Poetry - Lynn White

  Apples Are Not The Only Fruit Apples are not the only fruit once forbidden but no more. And they come in a wider colour range than oranges without the dark side that came with Winterson. Now, even in Paradise all is well in the world of apples conspiring daily to keep the doctor away, just take a bite to begin.  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HK6BL9HV

  Longing The years have passed but still she yearns for the child   that once grew in her body. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HK6BL9HV

  A Class Act Post war Britain laid out for you. Straight streets, curving crescents, row upon row planning perfection public and private space, orderly amenities everything within a walk all catered for everyone housed. And there was class, working, of course and all were working. Those were the days of full employment and garden estates before   climate change before twenty minute cities. A class act. https://masticadorestaiwan.wordpress.com/2026/09/17/a-class-act-by-lynn-white/

  Sandcastles She’s standing on the beach with a small suitcase. It’s unclear if the suitcase is full   or empty. Once she packed it full   of her dreams,   but it’s unclear if any remain. She thinks now that they were built on sand, sandcastles on the beach to be carried away on a storm tide, or washed up   and buried   in the sand. All that is clear is the emptiness   of a long horizon. https://inalove.world/2026/09/17/sandcastles/

  I Remember My Father I remember my father. Remember being carried high   on his shoulders when he was walking into town. I remember that I was scared. I had never been carried on shoulders before. Was there a bus strike or no money for the fare? That I don’t remember. I remember my father sitting in a chair, a passenger on a bus or tram, as I collected his fare and gave him a ticket. He drove trams once and then later he cleaned them. I remember my father. Remember sitting on his knee looking at Rupert Bear books. I knew the stories by heart so people thought I could read and were very impressed. But I could only remember. I remember my father. I don’t need photographs to jog my memory, which is just as well since there are none, None of him whole, anyway,   just one of his legs in loose grey trousers, sitting by me as I planted seeds in my first garden. https://hotelmasticadoreshouse.wordpress.com/2026/09/16/i-remember-my-father-by-lynn-white/

  Ann Glover It was a long way from the green fields and boggy moss to the tropical heat of Barbados where the ship took them, those Irish peasants, as seeped in idolatry as their homeland was in rain, or that’s what the masters said   so far as she understood their language   as harsh and severe   as the god they worshipped. And it was a long way from the tropical heat of Barbados to the master’s house in Salem   the last port of call for some of those Irish peasants, those who survived so far, still enslaved but called ‘indentured’ now. She always believed it was her tongue that killed her, not its sharpness, Irish was a gentle language, after all and she never learned theirs so their questions could not be understood or answered.   And what answers could she give in any language? What language could tell them who was godly and who was devilish, who was a witch and who was a saint. Only power could speak and the Irish had none. Only power can speak and sl...

  Story Teller She’s lived a long time, even longer than her years. Every line is a poem of coloured beads, every wrinkle tells a story, her story,   her history, her life, her peoples story their lives,   their stories, the ones her mother told and her mother, the ones her father told and his father. Generation after generation still living with her in her stories. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HJBSD3GV?tag=uklinktagbk-21&geniuslink=true