LYNN WHITE

 

Our Street

 

This was us

our street

before the bombs fell

and turned it to rubble

and ashes

and turned us to dust

and ashes.

This is us

our street

where the lights shine brightly

and the Liquor Store is open

for party goers,

where the buildings

stand neatly in line,

where tomorrows are

as predictable

as todays

still.

This is the US

where the bombs don’t fall.

 

Seed Shells

 

The first seeds were sown a long time ago.

When these small seed shells burst open

they were scattered locally.

They grew patchily at first, in Palestine, in Israel,

in Lebanon and throughout the Arab world.

There were only little streams to irrigate

and fertilise them, so they often failed to thrive.

But that was then.

Now the shells have grown bigger

and the seeds have flown further.

Further and further.

And the streams have grown wider and longer.

And more nutritious.

 

When the seed shells have burst in this century,

they found ground that was even more fertile.

So more and more has come under cultivation,

irrigated and fertilised now from rivers,

rivers of blood.

So well irrigated,

so well nurtured and tended that

the patches of brown soil became rare indeed.

But there were some.

 

Later seeds spread wider over Gaza.

As larger seed shells broke and splintered

they found and colonised new areas

outside the brown patches

where it was now easy to germinate and thrive.

Now even trees could grow there and send out suckers

into the newly bloodied green places.

Soon there was a wood with dense undergrowth.

The rivers were torrents now

bloody torrents

with plenty of irrigation channels.

 

Now more seeds have flown. Ever bigger

seed shells are exploding and unloading

their crop of giant seeds.

The wood is a forest now,

a forest of giants now spreading their own seed

in the already fertile ground,

spreading it ever more thickly,

growing ever taller.

A forest of hate,

a writhing, spitting jungle

 

Crusade

 

They slaughtered them

in the name of God

their god,

though any god

would do

and now

their masks weep

tears of blood

it drips from their eyes,

like it dripped from their swords

in red ruby like splashes

as the bleeding began again,

then black

like coal

as decay started

and the masks

begin to crack,

to distort

and disintegrate,

to flake away,

to disappear

as all masks will

in the end

until only

the tears

remain.

 

It’s Dark Now

 

There was a time when

‘it’s not dark yet”

seemed apposite,

suitably pessimistic

for that time

but with a ray of hope.

But now night is falling fast.

 

In the wake of the Nazi holocaust

no one offered excuses for them

no exceptions were made.

International organisations were set up

to ensure that international laws were upheld.

War criminals would be prosecuted without exception

and states committing genocide would be sanctioned.

 

But that was then.

Now an exception is made for one state

that has broken international law

for decades without sanction

and has committed plausible genocide,

it’s leaders now identified as war criminals.

 

Now, as darkness falls,

even with unanimity between all

international organisations

and all aid agencies,

it is those organisations

and those agencies who are vilified,

demonised, denounced and threatened

not the state accused,

not the perpetrators.

They are excused.

 

The most powerful of nations

are on their side

even though

the death of humane humanity

is being screened screaming

even though

it’s black as pitch in Khan Younis

and blacker still in Rafah.

 

The Taste Of War

 

Peace is more

than the absence of war

though that would be a start.

But the dissolving of boundaries

constructed by humans

to cordon off one from the other

must follow

so there is no need

to shout across the divide

in our different languages.

 

Only then can we whisper

and hug our way to peace.

 

What we have now

still tastes like war

to me.

 

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