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 Mar 6 Francie Lynch
Bardo
Back in the bad old days of my youth
When I found myself isolated and alone, unemployed... friendless
Had nothing to look forward to
And a body full of pains
I was sitting out in a back shed one day... despairing
How had things come to this I asked myself
And what could I do?
My life had really gone off the rails...
Now I had these two young pet cats 😺
They were my best friends and confidantes
While I'm sitting there... busy despairing
One of the cats comes in and jumps up onto my thigh and quietly just crouches down there
And closes his eyes
It's like he's saying "I'm with you in whatever you're going through, you're very important to me"
It interrupts all my despairing, I smile and think it's rather cute
And then... then the other cat appears, he comes in and he does the exact same thing
He jumps up onto my other thigh and crouches down there and closes his eyes
It's like they were saying "You belong to us, you're our best friend, we don't like to see you unhappy, we're here for you, we're with you in this"
I had to smile, even laugh to myself
I thought it was like God was sending me these animals to cheer me up
To tell me not to give up
That there was still hope in this world/ this life.

The two cats were tomcats
When one of them grew older he went wandering looking for a female probably (wasn't neutered)
He got killed on the road, knocked down
The other developed some kind of mange and would go around crying
In those days people were poor, they didn't spend money on animals
My Dad eventually got sick looking at him and hearing him cry
He threw him in a bag one day and doused him with water
Put some sticks and stones in it and threw him in the ditch (it was cold Winter time)
For the next couple of days and nights you could hear the poor animal crying
Until at last, there was silence
(It was like that scene from the Silence of the Lambs movie
When the young FBI agent recalls her childhood memory of hearing the screams of the lambs).

They were there for me but me, I wasn't there for them.
True story from the 1980's.  A sequel to the 'End of Innocence' poem.
It's getting on to 4, the sun has not shown itself
all day, the snow is melting, some bare spots of
grass appearing here and there, it's 34 degrees.
The little piles of bird seed I put out at noon on
the walkways have all but disappeared, gangs
of birds have mostly consumed it all, pretty little
ground feeders, of one kind or another. My inside
fat cat has had his nose pressed to the window all
day observing them with wide eyed interest and
quivering jaw, maybe licking his predatory lips.
Even though he has never eaten anything that did
not come out of a bag or can.

I too have enjoyed watching them busily hopping
around feasting, I always wonder where they go
when they disappear. Maybe just passing through
headed south for warmer pastures? Or are they year
round locals? Do they have any idea who put out
the feast, and how does the word get spread, do
they have scouts or lookouts, or some kind of aerial
bird only telegraph system.

At least the freezing weather kept our Barn Cats all
snugged up and off the street, at one point I quick
counted between 40 to 50 winged visiting diners
out there. The cats never even knew they were here.

Watching them feed was almost as much of a treat
for me as it was for them. It made me feel useful,
and that does not happen very often these days.
When we get old it is these little things that matter
and sustain us.
More snow, rain and cold forecast into next week.
I may have to brave the icy roads into town for more
seeds for my little winged friends.
I’m a Bengali in sombrero
An Indian from Kolkata
I live at a stone’s throw
From where flows the Ganga.

I speak in Bengalee
For me the sweetest language
Like the Ganga flows freely
Has Sanskrit as lineage.

Rice is my staple food
So are dal and fish
A cup of tea is too good
With two biscuits on a dish.

Around me spreads green countryside
Where grows all the foodgrain
Rivers flow wild and wide
Their banks home joy and pain.

I was born and reared in this riparian land
Where soil is tilled in peasants’ sweat
Sparkles in moon the Bay’s white sand
Weaving dreams for many a poet!
envy
is a strange emotion
you get caught up in the motion,
thoughts that give you the strong notion
others are more blessed than you
in what they have and what they do
and so jealousy ensues.

I'm an amateur and I know it
I have no background as a poet
I have no sheepskin. No degree.
No tenures. University.
I'm just here to simply state
I don't rank there with the greats.

When I see the stats of other folks
I don't poke fun and make rude jokes.
Yes. My heart, it sometimes breaks
Do I have the art it takes?
It sometimes makes me sad and blue
I would like to be like you...
but honesty is my ego's salve
it takes time I do not have
I'm happy with the things I've done
I am here to have some fun!
I'm also here to be inspired
Your poetry makes my level higher!

This goes out to loving peers...
thank you all for being here!


♡ Catherine
I
Chess in the
afternoon sun.
Jazz floats over
the silky couch.
Backs ache, while
hearts break.
Bishop takes knight,
and France falls again.

The masks are all
broken under the
cerulean blue skies,
while she eats berries,
and smiles in her
pink polka dot dress.
The pawns are all smug,
and Queenie's on the rag.
Italy surrenders, and from
the grave, Charlie Parker
still hammers home
those soft amber notes.
I can smell her heat, and
I think they play
jazz in hell.
Here is a link to my brand new youtube video from my book, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-j1YkEdWQs
i've come to find
i have no life
with broom in hand
work all the time
day and night
don't seem right
the cards i play
this working life

i've come to find
i do hard time
this nightly dirge
this daily grind
wish i could hide
from the bite
worse than a curse
this working life
Promise justice
Into dust
Is this
Fortune foretold
Determined,
Terminated,
Propagated
Stories all
Unfold
From Pravda’s
Driving Mazdas
Writing in
Their power
People
In a language spoken
Woke enough
To scheme a lesser evil
 Feb 26 Francie Lynch
B
A shiver of uncertainty
prickling stars on the corners of my frame.
Weaving through speach, playful and playing
what is this awful game?
Deep in the chasm, pain in my belly
never satisfied, never done
disrobe myself and begin once more
to never find myself ready
nothing ever won.
And I can sharpen my wit
day by day
whittle it to a blade
practice what I say.
It's nothing impressive
next to the truth
I'm completely and compulsively obsessive
with the way that you move.
In fact, I am entranced
by every little thing that you do
embarrassingly strong, this yearning notion.
I cannot break through.
a crush that slowly crushes you too
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