LYNN WHITE

 

A Season For Living

 

I’d always loved flowers.

You helped me

surround myself with them

to bring me joy.

I would like to lie in my garden

in the mist of the soft sweet-smelling mist

of them

for ever.

But everything has it’s time,

its time to live,

and its time to die

and only the flowers

will bloom eternally

each in its season.

This is my season for living

and it’s now that I need them.

When I’m dead I won’t see them on my grave,

won’t know that you’ve brought them for me

won’t know if you haven’t,

or care.

The flowers you carry

in that season should be for you,

for all of you that I left behind

and all of you still to come.

Don’t let them die

for me.

Nobody wants dead flowers,

least of all, dead people.

 

Living The Dream

 

'To sleep perchance to dream'.

That’s what he said.

Sounded so gentle,

but there was a rub,

a rough edge to this escape

and I will not accept

that long deathly sleep,

that would see me float

away for ever.

But I will escape,

I have dreams

which can take me anywhere

and take you with me,

take you to places you haven't been

and may not want to go.

Send us spinning,

tumbling,

raging,

spiralling,

crashing

out of control

to an indeterminate end

which you cannot control,

but then, neither can I.

Perhaps daytime dreaming is preferable,

more gentle than it sounds

fitted into a busy schedule.

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

they can write a new story

which I enjoy

and then

 

I bring it to life.

 

Time Passes

 

Snowflakes lit by sunbeams

blowing gently,

fragile as shadows

making rainbows in the fiery light

then softening as the fire fades.

Becoming softer

for a time.

 

But time passes.

 

Catch them quickly in your hair

they're already harder now,

even though the sun

is glistening still

bright as fire

forging jewels,

crunchy crystals

shining harshly

like diamonds

while the sunlight lasts.

 

But time passes

 

It’s cooler now as

the light starts fading.

The surface is giving way to ice

losing it's warmth.

And we're skidding,

sliding

beyond control.

slipping away,

blinded now by tears of ice.

 

Genocide Joe

 

Genocide Joe

is strutting

his stuff

arming the strong

condemning the weak

 

with

no army

no navy

no airforce

no voice

their little’s

too much

for Genocide Joe.

 

Power feeds power

and though number four

amongst Masters of War

it’s not high enough

for kind Uncle Joe.

 

Still not enough

to face children alone

and families fleeing terror

their rhythms destroyed

as bombs make a carpet

of what once were homes.

The tanks crush out lives

there’s no where to go,

no where to hide

for the starved

and the maimed

and it’s still not enough

for Genocide Joe.

 

Armed to the gums

their neighbours afraid

helpless and hating

and hate breeding more

and more hate breeds power

for the fear of today is the might of tomorrow.

Some history is made by these Masters of War

and more history is made by new Masters of War

and both the living and dead will judge Genocide Joe.

 

Ground Force Gaza

 

This poem is an update.

I wish it wasn’t.

The original was written in 2014.

I didn’t expect to write a sequel,

but here we are again.

 

One hour to leave

carrying what you can

knowing everything you love

will be destroyed

behind you.

 

Who could do this?

People could not do it.

Could not do the things they did.

Soldiers.

Things in uniform obeying orders,

yes sir no sir-ing their way into oblivion.

They could do it.

They would do anything, if told to.

 

Humanity suspended or cuckooed.

Killing machines, destroyers of dreams,

burying them in the rubble with the bits.

With the bits of bodies,

the hands and the feet,

the breasts and the balls.

Things in uniform.

Daleks of death.

They could do it.

 

Maybe if enough things die

they will stop their slaughter.

Maybe if enough things die

they will become extinct

like the dodo,

the stuff of legend

like the unicorn.

I hope so.

 

LYNN WHITE

 

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 has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review, Blue Pepper, Arachne Press and So It Goes.