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You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face,
You're no mime.
But every March,
Millions
Dress in green,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get drunk, some must disgracefully:
Because that's what the Irish do, think they.
Is it tasteful to wear a yarmulke for Yom Kippur,
A burka on Eid al-Adha,
And join the parade down Fifth Avenue?
Not.
Sliante
Don't know why the world thinks the Irish are drunkards. I go to Ireland every year, and the only drunks I see are North Americans, whites and blacks, ****, straights and all others not mentioned.  Even the phrase "Paddy Wagon" is an ethnic slur.
Oct 3 · 115
Whistling Dixie
Whistle while at work,
Donald is a ****;
Giuliani strokes their egos
All the way to court.
Adapted from an old rhyme about the Axis leaders during WWII
Francie Lynch Sep 27
I have nothing against the person,
But the profession can be irksome.
You may get argumentative,
But that’s part of the dance:
To step on some toes.
So, I leave you to choose,
And add some of your own.
o Dentist
o Teacher (for the disenchanted/entitled)
o Oncologists
o Auto Mechanic
o Clerics
o Lawyers
o Funeral Persona
I'm on the list too. Don't get angry. Let me know what professions irk you. Perhaps the traffic cop that just wrote the ticket up as you arrive back...
"Sorry, but the electronic ticket is already registered at HQ."   Really!
Sep 24 · 240
Sixty-Five
Francie Lynch Sep 24
I'm here today,
Now sixty-five;
I'm a life-long learner,
That's how I thrive.
Happy Birthday to me.
Sep 20 · 262
Whites Only
Francie Lynch Sep 20
Only Albinos
Can be  mimes,
(Or Johnny or Edgar Winter)
For Hallowe'en.
As for trick or treating,
There's enough Al Jolson masks
Out there to ***** us all.
Someone once said, "A mime is a terrible thing to waste."  :)
Sep 19 · 192
Perhaps From Oregon
Francie Lynch Sep 19
We've numbers in distress;
We've villains and scoundrels
In need of redress;
Choose any one of one thousand quests -
We're in desperate need of a Hero.

No call for a cape or cowl,
Hidden rings or magic swords;
We need action,
Not placating words -
From a righteous Hero.

Greece or Rome won't be the origin,
There may well be one coming from Oregon;
At this juncture we'll take anyone -
A home grown or welcome Hero.

We'll have truth without hyperbole,
Not disdain, but hearing dignity;
One to rise up, reach out, lift us
From the swamp of vanity.

We don't need Deus ex machina,
Or anything supernatural;
A woman or man,
Natural or choice,
A sister or brother,
To call us home;
To hear a voice say,
You're never alone.
Sep 14 · 274
Flies In Your Face
Francie Lynch Sep 14
Its commensal, at best,
This house fly of a guest;
Who frequents your home,
Alits on a chair,
Rubbing its hands together.
It shows no regrets,
Feeding, slurping and buzzing,
With a self-made bequest.
I can tolerate a bar fly;
A barn fly, a sty fly;
But,
I've the guzzler bottle fly,
That plunders my fridge,
Swarms over my beer
Like a blood-thirsty midge.
He's a house fly,
And ignorant,
So fly paper won't do.
I need SWAT to shoo
This house fly adieu.
Do you have a house fly?
Sep 3 · 258
Love
Love is
As is is:
In the present tense.
Ergo,
Love is Love.
Sep 2 · 167
Leave Me On My Back
Over the decades,
We've worked it out.
No need for a Power of anyone.
If I go blind,
You'll be my sight.
And so on.
I will supply
What you lack;
And you promised,
Should I *****,
To leave me on my back.
Aug 28 · 285
I Preface All My Stories
Francie Lynch Aug 28
I believe love has an evil twin,
But I could be losing my mind.
There are petals on thistles,
And thorns on roses;
I can turn 360 or 180
And ride off in any direction.
Tales run like a loop in my brain,
Not recalling who's heard what,
I preface:
I've probably told you this before, but...
Is how any old story begins.
Deja Vu is my new life.
Every thought was once a poem
To be polished and revealed.
Today, they are intermittent.

