For Charlie by Lynn White

So many people marching and waving,
waving pencils and pictures of pencils.
Millions and millions marching with pencils,
asserting their values, showing their power,
paying their respects.

But it’s not what it seems.
say the sideline snipers,
the underminers,
the false flag wavers,
the pencil baiters,
the Je Suis Fuck All-ers.

They’re pencilled pawns,
just part of the plans
of the Old Pretenders,
the liars and haters,
the manipulators,
the plotters and schemers,
the money makers.
The bullets were blanks and,
the dead, aren’t dead.

Say the sideline snipers,
the underminers,
the false flag wavers,
the pencil baiters,
the Je Suis Fuck All-ers.

just look who’s leading
from the front line.
It’s the Old Pretenders, the liars and haters.
It’s proof enough
What more do you need.

But it’s not what it seems.
It’s a trick of the camera,
another pretence
to diminish the distance
between them and
the leaders behind them,
the pencil wavers,
the movers and shakers,
the history makers.

Not so say the snipers,
the underminers,
know better than you-ers,
the Je Suis Fuck All-ers.

They say nothing of Gaza,
those pencil wavers,
or climate, or oil, or this or that.
And if they can’t speak for all things,
it won’t matter if, tired by the baiters
they go home and draw cats
till their pencils are blunted
and the spell has abated.
and smiles back on the faces
of the Old Pretenders,
the liars and haters,
the leadership fakers,
the Je Suis Fuck All-ers
who love
to look at
pictures
of kitties.

Death at Work by Lynn White

Such a terrible thing,
to go to work and not come home.
To put yourself in danger,
risk a fall or an infection
just to do your job, earn your bread
without hurting anyone.
An accident happened
or someone was negligent.
So much grief unheard
except by those close.
Personal grief staying personal.
Maybe some were heroes,
maybe not.
Some good, some less so.
Just people.

Soldiers though, they are always heros,
especially when dead.
Those sent out to kill for the politicians
and the generals.
It’s automatic, goes with the territory,
whoever’s territory it is.
Heroes when they kill the other guys.
Heroes again when the other guys kill them.
Murdered heroes the courts say now,
unlawfully killed
killed by criminals who should be brought to justice.
Not corporate manslaughter to be forgotten.
Criminals or someone else’s heroes.
Depends on your territory.

God Save the Sheep by Lynn White

God save the sheep

baa aah.

Where would we be without them.

Who would lead if no one followed?

Why bother to whip up their storm of frenzy,

to feed them on blades of rumours

ready to become knowledge, to become fact.

Baa aah.

Say it again,

baa aah.

And only white sheep allowed,

of course.

No black or pink or purple

to shatter the consensus.

Colours cannot be tolerated,

along with druggies and drunks

and survivors of abuse.

Oh dear me, no,

not appropriate here.

Baa aah

And suppose they stay?

Baa aa aah

Plant their hooves in our cheap wet fields,

sneak inside our friendly flock

and contentedly munch

a thistle here,

a spikey rush there.

Baa aah.

Drown them out

baa aah,

baa aah.

God save the sheep.

..

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.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts

lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

Washed Up by Lynn White

So many dead people

caught in the crossfire

created by the the money men,

the arms traders,

the super ego-ed politicians.

They lie dead where they fell.

Flesh and blood transformed to

fertilizer to nurture the seeds

and grow the crops, in a future

they will not see.

Their bones decaying to dust

to form the building blocks

of homes they will never inhabit.

Dying where they fell,

over there, not here

and not looking like us.

Unseen or soon forgotten

by us here.

 

But the dead washed up

on holiday beaches

look like our flesh and blood.

They’re wearing our clothes.

They’re washing up to haunt us

in the Old World.

Then there’s the living,

washed up alive

and by any means necessary

moving on to bear witness,

if any one is listening.

To bring the horror home

to those who created it

in the Old World.

Bringing it home to the Old World,

but not as yet to the New.

 

First published in Whirlwind, 2015

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 published in recent 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 many rather excellent  on line and print journals.