Poetry - Lynn White

  Two Sides to the Story There are always two sides to every story, you said. The protesters were armed. The protesters were violent when faced with soldiers in full combat gear. Faced with snipers armed with live ammunition. Armed but only with stones, and only some of them. There are always two sides to every story, you said. I ask, to every story? Do you really believe that for a demonstration of unarmed people when the snipers and soldiers are already waiting ready. There were terrorists amongst them   intent on doing us harm, You say so, yes, to every story every story. Really? Would the not harm be similar   to the tens who were killed and the hundreds that were injured? We have a right to defend ourselves, you said,   so yes, there are always two sides to every story. Every story. Well, so, you will want to hear it for the Nazis then! No?   That’s not what you meant. That story stands alone one sided. Really? Perhaps the number of sides depends on the dif...

  Growing Up Sometimes I borrowed my mother’s clothes and her make-up, her high heels and handbags. Of course, they were too big for me. Same with daddy’s briefcase and the suitcases we took on holiday trips. When I saw the tiny red suitcase in the toyshop I bought it with my birthday money. It had thick shiny plastic and looked really swish. I took it everywhere.   When I grew older, I decided to become an artist but my childish drawings were only ideas. So I collected bits of coloured pictures, discarded by older children at school. Just the ones I liked best and hid them in my suitcase. No one got to look inside. They were my secrets, my special things for inspiration when I was grown up.   I had it all planned.   But by the time I was grown up my secrets were just bits of torn paper covered with scribbles and street dirt. They meant nothing to me anymore, and my tiny red suitcase was dull and worn.   Dreams cracked and broke and finally faded away. https://a...

  Stripping Off They started carefully gently teasing out small pieces so not to damage what lay beneath. It was seductive work like a striptease or a cut piece a revelation little by little. Later on though, they became blasé tearing off longer strips wanting a speedier exposure. Thus the damage was done. And one deep scar revealed   another layer beneath. So they began again,   carefully at first then scraping   and ripping   off strips in their haste for exposure. But still the wall refused to give up its secrets. Still the wall refused   to reveal all. https://www.thequiverreview.in/2021/05/lynn-whites-poems.html?fbclid=IwAR1bf9iF-pI5NPmUywRrPvHux8zmefKeenCHk0VGMqXVx9YAlQ9c2HUV9X0

  Weeping Mask The mask weeps diamond tears, turning ruby like as the blood   flow starts. Then black   like coal as decay begins and the mask itself begins to crack, to distort and disintegrate, to flake away, to disappear. As all masks will in the end. Until only   the tears   remain. https://www.thequiverreview.in/2021/05/lynn-whites-poems.html?fbclid=IwAR1bf9iF-pI5NPmUywRrPvHux8zmefKeenCHk0VGMqXVx9YAlQ9c2HUV9X0

  Picnic Gather round! Who dares first will win the prize, fly away with the sweetest bite, the most crumbly crumb, most fleshy fruit. Gather round! Wait till they look the other way. There’s safety in numbers and they’ll be feeling sleepy from drinking the stuff in the bottles. Gather round! There’s enough to share. No need to wait for them to go. They’ll only leave the tiny morsels and we’ll have to scavenge for them   in the grass. All together now! Here we go! https://www.thequiverreview.in/2021/05/lynn-whites-poems.html?fbclid=IwAR1bf9iF-pI5NPmUywRrPvHux8zmefKeenCHk0VGMqXVx9YAlQ9c2HUV9X0

  The White Worm The white worm left his lair. Well he had to at some point if he was to inspect the neighbourhood to see what was what, who was coming, who was going and there was no way that he would keep   to Bram Stoker’s script, no way at all he’d always been a rebel. But he didn’t know about the dare, didn’t know she was lying in wait, waiting to leap on his back, waiting to be taken for a ride off piste watched   by the man in red keeping check that she obeyed the rules. The wormed turned his head in alarm. If only he’d kept to the script. If only he’d stayed safe at home. https://visualverse.org/submissions/the-white-worm/

  Tapestry They wanted the work to illustrate their lives, the rich tapestry of the lives they lived. They chose the colours carefully sometimes rich and vibrant, sometimes dark just like life. They wove them into zig zag patterns up and down, up and down. They thought it seemed true, true to life. They wove the cloth longer longer and longer used all the warp and reached the end. It seemed true, true to life. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges/alvarado-writing-responses