We are misrepresented
White, male Caucasians,
Who don't indulge
In bigotry.

Poor "Us."

A blank verse worked,
A page with empty lines,
Not a word was written,
Precocious or sublime.

     I think I can go deeper,
     No title, lines or words,
     Just a blank white paper
     To ponder and observe.
     Smaller than a quark,
     Just think and it will work.
     Even greater than the singularity
     That banged our universe.
     Something was there,
     But nothing's here.
     This is a nothing verse.

It teaches nothing's worse
Than worthless words
That have no meaning,
No emotion, zero girth.

But you can make an ode of it,
A sonnet, or Rondeau,
Choose to please your fancy,
But please don't choose Haiku.

A few readers asked if I could do a sequel to "The Invisible Poem."

I have two brains inside my head,
Sharing thoughts in synoptic threads;
Sifting what's been heard or read;
Random, weird, or rational doubts,
They get crowded, some fall out.

Like mustard seeds some fall near stones,
And wither away before full grown;
Un-liked, un-loved, barely a hit,
Not to pass our reader's lips.

       Have I sown more bullshit?

Some scatter near the thorny bush,
The root is strong, but growth gets crushed;
It seems I can't discriminate
What readers like and what they hate.

       I need re-evaluate: Am I writing for writing's sake?

Some thoughts find richness firmly grounded,
The how and why leaves me confounded;
But the ideas blossom, some are priceless,
A palate treat with figurative spices.

       Now, this is more to my reader's liking.

Francie Lynch Jan 12

I was an assassin,
With magnifying glass and firecrackers,
Bringing Sodom's destruction down on pismires.
BB's left feathers fluttering on powerlines;
Slingshots made Swiss cheese of tree nests.
It's the Wild West outside the urban boundary
Where the .22 slew coyotes and red-tailed foxes.
Old dogs and tired cats were destroyed.
And just now, when the January thaw is here,
I trapped a housefly between my windows,
Opened to draw air.
It will die of starvation in a merciless frenzy.
"Murder," cried the old king.
"Most foul."

King Hamlet.
No animals were hurt in the making of this poem.
Francie Lynch Jan 11

In the womb he was connected
With a thousand years of family
Cursing through the tether
Of an unfortunate mother.
Then culled from the herd
In a distant cow town
For permanent loan.
With the pretext, the equivocation:

                 He'll have a better life.

When someone other deems to tell him,
He'll cry, he'll hide,
Reject, accept,
It's his need for human affection.

He can't forget what didn't happen,
A past that wasn't shared;
Of stories reaching back through years.
The anecdotes on celebrations,
The exaltations, deprivations,
Tales shared like bread
By lost generations.

All his life he's felt the itch
To scratch his DNA.

One day, the knock is heard,
Bells may ring,
There, standing straight on the stoop,
A refracted image of oneself,
Trans-parent cord through missing years.

Aye, there will be tears.

          (You'll explain your teenage fears,
           Your family's lack of understanding;
           The time when wanton women
           Had babies out of wedlock)

He listens to the reasons,
Stirred in the heaping crock.

He learned of love,
Was schooled with affection,
He knows he wasn't known to you,
That he was left
For personal sake.

He crosses fingers,
Like plated scissors,
To snip the cord he's hung on;
To sever the love,
You never delivered,
To a son
You never knew.

Francie Lynch Jan 10

Put down your pens and pencils,

You've been on that swing long enough.

Congratulations. You did the crime, now...

Your five minute egg is ready.

The ebb and flow of tides is discriminate.

Your light turned green.

... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...Blast Off.

... to conclude our meeting...

Just one more contraction...

My worthy opponent considers...

Find the escape door in this room before
Time's Up.

Be reassured. Be content. Good things take time, and don't wait
for them to happen.

But if Time isn't Matter,
Should it.

I support Me Too and Time's Up initiatives.

I went out for some air
As Ophelia's winds ripped Cavan
With whips and cracks,
Swaying wires til they met like Gothic lips
Whistling a lilting melody
In a wave winding along the Carrick Road.
They wailed as banshees,
Warning men with crosses,
Women in seclusion,
Screeching in their ears,
The fairies left their hillocks,
The cairns are empty vaults;

Ophelia drowned out prayers that night,
And slipped for Scotland's shore.

Hurricane Ophelia, Oct. 2017.
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