Poetry - Lynn White

  The Curse Of Consumption I can hardly remember my early life when I wiggled and wriggled   embryo-like blindly   consuming all before me. I know I sensed the warnings not to bite off more than I could chew, but consumer of cliches that I was, I carried on regardless making a meal of everything I could swallow, even the words. I could feel   that change   was coming and eventually it happened! I made it happen! My curse became a blessing and I broke out   of my hard carapace, split open the shell that had become my prison, did my best to leave it behind to have a look at the world outside and continue my cruise of consumption. Nothing was sacred I ate it all and grew fat, so fat, too fat. So fat I felt ready to explode. And then it happened,   I swear, it was like a nuclear explosion inside me all the dust and debris of decadence   solidifying   into something unspeakable, mushrooming into something unintelligible to be spewed out of my big ...

  A Gorey Moment I sometimes have a Gorey moment wondering what could have been if the hanging chads hadn’t hung, or if Gore had hung up his gentleman’s suit and cried “Fraud” as loudly as Trump was to do. No hate to fuel 9/11, no war in Iraq,   perhaps the end of history   would be nigh as Fukuyama predicated, existing divisions becoming historic and no new ones created. With more Gore less blood would be spilled. There would be no Bushfires burning the sun would be shining   but without its intensity, the storms would be still and the world would be stable. It was hanging by a thread and we missed it missed the chance to grasp those chads hanging. https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-gorey-moment.html

  Old Reds Molly was a red, her politics even redder than her hair. She met in the city centre pub every Tuesday night with the three Tommys, a Gramscian Tommy, a New and of  course,  Tommy the Trot. Every Tuesday night they met and argued about the Spanish Civil War. They’d been doing it for years, decades in fact every Tuesday night their voices undiminished by age growing louder and louder as the Guinness worked it’s magic spilling over a little as fists banged the table every Tuesday night. But the new Landlady was no respecter of age, “Youse come in here disturbing the peace again next Tuesday and yer all banned”, she cried! “Well”, said Molly ,“that’s not very comradely!” Quietly,  at last they all agreed. For Molly Sayle and Tommy Doran https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-laugh-and-pint.html

  Irony She was such a positive person, the most positive person I had ever met so positive I found  meaningful conversation difficult and depressing. I am not a negative person but I’m no Dr Pangloss either and her Panglossian tendencies depressed me. She died a few years ago at Dignitas. For Ann Cole https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-laugh-and-pint.html

  Only Joking “It was just a joke” you said the night you came back, a typical wind-up that we should have known better to believe. Of course you weren’t dead! It would take more than a few cigarettes to extinguish your flame! “Look”, you said, “I’ll give you a hug”. And you did, a good solid one, not spiritual not virtual but real. So we all had a laugh and a pint and then you left again. For Sion Aaron https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-laugh-and-pint.html

  Nothing Changes                A sequel to ‘The Adventures Of Anwen’, yet to be written Her answer to my “how are you?” would never be the list of aches and pains I might hear from many. Nor would it be the trite “fine” I would hear from many more. No, It was always “just the same”. “How’s things” would bring a similar response with “nothing changes here” in addition. She tells me there is no one she can converse with, no one who’s interested in what’s going on in the world, that anything she says is met by looks of stoney incomprehension and no one laughs at her jokes. “A new one came last week”, she says, “much younger, so I had hopes. Then she got out her Bible and I was back to no hope again.” She narrates the detail of her recent encounters with the assorted meat eaters,  xenophobic imperialists,  and Born Again Christians who share the care home with her. “You should write a book”, I say. Yes, I keep meaning to,” is her...

  Stripy Jerseys There were a lot of ragwort plants around the library. Some were bare of leaves and covered with orange and black stripy jersey caterpillars. Others were lush and green with leaves and devoid of caterpillars. As usual the family planning strategy of the cinnabar moth left much to be desired. I began to transfer them carefully from the leafless to the lush. I stood back to admire my achievement, momentarily disconcerted when a rather stern looking stranger asked what I was doing. I explained. “Huh”, she said, “I’ve been doing the same over the other side. I though it was only me who does this.” It was a strange way to begin a friendship but it lasted all her life. I think maybe I should go to the grave in the woodland, where her body lies and scatter a few ragwort seeds. Maybe the moths will come each year and make  a living memorial. She would like that, I think. For Sally Hawkin