Lynn White – LTNC Series

Help Me Over

Help me.

Help me over.

Help me cross.

I can see the sky 

framed

by debris,

by rocks,

by wire,

by dereliction.

Framed 

by sharpness and

impenetrable barriers.

I want to see it clear,

clear and unblemished

creamy white

and pink and blue.

Help me see it.

Help me over.

Help me cross.

I want want to see it

framed by trees,

I want to see

the rocks become

flowers 

again.

Help me.

Help me over.

Help me cross 

to the place

where the birds are singing

breaking up the sky with flight.

Does it still exist, this place?

I must think so.

Help me find it. 

Help me.

Help me over.

Help me cross

First published in Armageddon Issue, Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2017

…………….

Listen

Listen.

Listen,

can you hear them?

The sounds that went before

the wall was built.

Listen,

I can hear them.

Not the wall builders,

no, not them,

but others who also

don’t want to see

what lies beyond.

What lies on the other side.

Others who will build walls

in the future.

But listen,

we can hear them.

Listen.

Listen for when the cracks appear,

then push.

First published in Praxis, April 2019

…………………..

Separate Development

We must develop separately, you and I,

you on your side, me on mine.

The wall between us

unscalable,

impenetrable,

unfathomable.

They built it so.

We must undermine it, you and I,

you on your side, me on mine,

Burrow beneath  

the rocky foundation,

scratch away,

one stone at a time.

Wall fall down.

First published in Art Of Peace Tyler Poetry Anthology – ‘Intertwined, Poems of Shared Endeavor, September, 2015

………………..

Running On Empty 

We take care how we fill our shoes.

Our trainers and boots.

Our flats and heels, stilettos and cuban.

They may match our mood, specially chosen,

or be eternal representations of our unified self.

So surely something of us must remain

when they are emptied.

Not just our smells and mis-shapes,

evocative as they are,

but something more fundamental.

Something spiritual.

Something symbolic.

See here

empty shoes

laid out tidily in rows.

Blocked together on a grass field 

or concrete yard.

Rows upon rows of them

that once contained the school children

now shot dead,

our children.

See here

empty shoes

piled high in untidy heaps.

Heaps and heaps of them, 

that once contained peaceful people

now massacred, bombed, burned.

Our people

spanning place

and time without end.

First published in Tuck, June 2018

………………….

Refugees

At school there was a weekly collection 

for charity.

I saved up my biscuit money

so that

I did not seem different, more impoverished

than the rest.

And so that I had something to give to those

less fortunate.

I knew what charities were, you see.

Well, except for the one called

‘Refugees’.

I did not know what refugees were.

This was 1956.

Only six years after the ending of a war

creating millions

of refugees

and I had to ask what they were

several times.

Even then,

I didn’t understand.

It made no sense to me.

I didn’t understand.

First published in Tuck Magazine, February 2018


Follow this Artist:

Lynn White

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/


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