I've been trolling old television series;
The Monkees were terrible then,
Terrible still;
The Three Stooges were best left in the memory vault;
Bonanza still has Ben wearing his beige vest;
Elizabeth Montgomery is still bewitching;
Jeannie is irritatingly attractive.
I must be leaking grey cells;
Rationality is creaking in my bone-head.
Aug 27 · 132
The Baboon Savant
Francie Lynch Aug 27
The baboon savant
Will rear and taunt
From high on his hair-swept hill;
He snatches bananas from the unsuspecting,
His reach has no appeal.

He relishes the sound
Of his own voice,
Screeching into the wind;
He sticks his fingers in his ears,
And when he plops down
His ruby-red ****,
His thumb's nestled up his rear.
Aug 23 · 635
LGBTQ Poem (1W)
Francie Lynch Aug 23
I never knew him to do wrong.
He left me here last Saturday week;
I never saw him again.
A terrible shock.
God was cruel to me.
Words cannot express... my heart is torn.
I have the others.
God spare them to me.
He was the loveliest of all.

My heart breaks day in and day out;
I am just now living for when...

He took a pain,
In the head;
He went to the hospital.
We don't know
What happened -
They didn't,
Until they got the blood test back,
From Dublin.

The next day the baby was born.
At twelve o'clock  there was a crowd,
Neighbours waiting on the news.

They did all in their power.

He was dying.
Words that will ring in my ears...

It was the saddest... most respected
Funeral,
The teachers and children formed
A Guard;
A hundred met him at the Creamery Cross;
Carried the little coffin up the steps
And into the chapel.
Six school pals carried him,
From the chapel,
And left him to rest.

He'll never go off this earth
Without first coming to see me
(Mary, at two o'clock in the morning he came up the hall,
And rapped on the room door
)
I do hope and pray
I'm not keeping him
From Heaven.

I wanted to write you to give you a surprise...
It was little thought it would be this sad news.

The baby... is the image of him.

My heart is torn.
I  could be washed in tears.
This is called *Found Poetry*.  I came across a letter my mother wrote in 1953, just days after the death of her first born son, Michael. My brother, Gerald, was born at the same time, so my mother never saw her son alive again. I hope I did justice to her grief and anguish.
Aug 16 · 1.2k
Memory Glands
Francie Lynch Aug 16
When she said, Don't talk to me,
She lost some of her voice.
Then I heard, Don't look for me,
She gave no other choice.
Don't touch, I have no feelings,
You make my skin crawl,
Don't expect a pick up,
If you pick up to call
.

But I still smell her everywhere:
The shampoo used on her hair;
The bedsheets where we lay bare;
The fragrance of her festive tree;
Her aromatic herbal teas;
The lilies she could grow in sand,
Are sensational in my memory glands.
RIP
Aug 13 · 579
Same Rules Apply
Francie Lynch Aug 13
What's ours yesterday,
Is gone today;
What's here today,
Will be gone tomorrow.
That how it goes
For joy and sorrow.
Balanced on a teeter-totter,
These highs and lows
Of our see-saw charter.
Aug 3 · 688
Hot Dog Days of Summer
The wind chimes are melting,
The ponds are sweltering,
The roads run like black tea;
The flags aren't waving,
Sheets aren't sailing,
The grass looks like gold wheat.
The beaches have more bodies
Than Juno did in June;
The dogs aren't barking,
But the kids are laughing,
Their joy's not lost on me.

I should go to the banks
Of the St. Clair River,
Where the current cools
Beneath the bridges;
Read the names on the Huron freighters
Carrying coal and oil;
They sell tasty dogs and greasy fries,
The  northern breeze there never dies.

