Poetry Showcase from Lynn White

from pixabay

American Dream

We were such special people then, 
the two of us, flying high above the rest
like the arrogant angels we saw 
playing way above the clouds.
We could almost touch them
with our arms outstretched,
as we danced our way through 
a cinemascope of endless possibilities.

But other people were unimpressed.
They had no wish to touch the angels, 
or reach the stars, even if they could.
They looked down towards us, not up,
fulfilled and sacred to each other, 
with a specialness unknown to us.
We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices.
Did not see the fractures of their dreams,
or of ours to come.

But now we have become the rest
and know that we were not so special then. 
But just practicing for a life that would elude us 
as dreams remained dreams in cinemascope.
Dreams which became decayed imaginings 
growing dusty with time and fading,
as ordinariness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall. 


First published by Amomancies, Issue 5, Americana

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 its head inside the loop they’re making.
But the birds don’t care as usual.

Only Dream Harder

If you dream hard enough
you’ll find castles in the air,
or build them.
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find secret cities 
under the waves
ruled over by a fishy king
with his beady eye on you
as you walk on by.
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find unicorns
and ride them across the desert
to discover lost oases hidden there
amongst ancient cities 
once in ruins
now recast 
in shimmering perfection
by harsh sunlight.
If you dreamer harder 
you’ll rise above the waves of sand
which threaten to engulf you,
float in the sunlight
instead of being buried 
head first.
It’s all possible
if you only dream harder.

First published in Event Horizon, Issue 6, November 2018

Dreaming

'To sleep perchance to dream'.
That’s what he said.
Sounds so gentle,
but there’s a rub,
a rough edge to this sleepy escape
that would see me float away
sending me spinning,
out of control
tumbling,
raging,
spiralling,
crashing
to an indeterminate end.

So perhaps it’s daytime dreaming 
that has the edge
to smoothly move me
from one place to another.
In wakeful dreams
I can determine the beginning,
at least,
and invite the participants.
Sometimes
they may act out an old story
with a predictable end.
Sometimes 
I can write a new story
and then

bring it to life.


First published in Flight of the Dragonfly, September 2021

Dream Catchers

These hairy, feathery, stringy things
are supposed to catch my dreams,
but I don’t believe it.
I’ve hung them above my bed and
inspected them carefully in the morning
but I’ve never found a dream caught
in them,
Not even a tiny dreamlet.
No,
they’re just a trick,
a deception, to make me feel
I can capture them and relive them
when I want to.
But I can’t.
No one can ever go back to a dream.


First published in Poetry Breakfast, April 21, 2016



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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. 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. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/









	

Hard Rain Poetry Online Anthology inspired by Bob Dylan : poems by Lynn White

Help Me Over

Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I can see the sky 
framed
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
Framed 
by sharpness and
impenetrable barriers.
I want to see it clear,
clear and unblemished
creamy white
and pink and blue.
Help me see it.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I want want to see it
framed by trees,
I want to see
the rocks become
flowers 
again.
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross 
to the place
where the birds are singing
breaking up the sky with flight.
Does it still exist, this place?
I must think so.
Help me find it. 
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross


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

Nightmare

The sun is standing still for them
Standing still for the streams of dreamers.
Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere
else.
From somewhere that has become nowhere
destroyed by the money men,
the vultures who feed on their misery.
Dreaming of escape.
Dreaming of a future, any future.
Dreaming of better things to come.
Dreaming of the life they once had.
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.
Dreaming of returning
when the sun comes up again,
hoping it shows more than the vultures
that follow them
circling overhead
waiting patiently
for those left in a nightmare.


*First published in Free Verse Revolution, August 2020


The Hunger of War

They’re piling up
or splayed out
on streets
body after body
civilians
unarmed
or ill advisedly
armed 
in haste
and heroism
their meat is needed
to feed the hunger.

It’s piling up
the rubble of lives
in flames
fed 
by weapons
and more weapons
the tears of the displaced 
are not enough
to douse them
so they leave,
when they can,
a low priority
as there’s no meat on them 
the women, children and elderly.
But the meaty men must stay
to fight like soldiers
to the death
and be spat out
with screaming shells
and fear.

And their screams die with them 
as victory comes closer
it is said
day after day
it is said
as the leaders scream
“no surrender”
victory will be theirs
when the hunger is sated.

More weapons
more bodies
more lives
in flames 
to feed
the insatiable hunger of war.

