Poetry - Lynn White

Saturday Girl Two days after my fifteenth birthday I walked proudly into Newman Costumiers to begin my first job. It was 1960 and I would earn fifteen shillings, one shilling for every year, every Saturday. Knitwear and stockings were on the ground floor, all neatly stacked on shelves and in drawers. I didn’t work there. That was Enid’s territory - she of the bouffant hair and three inch stilettos. Above were the coats and above them dresses. All made in Britain, not China and so costing much the same as they would do today. Fifteen shillings didn’t go far. On the top floor was Alterations, two women stitching away with a nip or tuck here and a longer or shorter hemline there. No customer was allowed to escape without a purchase. We had to fetch the Manageress if they tried. She would offer inducements such as a price reduction or free alterations. Sometimes it was enough to secure a purchase, a tweak of the price, a nip or tuck here and a long...

I’m Tired I’m tired of trying to see the good in people. I’m tired of making decisions about good and bad. I’m tired of endless discussions in armchairs judging and justifying what is good or bad. I’m tired of procrastination, of enquiries and commissions designed to delay until death or forgetfulness. Tired of time servers, jobs worths, pocket liners. Tired of them all. So where shall I go now? First published in Tuck Magazine, February 2018 http://tuckmagazine.com/2018/01/30/poetry-1255/

Numbers How many times have we had this conversation? I don’t know. I’m not good with numbers and neither are you. Probably, it’s the same number of times as we’ve promised not to have it again. I’m not very good with promises either. And neither are you. How many times have we made a decision, a final decision, that has convinced us? Probably never, as we’re still having this conversation. I’m not very good at decisions either. And neither are you. Life has become too complex for us and the numbers don’t add up as we’d like them to. We want to stop at two, but there's another number in between. So, our numbers keep on adding up to nothing. Nothing except conversations and promises that we don’t want or believe in. And are unable to end. Borfski Press Issue 3, Three theme http://www.lulu.com/…/issue-iii…/ebook/product-23468081.html

Never Again Never again the holocaust of Jews, of dissenters, of the mixed or mismatched ethnicity. Gassed starved  beaten enslaved dying. Never again the swarms of refugees  left behind fleeing dying pleading  to be let in anywhere dying unwanted. Never again. That’s what they said then. http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6894

Empty Vessels They look like empty vessels jingle jangling, the green light given to their recycling. Still full of air, like air filled heads, heads filled with nothingness. Emptied of knowledge. Emptied of thoughts. Emptied of ideas. Ready for the crushing plant to squeeze out the air and recycle it for the next breath. Ready to begin breathing again, hopefully. https://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems…/category/lynn-white

The Christmas Treat It was my first Christmas in school and we were getting a treat, something special, something nice. Paper serviettes were handed out and we placed them on our desks, our mouths watering in anticipation. And then came the cake, a splendid fruit cake coated with marzipan, iced and cut into slices, one for each child. What a treat! I didn’t like marzipan, so I ate the icing and the cake and left the marzipan to be thrown away with the paper serviette. But this was not allowed, the teacher said. All of the treat must be eaten. I didn’t want to eat it. Well, adults aren’t made to eat food that they don’t like, are they, so why should children? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. The teacher disagreed. I must eat the treat, she said. So I threw it on the floor, and to make sure, stamped on it. I was made to stand on a chair in disgrace for not eating the treat. At four years old, it was my first encounter with irony. First published i...

Newt I can understand why on a hot, hot day, Lawrence’s snake appeared thirstily at his water trough. And why his lizard ran out onto a rock to flaunt himself in the sunshine. But why on a wet, wet day, a newt should leave her splendidly moist habitat and venture hazardously into the dry warmth of my kitchen, that I cannot understand. And, of course she couldn’t explain. https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/…/01/05/newt-lynn-wh…/ https://foxglovejournal.wordpress.com/2018/01/05/newt-lynn-white/ Newt – Lynn White I can understand why on a hot, hot day, Lawrence’s snake appeared thirstily at his water trough. And why his lizard ran out onto a rock to flaunt himself in the sunshine. But why on a wet, w… FOXGLOVEJOURNAL.WORDPRESS.COM