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.
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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.
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​
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.
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar
Militant Thistles