 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 The Fishermen The wall ran all along one side of the bay, steps up from the port at one end, down to the beach at the other. I climbed up the steps and looked over. So many fish. Huge fish. Swirling silver moons in a day blue sky. A net would have scooped them up and broken with the weight. The fishermen were there with their rods set up, like the fish almost touching, so many and so close, making parallel black lines against the sky like a blue print for lunch provision. I walked down the steps to the beach. Few people were there so early. Morning was the fisherman’s time of day, not the sunbather’s. I went back along the wall when the fishermen were packing up, heading home for lunch. Carrying their fish, I thought. But no, it was a delusion to imagine they would eat fish for dinner. Not those fish, anyway. All were returned to the sea. Such is the sport of the fisherman. The Funeral of Bosco Jones Twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life. His children, (long departed from their roots), returned. “Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything. We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers. A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life. They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear And join in the proceedings. There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity. The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying. She started to look around her and take in the proceedings. She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed. Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist, “I’m having none of this!” she cried, “My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!” Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again. The vicar, a dedicated professional, began to continue the service. Mrs Jones stood up and began to sing ‘The Internationale’. Most people joined in and no one could hear the vicar Who became very angry. “It was a riot”, Nina said, with a wry smile. When they had finished singing, they started to shout at the vicar. He shouted back telling them that he was throwing them out And they were never to come into his church (or outside it) again. Everyone cheered, but no one left and Bosco made his last journey To the sounds of ‘Bandero Rosso’ and ‘Joe Hill’ sung very lustily, Which he would have liked a lot. “It was a riot”, Nina said, casting her eyes upwards. Afterwards, they all enjoyed eating the food that the children had organised. And drinking the drink and arguing and shouting at those With whom they had political differences and at those With whom they were in complete agreement. The vicar stopped by and apologised to Mrs Jones, who was very rude at first, But then happy to sit down and explain her position While he listened. People still talk about the riot at the funeral of Bosco Jones Reach Out Where are you? There was a time when I knew where to find you, knew the places and spaces you inhabited in my dreams, in my day and night dreams. You would be waiting there, waiting to be found, waiting to come to me. Now it's harder to find you, to recognise your shape and form. You are becoming fragmented and ephemeral, floating forms in a damp mist. Reach out. Hold on to me. Don't pass me by. It's such a long time since you left, perhaps it's me who's letting go, me who has forgotten how to reach you. Forgotten to reach out to you. Reach out. Hold on to me. Don't let me fade away. Empty Vessels |
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