I should hover like a dragonfly,
Applaud the divers hot ******* chances,
In the dog days of their youth.
Jul 27 · 487
Forever and Ever
Francie Lynch Jul 27
Forever isn't really long,
We call it Love in a two minute song.
I've witnessed it in my cat's jaws,
Saw a dove impaled on eagle's claws.
It's a moment in grasslands and water,
A flash of colour, then the slaughter.
It's a nanosecond at conception,
It's a blitzgried in insurrection.
It has no width, length or depth,
It continues the second of our last breath.
Francie Lynch Jul 26
You can be a boulder,
Unmoveable, hard, stoic;
But every stone is permeable,
And the water gets in
To make the rock sand...
Soft, malleable,
With indistinguishable grains.

I know others who swim
Against adversity to spawn in the current.
They believe destination is destiny;
Focussed, driven with tunnel vision.

Some face adversity like a roller-coaster.
When things are going north, all is good;
But they throw up their arms and scream
When going south.

I will catch the west wind,
Change course if necessary,
Tack across the white caps of roiling waters.
I will steer the rudder towards my East.
Jul 17 · 310
Two Old Lads
Francie Lynch Jul 17
Two lads, I'd say, of thirteen, just passed;
One in barefoot with a backpack;
One in shorts, shoes and black socks,
Pulled up over bloated calves.
One athletic, lean and gearing;
One more leaning towards academia.
Both waiting to enter high school.

They met in JK.
They slept on their towels, in their tents,
At each other's house on weekends.
They served together, lived as one;
Their mothers loved them as sons.
That's how close they'd become.
Their worlds will change,
Once this season's done.

One will be the talk of his circle,
The other, the talk of his;
But there's a Venn where the rings entwined
Before they turned thirteen.
Their hybrid youth,
Their cloned friendship,
Memories already determined.

Around fires and bells,
Or a covered porch on a rain - washed day;
They'll dig up some old moments
Of the other when they were young.
Buried treasures for days of leisure,
Apart, yet part of their sum.
JK: Junior Kindergarten
Francie Lynch Jul 16
We are human beings.
(most of the time)
Being means to exist.
(all of the time)
So, how can a human being
Be dead?
Be that, as it may.
Tip of the cap to Sartre for title.
Jun 30 · 468
Lace The Blades
Francie Lynch Jun 30
A posthumous letter came today:
My Dear Brother Fran;
I assume it began;
Your Loving Brother Sean.
It ends.
I'll never read those lines;
I know what's down between his lines;
His words and thoughts would break me.
His ink would stain my hands;
Leached through lines with real tears,
Dropping like time's sands.

He'd wax on our youthful days,
Wane on years we let slip past;
I don't need to read the words,
You know all things must pass.

I'll not sit to read his letter.

I'll recall how we were before,
When he was six and I was four,
Skating on the basement floor,
Or sliding down the new clothes line,
As pennants waving in the wind.

He taught me much of what he knew,
Just doing what big brothers do.
And always had my back.

I don't recall, but I'm pretty sure
We had our dumb-*** quarrels;
But I remember hitting *****,
Kicking, catching, throwing curves,
Rackets, sticks, clubs and bats,
Our cruel crew cuts beneath our hats.

He raised my game in everything;
Said I could do anything.
I'll remember his glance in the mirror
Going out the door.

If I ever read that letter,
I surely would regret forever,
Miss saying, I Love You too.

No, I'll never need to read his letter,
To remember Sean in his prime;
To recall the days when we two shined.

