Hard Rain Poetry Series showcase by Lynn White

Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Blowing In The Wind

It was a windy day
in a windy city
a long time ago,
about fifty years, I think,
I forget exactly when.
A sudden flurry made me the vortex
and I was surrounded by sheets of paper
caught up and blown from a doorway.

When it had settled, 
I collected a few.
They were letters
applying for jobs
dated about fifty years ago,
I forget exactly when.
All were hand written 
in the most beautiful cursive scripts.
I could visualise the care with which
nibs had been dipped in ink,
the concentration in the touch of pen to paper.
These were the stuff of unknown dreams.

The names are long forgotten now
but I wonder what became of them,
those ghosts of a past
who touched my life
in a flurry of wind
only to be blown away.

Performance Art
He’s the last man standing.

And whether comedian
or statesman
performance is all
for the last man standing.

Standing in the rubble of the city.
Standing on the bodies of the dead heroes,
those lions led by donkeys once again.
No more laughter,
no more tears,
the final curtain
came down on them.
Hollow victory
or glorious defeat
it’s all the same to them.

But the last man still stands,
the star of the show
temporarily.

First published in Topical Poetry, March 27 2022

The People Are Sleeping

The houses are sleeping now,
lit only by moonlight.
The lights are turned off
until the dark morning.
All are tucked up cosily
under soft duvets.
Work is finished, 
homework completed and forgotten,
games packed away.
All can dreaming sleepy dreams 
undisturbed
till they wake tomorrow
and the new day begins to play
it’s familiar tune.

The houses are sleeping now,
lit only by moonlight,
smokey still from the storms of dust,
almost dark, unrelenting
darkness.
Lights out for ever.
All lying in a bed of rubble.
All finished, done,
beyond disturbing.
All dreams ended.
No waking tomorrow.
No more tomorrows
for them
as the new day plays it’s old tune

The people are sleeping still 
as the coins are tossed,
the dice are thrown,
the cards shuffled
and the game 
of chance
resumed.

First published in Armageddon Issue, Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2017

God Given 

If such a creature didn’t exist
we’d have to invent it for sure.
Whether Zeus or Allah,
Jehovah or any of the rest,
all fulfil the same 
purpose.
All create a framework 
of behaviour,
the laws of god
which must be obeyed
without argument,
without thinking,
without due process.
All create a framework
of rights.
Some have them,
others don’t.
They’re god given
so no argument,
no thinking,
needed.
And all need a territory,
a god given territory
from the beginning of time
and for evermore
No argument,
no thinking,
god given

First published in Blognostics, April/May 2019

Winners And Losers

There’s always one.
Always one
ready
to cast the first stone.
Always one 
righteous 
enough,
confident
enough,
arrogant
enough.

And the rest
of the pack will follow.
It makes no difference 
who they follow 
which prophet
which god,
the game’s the same 
and it will play out
until
the stones become a mountain
from which blood flows like a river.

Then they will celebrate.
They’ve won again.

First published in Ekphrastic Review - Han Van Meegeren, challenge, November 2021

Uniforms
What shall I be,
soldier, sailor, 
clown, maybe.
Grey suit, or blue,
tailored jacket, short skirt.
Hippie, maybe.
Now there’s a uniform!
Everyone different,
not conforming.

But, wearing the same 
signs, 
the signifiers,
of non conformity.
The badges
that identify those
waving the flag
or burning it.

Beads and bangles,
shell suits, jeans, 
leggings, jeggings, posh frocks,
taking us to our comfort zone,
Finding for us the warmth we crave.
A part or apart. 

Perhaps we are all figments
as made up and tailored as the 
uniform we choose.
Even when we change,

it’s hard
not to
choose a uniform.

First published in Literary Yard, October 2017