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 on line and in print in some rather excellent publications. 

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

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                           I Remember My Father
 
I remember my father.
Remember being carried high
on his shoulders when
he was walking into town.
I remember that I was scared.
I had never been carried
on shoulders before.
Was there a bus strike
or no money for the fare?
That I don’t remember.
 
I remember my father
sitting in a chair, a passenger
on a bus or tram,
as I collected his fare
and gave him a ticket.
He drove trams once
and then later he cleaned them.
 
I remember my father.
Remember sitting on his knee
looking at Rupert Bear books.
I knew the stories by heart
so people thought I could read
and were very impressed.
But I could only remember.
 
I remember my father.
I don’t need photographs
to jog my memory,
which is just as well
since there are none,
None of him whole, anyway,
just one of his legs
in loose grey trousers,
sitting by me as I planted seeds
in my first garden.
 
 
 
                                     Spinning
 
I’m spinning a sphere
of mirrored glass and
I’m seeing my world
differently.
Upside down.
Round and round.
Making me dizzy.
But
perhaps it was always
upside down and
spinning out
of control
in any
case.
 

                                  Grains of Time
 

Time is running out for me
And I sit here gazing into space
Watching each grain trickle away.
I can't catch them,
Can't stop them,
Can't slow them down
Or speed them up.
I can only live the moment
As it passes.
 
 

                                         Caged
 
It’s pleasant enough
wandering these pathways
flanked by tall the rectangular cages,
each protected by a steel door
with a security code.
 
Even pleasanter later,
when the cages are lower
and less daunting enclosures
of decorative brick or pricey stone
surrounding quiet green spaces,
each protected by metal gates
with a security code.
 
Occasionally a creature emerges,
sometimes with barred teeth,
clenched fists, raised claws.
But mostly looking sad
and out of condition.
Lost inside itself.
Poor things.
Lost souls
searching.
 
Mostly though, they are seen outside,
moving purposefully to a destination,
not free to wander random paths.
Or heading back to their cages,
hoping there is no diversion
which may leave them lost.
Leave them in terror of
the unforeseen
The unforeseen
circumstances
that may arise
from freedom.
Freedom
to be lost.
 
Poor things.
Lost souls
in or out
of their
zoo.