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 Mar 20
Francie Lynch
This world is moving fast.
One thousand miles per hour.
Quicker around the sun.
Faster around the galaxy,
And fastest into the universe.
No contraction. Just expansion.
We agree, it's infinite in time and space.
Is there a nucleus for BOOM?
Does time go in only one lateral direction?
Was there more than one BANG for the buck?
More than one universe?
Creation isn't an asterick,
Exploding in all directions,
Like the rays of a sun.
Time may have no beginning, no end.
But stories need a beginning, middle and end.
My story does.
The universe doesn't. No story.
Not without a start and an end.
Just a middle, with crises, conflicts and looming decisions.
This is the illusion.
No chronological order or raison d'etre means no story... no us.
 Feb 21
Francie Lynch
My words are hard to handle;
They shift and shape in time.
It's  cool to be rad,
To chill and veg sublime.

Some just reach and grab the crotch,
And twerk while in their ******;
Majorettes smile in knee high boots,
Flirting with the lenses.

Some other words come easily;
The ones used every day.
Texting's being phased out
With a smiling yellow face.

I have fewer words today;
This makes life hard for me;
The many times I write Love
Is nearing Eternity.

Yet isn't this all I need-
That one Eternal chord;
Love is love forever,
Never ending as the Word.
And what is "The Word"?
 Feb 14
Francie Lynch
There was once a time of quietude.
If I said something;
Showed you something,
Or did something; and,
If it was warm and loving,
Interesting or whimsial,
Controversial or agreeable,
You might nod, shake your head,
Sigh,
Perhaps gesture -
Yes or No or Maybe.

I'm reading.
There's too  much noise.
Some friends, many strangers,
Laughing... loudly...
Out loud;
Smiling, hugging, liking, Wowing, loving, tsking. crying...
So much emotion.
I can hear them.

Not long ago,
But mostly gone,
Like silent films
It was quiet.
LOL WOW *** :)
In between the sal trees
glistens the river in October light
inviting in the rustling of leaves
to kiss her gently breaking ripples.

She hastes down the rocky *****
impatient as the river gets close
giggling in the dream when her toes
embrace the chill of the late autumn.

The catkins on the other side
swayed vigorously to be with her
spreading with the wind their pollens
in a mad desire to touch her skin.

This October morn she was carefree
floating amid hijal, fig and velvet apple trees
with winds from the river on her sail.

I only watched the fairytale.
Hatibari by Subarnarekha, October 2, 2023, 7 am
 Feb 5
Francie Lynch
A long unopened folder
Fell from a shelf,
Spewing unfinished poems
Across the room
Like shards of colored glass,
Edged as sharp as razor wire.
We know those fragments;
And how deep they can cut.
They speak of life and death,
Love and leaving,
Good, evil, and Roads.
I may arrange them
In a stained glass mosaic;
Not much symmetry,
But piecemealed,
Telling of my Inquisition.
Winchester Cathedral: The stained glass windows there are a mosaic of shattered glass. Cromwell threw the bones of ancient Kings through the windows, but the people collected the shards and piecemealed them back together, but there is no distinguishable pictures, just a mosaic of colored glass.
 Feb 5
Mohd Arshad
Reading is a long walk in the garden of kashmir when it is full of blossoms!
 Feb 5
Mohd Arshad
Reading is polishing a rusted mind.

Reading is an adventurous journey.

Reading is a memorable confab because all words speak to me.

Going into a mind is like entering a holy place and reading scriptures there.
 Jan 24
Francie Lynch
I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron, or that poser, Yeats.
Each and every one you see,
Lifted their best themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's made me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're  now just dust and bones,
They still don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown, like,
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I thought that up before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poetically clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare
.
Robbie Burns Day 2024
 Jan 17
Francie Lynch
I made my Dr.'s appt on time... early... as normal.
And waited one hour. But that's okay.
He takes his time, and will also do so with me.
I'm called in.
I sit, and wait another fifteen minutes. But that's okay.
He arrives. He's older. In fact why hasn't he retired.
But, I'm pleased he hasn't.
So, he begins, as he brings my chart onto his medical screen,
What brings you here today?
I'm concerned about my health. I have a family history that worries me.
Oh!, he sounds. What is it in particular that worries you?
Death, I answered. My family... (and the litany ensued)
Death! I heard. Your chart doesn't have any serious health issues to red flag you, he consoled.
True, I said. But look at my family history. It goes back generations, in Ireland and now in Canada. Both through my maternal and paternal sides. Uncles, Aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters...  died.  All of them. Is it any wonder. I have a family history of near and distant relatives dying. It's chronic, it's acute. Wars, disease, accidents, suicide. You name it. They've died from it, and I probably will too.
A textbook case, he said. Nurse, next.
 Jan 13
Francie Lynch
They come on like small shocks,
Like faulty neon lights,
Gauche in purple, and bright.
Memory. Blinking OFFf and ON.
I follow them like the swimmer,
Thinking to rest on the lake buoy,
But finding it too slippery;
Not panicking, but worried,
Then turning.

Stuff and things get sold or razed,
Re-zoned or re-engineered.

I can't walk those streets and places,
Not in life or memory.
I'm better off
Staying out of the lake.
And under the neon light'

Turn up my colar to the cold and damp.

I assume the alleyway is there,
Where we left it;
And the five towering pines,
Like young brothers,
Slap branches at one another,
And grow in the winds.
Title: A bit like ".... my old friend..." from the song mentioned next.
Italics. Line from Sound of Silence.
You can't see love
nor it's reflection
only the results

You can't see hate
nor it's origination
only the results

You can't see God
nor his glorification
only the results
 Jan 4
Francie Lynch
Q
He could be you;
Then again,
So might she,
Be you,
Should you be
A S/He.
Q.
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