Lace the blades, Sean.
I'll be fine.
Painful times.
Sean died today
Jun 26 · 233
Official Start of Summer
Francie Lynch Jun 26
Today is the day
Before the school year ends;
No matter what the calendar says,
Whether you're off to work,
Or if you shave,
Tomorrow, recall, is Summer's first day.
No more classes, no more books, no more teacher's ***** looks. :)
Jun 20 · 166
Pissing Off
Francie Lynch Jun 20
I'm waiting to hear my brother's at peace,
I've waited this way before.
Eucheria was a sister of mine,
Marlene, Jimmy and now one more.
I walked out to ******* my deck.
To say **** this,
To scream once more.
Jun 10 · 607
Coming Out: Day One
Francie Lynch Jun 10
He knows it is poison, yet indulges.
It's the one way he's learned to live through it.
And so stays dry. It's sobering.
For months and months and months,
It's a life he enjoys.
Then comes the itch, so the plan is engaged.
Leave and become a stranger,
A pub-fly in Ireland.
And when he returns, Day One is at hand.
The cleansing is on.
For three days he digs, buries himself
In the dark.
Wretching and heaving til bruised.
Step by step by step...
A red face lights the sink basin,
Water, not tears fill his eyes.
By eight tonight Day Two begins.
But that's still hours away.
Back to the sink.
When  Day Three dawns,
He rises and walks out.
Step by step by step...
May 19 · 487
20/20 (10W)
Francie Lynch May 19
Foresight gives us 20/20.
Hindsight prepared us.
Don't get blind-sided.
May 15 · 684
When Someone Dies
Francie Lynch May 15
When someone dies,
(Someone you know)
Is that one less annoyance,
A necessary replacement for a foursome,
A body pillow,
A pillow confidant,
A whining Bestie,
A conversational equal.
Is it someone you'd like to meet again, wherever,
Or someone you fear to meet again
(Knowing all is now known).
Was it an old school chum you recognize in a faded picture,
A near/far relative,
A faint acquaintance (that's sad...).
I read the obituaries daily,
Recognize many, but feel little.
But someone's someone passed this way,
And sometimes someone was mine,
Today.
A theme I can't seem to be rid of.
May 13 · 562
Ghost Stories
Francie Lynch May 13
Mammy had a cauldron of stories,
And Mammy never lied;
Strange tales about the living,
Still touched by those who've died.

She spoke of a friend who read the leafs:
When babies died, she heard banshees;
She foresaw the cornice collapse,
Saved me when I was three.
She whispered these tales
Through pressed lips,
Would pause to sip her tea.

Seers told her of her one-legged mother
Standing guard at the foot of her bed,
Long after she was dead.

One prophet spoke of an open door,
A one-way trip to a foreign shore,
And agonies she'd bend to endure.

For me, these stories rang so true,
For mothers wouldn't lie to you;
Yet Father said she was a sinner,
Spinning yarns against God's will.
That's not the story in Bethany,
Or the fairy homes beneath the hills.

Are there ghosts under our beds,
In the closets in our heads;
Hovering over marked graveyards,
Abandoned houses and Tarot Cards?

When the unknown night tore at me,
I'd been told I could pray
To the Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Now they're the ones I fear the most,
They're the stories she often chose.
And some would say, for this I'll roast.
Any good ghost stories out there?
Mammy: An Irish mother.
Father: the man in the collar.
May 6 · 436
Don't Get It
My brother did.
I haven't.
Others have, going back.
Forward, I will;
But today isn't the day
For theologizing on the mysterious,
Unknown will.
I won't squander away,
Vicariously,
Beneath  indiscriminate winds.
I don't get it.
If you haven't read Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Ilyich" I recommend it.
Apr 28 · 908
Hues and Cries
Francie Lynch Apr 28
Blue Conservatives...
          well, they've saddened us;
Red Liberals...
          have angered us;
Green Democrats...
          I'm inspired.
Apr 18 · 271
Humpty Trumpy
Francie Lynch Apr 18
Humpty Trumpy promised the wall,
Humpty Trumpy's in a free fall:
His base reactions
To blackened redactions,
Gave Trumpy just cause
For more infractions.
I'm aware of two certainties;
Certainly taxes isn't either one.
Cogito Ergo Sum. Just one more. :)
Apr 1 · 1.3k
Sunset Clause
I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.
I found a hole in my bucket list
Like an hourglass
My dream are slipping,
Dripping on my bare floor.

I should be really ******
Because I'll miss
Entering through unknown doors.

I haven't time to fix the hole,
The grains are moving,
And Mammy's calling her babes home.

My favourite just hit the ground,
Like a blood stain,
Or a sewer vein,
It  makes not a sound.

Two floats in the air,
Three's on the lip,
Four swirls towards the hole,
The remaining dreams
Spin in an eddy,
The final drop is perched and ready.

