Poetry - Lynn White

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. https://uglywriters.com/2019/08/13/leaving/?fbclid=IwAR3LXtSHO8CbyRGjM18-7fGB1FOs4nEH3RDOXLl8WZ2csNY8rBYqY83qK7A UGLYWRITERS.COM Leaving ...

This Is Not An Egg The egg box was so sculptural with it’s peaks and troughs like a metaphor, a mirror of life in textured paper, I thought a giant version could easily become an acclaimed art installation and I thought I could make it. And then I remembered the glasses left behind in a museum of modern art by error or intent, real glasses, not the “ne sont pas les lunettes” Magrittean sort, I could feel some guerrilla art hatching inside me. I fetched the pot egg from under the broody hen and pondered the possibilities on the way to the gallery. There, I placed the egg box on a table, sneaked it in between the other exhibits then I placed the Magrittean egg inside. Just the one egg seemed most fitting especially since one was all I had. I had already written the title card. Such a work deserved two titles one above and one below the artist’s name, my name, of course. First came: “THIS IS NOT AN EGG” and underneath: “THIS IS NOT AN EXHIBIT” It was perfectly placed and looked ma...

Listen Listen. Listen, can you hear them? The sounds that went before the wall was built. Listen, I can hear them. Not the wall builders, no, not them, but others who also don’t want to see what lies beyond. What lies on the other side. Others who will build walls in the future. But listen, we can hear them. Listen. Listen for when the cracks appear, then push. https://www.erothanatos.com/vol2issue4

A Not So Still Life What a strange tableau, a still life still living in a dream. The birds flew over and looked down on it, but there was no place for them to hang out, to roost, to dream. So they didn’t care about the dust motes escaping into the sunlight floating like fairy dust getting themselves organised to follow their dream. Did they escape from the jar? Perhaps. Though the bull is wondering if they were ever inside and the birds don’t care as usual, hardly notice her dog emerging from the mist to inspect them. Unmistakably her dog just more amorphous than usual. It doesn’t look inclined to chase the motes or stick it’s head inside the loop they’re making. But the birds don’t care as usual. https://ninemusespoetry.com/…/…/08/one-poem-by-lynn-white-2/

                                                                                                              The Red Car

Cocooned Sometimes the finest of threads can be the stickiest, the hardest to escape from. Sometimes the silkiest of threads can hold the fastest, can surround you and engulf you. Sometimes the most beautiful of threads are woven into a tight web from which there is no means of escape. So you stay, trapped by what was once beautiful and now forms a prison, a cocoon seemingly comfortable. but ready to eat you up in the end. Just ask the spider and the fly. BLOGNOSTICS.NET Cocooned by Lynn White Cocooned by Lynn White Sometimes the finest of threads can be the stickiest, the hardest to escape from....READ MORE

The Skin I'm In I used to wonder how I would grow and yet still fit in the skin I'm in. If we would grow together, me and my skin. Well, we seemed to have done quite well for a long time. I used to wonder how you would grow, and if you would still fit the skin you are in. And if we would grow together and stay intact in our separate skins. Well, we seemed to have done, for a long time anyway. Now I wonder… Am I still the same person under the skin? Are you? I think I am. The outside has changed. But inside my skin I am intact. Myself as before. I think. Not quite so comfortable in my new skin, though. It doesn't fit me too well. Doesn't always represent me. Doesn't look like I still feel. Like I still am? What about you? Are you still that person in your new skin? I'm not sure now if the inside has also been renewed, changed. And if it is only on the outside, that we have changed together. SPILLWORDS.COM The Skin I...