LYNN WHITE - POEMS

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. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been widely published, in recent anthologies such as - ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, ‘The Border Crossed Us’ from Vagabond Press and ‘Selfhood’ from Trancendence Zero - and journals such as Apogee, Firewords Quarterly, Indie Soleil, Midnight Circus and Snapdragon as well as many other online and print publications.

Find Lynn at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts and lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

---

                                          Suffocating
 

I am being suffocated by this society,
pushed into a corner until
I can't breath any more.
Pressed up against
the other screamers,
the can't breathers.
Crying out.
I am not being suffocated under
the weight of immigration.
Or even the armlocks and bullets
of police out of control.
No, I am being suffocated by
the vile venom of normality
or what has come
to pass for it.
By indifference,
by dishonesty,
by power
used to
abuse.
What will it take
for us to learn
how to distort
this normality,
how to smother
this sickness
and heal
us all.
 
 

                              The Driving Instructor
 


I needed rather a lot of driving lessons.
My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help.
Nor, did my occasional confusion
between right and left.
But, coming up to my test,
my new instructor was sympathetic.
We could go for a Sunday drive, he said.
I could have a free lesson
and maybe a drink after.
Well, why not?
He told me a story over the drink.
He’d been in the war in Singapore.
Such horror.
And conscripts all.
In the chaos
an enemy soldier had shot his dog.
Shot her.
Killed her,
dead.
Such horror.
And conscripts all.
But, it was alright in the end,
he’d ‘got’ the one who did it.
‘Got him.’
Shot him!
Killed him,
dead.
Such horror.
And conscripts all.
The life of a man for the life of a dog.
Both shot.
Both killed.
Both dead.
It was the life of the man I valued most.
And I said so
using a lot of words.
Yes, rather a lot of words
loudly spoken.
So no more free lessons,
but I passed my test.
 
First published in Silver Birch Press, Learning To Drive Series, May 2016
 

                                     Desolate Road
 

It’s a long and desolate road.
I think it’s always been so.
Such a desolate road to travel
before I see the brightness ahead,
the light after desolation
reflected in the water of the lake,
And the wire fence is no barrier
to this vision of my future brightness.
And the gate looks open
ready to welcome me through.
Sometimes a gate has seemed closed,
only to open with a degree of pressure
to allow me through.
Sometimes it has stayed closed
set firmly against me.
But this one is seems open,
or partly open,
no barrier
to my passing.
But as I draw closer
I can see the chain
and the padlock.
Open so far,
but no further.
I can go so far,
but no further
along the desolate road.
So far, but no further
towards the light
unless I climb.
 
 

                                      Give Me A Hand
 
​
Many offered
to give me a hand
to paint the man red.
They thought the town
would be next,
but they were mistaken.
The background was to be in
a different palette,
darker, more sombre.
I asked them to wear gloves.
That way I knew I could
preserve their memory like
the long dried up palette,
peeling their outer skin
like the gloves.
Like the gloves,
I hung them all
out to dry.