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Lynn White

Death at Work

 

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 heroes,

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.

​

​

The Hunger Of War

 

They’re piling up

or splayed out

on streets

body after body

civilians

unarmed

or ill advisedly

armed 

in haste

and heroism

their meat is needed

to feed the hunger.

 

It’s piling up

the rubble of lives

in flames

fed 

by weapons

and more weapons

the tears of the displaced 

are not enough

to douse them

so they leave,

when they can,

a low priority

as there’s no meat on them 

the women, children and elderly.

But the meaty men must stay

to fight like soldiers

to the death

and be spat out

with screaming shells

and fear.

 

And their screams die with them 

as victory comes closer

it is said

day after day

it is said

as the leaders scream

“no surrender”

victory will be theirs

when the hunger is sated.

 

More weapons

more bodies

more lives

in flames 

to feed

the insatiable hunger of war.

Lynn White was born in Sheffield in 1945 and now lives in north Wales. Her poetry 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. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at:
https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Counting

 

When can we count the dead in Gaza,

their dead are just a number,

a vague number, 

if that.

In Ukraine we know the numbers,

precise, not vague,

in Israel we know the numbers,

precise, not vague.

Soon we’ll know the names.

But no need to count the dead in this war

on women and their children

born or unborn.

 

How can we count the injured in Gaza.

No one knows the number,

no one  can count those numbers

when there are no hospitals left.

 

Now the starved and starving 

have joined them,

the bags of baby bones

the unaccounted numbers

of intentional famine

in Gaza.

​

​

 

A Class Act

 

Post war Britain

laid out

for you.

Straight streets,

curving crescents,

row upon row

planning perfection

public and private

space,

orderly amenities

everything

within a walk

all catered for

everyone housed.

 

And there was class,

working,

of course

and all were working.

 

Those were the days

 

of full employment

and garden estates

before 

climate change

before

twenty minute cities.

​

​

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Bringing On The Clowns

 

I always found them creepy

the circus clowns

I watched as a child.

They never made me laugh

or even smile.

My uncle ‘clowned around,’ they said 

and he was funny.

A boy in my class was often described

as ‘a bit of a clown’ 

and he was funny.

But the circus clowns

with the fake smiles and tears

painted on their made-up faces

strutting their stuff around the ring,

falling off ladders,

failing to juggle

or walk a tight rope,

throwing water

over each other

posing and posturing

in between antics,

they weren’t funny,

just scarily strange.

And now the clowns are free,

they’ve moved outside the Big Top

the whole world is their circus now.

‘Send in the clowns’ cried the audience

and they came on to the stage

but no one is laughing.

It’s no laughing matter.

triangle_small
spikes
bedroom tax
Sheriff Stars

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle
Disrupt and Upset

Militant Thistles

prickling the politics of "permanent austerity"

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