Eliza's fix would surely falter,
My bucket list can't hold water.
Mar 27 · 257
Flush Twice
Francie Lynch Mar 27
Are you ever so full of it
That you need to flush
Halfway through a dump?
That's where we are with Trump.
Two more years of BS.
Mar 22 · 300
Please, Don't Go Yet
Francie Lynch Mar 22
There's a darkness tempting you,
I stood still, thinking why
You'd be gone so soon.
I collected my things, my cap and mac,
And you said, Don't go just yet.

Go where?

You slapped your ruby gloves
Against your outstretched palm;
You turned that look of regret;
Then was heard what we knew was absurd:
Please, don't go just yet.
Francie Lynch Mar 12
We have seen the magic bullet
Cure all disease.
Cows won't go extinct.
Lush, green pastures run to the waters' edges.
Twisted ankles in gopher holes are passe.
Trees are well-placed for shade beneath a relentless sky.
The lands are full, plush and crowded
With work-a-day leather. Wool is everywhere.
The barren creeks are clear of poison.
The grunts and runts of the stead
Blissfully graze, munching towards our tables.
Brown eggs thrive in computerized out buildings.
We are idle. No wars, disease or poverty.
It is either life or death by choice.
We implant, are implanted, removeable,
And sustainable as any Victorian.
In place of the Immaculate Heart,
I hang a picture of my old pet, Sophie,
Walking on a balance beam,
With a strange black V high in the sky.
And with all this, we grow fat.
870 species go extinct each year. That would wipe out everything in 10 000 years.
Mar 11 · 473
The Leprechauns' Ball
Francie Lynch Mar 11
On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before you see 'em they're surely gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed.

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.
Repost: Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone.
Mar 4 · 538
Riddle of the POTUS
Why did the vet
Disregard the elephant
In the House?
REWSNA: EREHT SAW ON NIARB YTIVITCA.
vet: noun form of vetting
Feb 27 · 467
For the Sphynx
Francie Lynch Feb 27
I don't recall year one of life,
But I'm here now,
So they got it right.
Yet I remember being one,
On a mattress, in the sun,
The smell of bacon and farm odors,
Were part of me as I grew older.

But I never asked to grow up.

I walked first steps
In my father's shoes,
Blathered blissfully when I was two.

By the time I turned three,
I was sure youth suited me.

I could reach the outside door,
When I grew to the age of four.
Now the world's mine to explore.

But I never asked to grow older.

Then by five I tried to hide
From the travails of an older child;
The digging, weeding, painting, work:
My escape to school was my re-birth.

But I never asked to grow older.

I didn't ask to turn six,
Seven, eight, nine or ten;
I shuddered at our  portends,
I didn't like how my world ends,
I finished fishing with Amens.

But I never asked to grow older.

I made twenty years ago,
When decades moved ever so slow;
Thirty came, forty gone,
And fifty didn't last that long.

But I never asked to grow older.

Since I must,
Please remember,
Dip my soother in Irish whiskey,
Include me if you solve the mystery,
And reference me and my life's history.
Feb 20 · 7.1k
Clitoris
Francie Lynch Feb 20
There, I wrote it. Above.
I simply believe it needs to be in print... out there, so to speak,
And perhaps a few hundred may read, *******,
And, hysterically, or in solace,
Make use of it;
Openly, lingusly or fingeratively,
As we do *****, ******, and ******* (tsk-tsk).
Whether you agree or not, please yourself.
Inspired by a 3-D model being used to teach French children *** ed., and the horrors of FGM.
Feb 19 · 2.1k
It's True
Francie Lynch Feb 19
He promised happiness, but we got strife.
Eternal paradise, but we got life.
He promised the chosen, but they got fire.
He promised redemption, but he's a liar.
Francie Lynch Feb 14
Roses are red,
My carnations are too...
The next two lines are your creation. Write away.) Somewhat sarcastic.
Feb 14 · 714
Palimpsest
Francie Lynch Feb 14
You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.
Feb 8 · 657
Congressional Proverbs
…out of the mouths of Babes...