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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. 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. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/




A Poetry Showcase by Lynn White

white daisy flowers in bubble
A Change of Focus

They were being herded now
bleating pleas
like the blind sheep
of past times.
Herded
by those they'd lionised
those they'd cultivated
as heroes
or victims
now metamorphosed
into triffids in khaki
and all it took was a change
of focus.
Triffids in khaki
poking
and prodding.
They could see them now
in focus
as they stumbled
supported
squatted
sometimes
bleating
their pleas
to the deafened.
They could see now
see themselves
see that they're victims of
them
them and
their old blind sheep
selves
all it took was a change of focus
and in a flash
they're 
blinded
by the light.

*First published in Blognostics August 2019*

Bits and Pieces

I loved Auntie Mary's bits and pieces drawer.
Loved the metal box full of buttons
I laid out carefully
to admire the different colours,
the different shapes and sizes.
Some were very old
cut from outfits long gone.
I thought she should remember them
but she would never say,
only that she cut them from clothes discarded
in case she needed to replace those lost,
buttons were expensive back then.
I found a silvery chain
with a broken clasp
that glistened and gleamed
as it wrapped round my fingers.
She said she couldn't remember where she wore it.
I didn't believe her, it was too beautiful to forget.
Then there were the discarded ornaments
that had once been on show,
presents from seaside places, so they said,
but it was the photographs I liked best.
Pictures of family I'd never met,
pictures of family I never would meet.
Now, I only remember the one of three young women,
my auntie and her sisters.
They were sitting on a wall with the sea behind them,
perhaps they had just bought one of the ornaments.
My auntie told me that people had said:
"just look at our Mary, showing her ankles!"
"I was very, daring", she told me smiling.
I couldn't imagine the prim lady
in her always blue dresses
had ever been daring,
but she had hidden the picture away
because she thought it revealed too much.
On later visits I would always ask
to look in the 'bits an pieces' drawer
but it was never allowed again.
Perhaps it had already revealed too much.

*First published in Blognostics, September 2019*

I Believe in Magic

I stood there
barely
naked
a naked tree in winter,
no leaves
no buds
no blossom
nothing
to relieve the bare branches
not even for Christmas
when so many trees gleamed and glittered
with berries
and baubles
sparkled with magic
I stood there
barely
waiting for the magic.
I waited
and waited.
And then
I woke
to find myself clothed,
a green leafy garland
snaking
all around me
leaving empty shoes
Now I believe in magic.
I hope it hasn't walked
away.

*First published in Blognostics, August 2018*

Reflection

I look into the river
and see how my reflection
moves helplessly in its flow.
It's moved and changed,
but left stationary,
not moved along
like the fishes
and pebbles
and floating leaves
but fading and breaking
with the images beyond me.
I feel in danger of being broken up
and washed away
piece by piece.

Such sweet watery sounds should ease my spirit,
should shut out the babbling inside me.
But even though spring is on its way
I know that winter
will find a way
inside
my broken ears,

in any case.

The Gardener

I was well equipped
to wade through mud
to prune and snip,
ready to water. when dry
and this year has been dry,
too dry
also too wet
and windy
so the harvest was scant
and now it's over,
now it's the golden time,
time to celebrate the work
time to celebrate the light
before the long dark rest
to come
to make ready
for the new light.

In Memoriam 

She thought her large hands and feet
were due to her hard labour
one summer vacation
on an archaeological dig
in Germany.
It was there she met Max,
an Art student
a sculptor
who also had trouble finding shoes
large enough for his big feet.
Afterwards
he cycled to Florence to view 'David'
in all his marbled flesh
and later 
on his return
he slept on the sofa
in our shared student house.
In return
he carved a large number '14'
in our sandstone gatepost
with a rusty spike
and a half brick
that he found
lying around.

Where are they now?
I don't know
but still
the gatepost stands
in memoriam
a small footfall
to their passing by
that way
and still
there is no gate.

*From our Fevers of the Mind Issue 2: In Memoriam Print Anthology*

Deathday

Many can name the day when
he died.
Each year
a deathday
like a birthday but
an ironic celebration.
On the day he died
we were making holly wreaths
ready for Christmas.
A petrol stop on the way to work
an overheard conversation
at the local garage.
When he told us
Lennon was dead
we pricked our fingers
in shock.
Now each year we remember
his falling
his dying
symbolised for ever
by those fallen empty glasses

*From Fevers of the Mind Issue 2: In Memoriam Print Anthology*

A Poetry Showcase by Lynn White

Hard Rain Poetry Online Anthology inspired by Bob Dylan : poems 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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. 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. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So it Goes. Find Lynn at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
They were being herded now