butterflies with the souls of the dead warriors. Butterflies that can fly across continents, cross oceans and borders. There are no barriers for butterflies. And they are experts in transformation, experts in disguise. They will consume them, the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. Will worm their way inside them, infest them and destroy them all, Yes, they should beware the butterflies with the souls of dead warriors and the memories of slaughter. They carry karma with them. Published in C...