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 recently been published in anthologies including - Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates - Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and a number of rather excellent  on line and print journals.
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lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

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                                  My Father’s Son
 
I never knew
my father’s son.
Even though
I met him once,
or maybe twice,
I never knew him.
 
And then I met
his son.
Caught him
miraculously
in a net.
Held on to him
tightly.
 
And, I found
that he hadn’t left early,
my father’s son.
He’d waited for me,
wondering,
for a long time.
 
And so I found him,
my father’s son.
When he was
just ninety six,
I found him.
But I was too late
to know him.
 
At ninety five,
he was already dead.
 
So I never knew him,
my father’s son.
 
  
                                                Jacko
 
I saw him flapping around in the grass,
one wing at an improbable angle.
I chased him,
caught him,
wrapped him
carefully
in my cerise and navy school scarf.
 
Jack, jack, jacko..
 
Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet
who set the broken wing,
wrapped it
carefully
in plaster,
a heavy pot.
He was subdued on the bus home,
but still managed to greet my mother,
 
Jack, jack, jacko.
 
He perked up later after tea
and explored the living room
placing bits of straw artistically
and decorating them with pooh.
Which was why
he had to live
at school,
home
only for weekends.
 
Jack, jack jacko!
 
But he enjoyed bus journeys now
and greeted all the passengers,
hopping from shoulder to shoulder,
waking them up with a wang from his pot,
nibbling an ear here and a nostril there.
Most were
charmed,
but some
were not.
He was close to becoming
the only jackdaw to be banned
from public transport.
 
Jack, jack, jacko!!
 
And then disaster!
the wing had not healed.
There was decay
and gangrene
amputation
and the trimming
of his lovely long feathers
to balance him.
No more hopping
from shoulder to shoulder,
well, maybe later
with practice!
But no more
prospects of a wild life
for Jacko
 
 Jack, jack, jacko...
 
And no more home with me
said my mum as the school holidays
loomed threateningly.
 
Jack, jack, jacko.....
 
But nearby the vet,
a budgie had died
and it’s owner,
bereaved,
had a need and
it was love at first sight
for both her and Jacko.
 
Jack, jack, jacko!!
 
There were photos
in the press.
He was famous!
A local hero!
 
Jack, jack, jacko!!!
 
 
                                     Barcelona Sandals
 
Standing in the Andorra snow
shivering in our Barcelona sandals.
Glad of a lift down to Foix
as darkness was falling.
And the driver knew a hotel,
Hotel du Centre.
Very grand
and full
of people looking down
long noses.
But the driver knew the owner
who was a kind man,
a nice man.
So we shouldn't worry
about the cost, he said.
 
A lovely room
and in the morning,
breakfast!
We must eat
the owner said.
Warm bread and jam.
Coffee with hot milk
which tasted sour.
But I don't like
the taste of milk,
anyway,
so most likely
it was sweet.
 
And then the bill.
But there was no bill.
Save it for the journey,
the owner said.
A kind man,
a nice man,
who believed
the driver's story,
whatever it was.
 
A few years later,
we returned to Foix
and went to find 
Hotel du Centre.
But it wasn't there.
No one knew it.
It didn't exist.
Did it ever exist?
Did any of it happen?
Or did we somehow
share
a memory
from our
imaginations.
 
 
                                               Ripples
 
Ripples of time
gathering pace.
Working up to the wave
that crashed into me,
propelled me forward
and now sucks me back.
Thirteen decades.
Back.
To a place beyond my imagining,
so tidy now after the crash.
Gentrified now.
Rippling gently.
But before,
in my father’s time.
There was beer mixed mud
and crowding children.
And smells of horses
and metal.
Working.
Fire and metal work.
Children who
would leave behind
the mud,
and country
smells,
for the dust
and smog.
For the city grime.
Streets and factories.
More fire and metal.
Bigger.
Grander.
And what then?
Still poor.
What then?
What secrets lie in those ripples
of time
washing over me now.


                                                                             After The End
 
 
The sideboard was full of magazines.
Not whole magazines but
pages torn from them.
Pages of recipes.
Meals never eaten.
Exotic desserts never attempted.
Guest never invited or entertained.
At least the furniture had been used,
had had many years of use.
The clothes had been worn,
the pictures admired and enjoyed.
But the recipes were the saddest thing.
So many of them
for so many people
who never came.