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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes.

In Tune

It is still the music of my youth that sings to me. 
Inside my head if I want it to.
It became part of my time, part of my song. 
Subversive music, coming from the streets.
Out of tune with the surround sound monotone
 and undermining it with a discordant challenge.

Harmony and discord, the songs of peace and love
sitting side by side with war and revolution, then as now. 
They still speak to me, still sing in tune,
the lyrical passion of their words, 
the movement music of the songs 
has crossed my time and space and become
melodies of movement which still break my boundaries
and join me back together.
Moving rhythms which still excite me, still cross cultures, 
still annihilate my time and space with their poetry.

Words also dance for me, moving patterns on a page.
They have their own music, their own rhythms to dance to, 
their own poetry and lyricism, even if not set to music.
Their inspiration is also wrapped in emotions and melodies
which have few boundaries and so are both feared and celebrated.
Are timeless and placeless when in tune with changing times,
which can be any time at all.

Wanderers

All those lost people wandering the streets,
perambulating among the purposeful passers by.
Loose souls, dreaming products
waiting to be fixed in frames, 
or pencilled in, 
placed on a page, or stage,
stabilised, 
finished by my hand.
Finished off.
They are the products of my day or night dreams.
They don’t draw glances from the others
even though they are a little strange.
Even though, they are not quite right.
Eccentric beings who don’t quite belong
here 
wandering,
perhaps falling,
tumbling, 
waving their arms,
or wings.
And the others pass by
purposefully, 
oblivious.

Sometimes though, 
they may inhabit the others, 
briefly take over the passers by, 
the purposeful ones

First published in Literary Yard, January 2017