Everything comes to those who wait.
Even a worm will turn.
If wealth is lost, nothing is lost. If health is lost, something is lost.
     If character is lost, all is lost.
If knowledge is power, how did he become POTUS?
Love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.
Tell me who your friends are, and I'll tell you who you are.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
There is no shame in not knowing; the shame is in not finding out.
A penny for his thoughts is price fixing.
As you make your bed, so must you lie in it. Don't wash your *****
     sheets in public.
Empty vessels make the most noise.
Every man has his price.
People who live in glass houses should keep their pants up.
Shrouds have no pockets.
The Devil looks after his own.
To err is human, to forgive... Meh!
What goes up must come down.
You are what you eat (hambuglers?)
Let the punishment fit the crime.
It is better to smarter than you appear, than to appear smarter
     than you are.
If you lie down with the dogs, you get up with the fleas.
Money earned by deceit, goes by deceit.
Open confession is good for the soul.
Patience is a virtue.
Behind every great man, there is a woman being paid off.
Ask my companions if I be a thief.
All roads lead to imprisonment.
If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well.
The big apple is rotten to the Corps (a soldier's lament)
A journey of a lifetime begins with a subpoena.
The chain of command is only as strong as its weakest ****.
He who pays the ******, rents the room.
It takes a hundred lies to cover one lie.
It's hard to juggle sand.
**** the chicken to scare the monkey.
Like father, like son.
No man can serve two masters.
One may as well be hanged for sheep as well as lamb.
Nothing is certain but death and Tax Returns.
No rest for the wicked.
Russians make strange bedfellows.
Give a man enough tie and he'll hang himself.
Fences make bad politics.
Little things please little minds.
Fish always stink from the head downwards.
From the sublime to the ridiculous is only two questions:
     What did you know? When did you know it?
The truth will out.
The longest day must have an end.
Pride comes before the fall (so do a lot of other deadly sins)
Put your money where my mouth is (S.D.)

     Red tie at night. Donny's delight.
     Red tie at morning. Stormy gives warning.

Seek and ye shall find.
Speak as you find.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
Please feel free to add.
Feb 5 · 2.4k
Androgyny
S/He/It
SHeIt
Sheit
****
It happens.
The name Francie works well with this poem.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too.
Everybody loves the things they’ll say and do;
Their eyes smile when they see you coming,
You smile back because they’re so loving.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Brigid likes to crawl along the wall now that she can stand,
Ophelia does the same but the girls have to use their hands;
It won’t be long now until they’re walking,
Wait another month and they won’t stop talking.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too
The girls surely love you two.

They don’t know how to say they're in love with you,
But that's okay you can see that its plainly true;
They light up when they see you coming,
The arms start flailing and their legs start pumping.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Dreaming of your loves in the comfort they’re in love with you,
Dreaming of your loves in the comfort that you love them too.
Dreaming of my loves in the comfort I'm in love with you.
Sung to the tune of Gary Lewis and the Playboys hit: "Everybody Loves a Clown."
Gary Lewis is the son of one of America's best-loved clowns, comedians, actor and philanthropist, Jerry Lewis.
How will we progress today?

Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?

Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?

Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?

Will we defy authority with a righteous tone,
Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone?

Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu,
Or show a distention as millions today do?

Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash?

Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage?

Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching the hourglass?

Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore?

Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool?

Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?

Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station in life gives you right?

Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?

Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,
Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?

Our words can't bind all our wounds,
Few are born with silver spoons,
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing group flight,
And it can't come too soon.
And I never even mentioned diseases.
Jan 30 · 1.6k
Three Pictures
Francie Lynch Jan 30
That's me in the picture,
A collage of brothers and sisters;
I'm held high in my Mammy's arms,
Days before leaving Ireland.

Six months later, in our new home,
On a couch in our front room,
We pose again.
(See the console in our romper room?
It's testament to our boom and boons)

There's thousands of miles between those shoots,
And four million loved ones left behind
In a life and land we won't have again.
(That's the way life was back then)
No Face Time, #MeTime,
Sometimes a landline,
But always a letter in a card at the right time.

Brothers and sisters are missing.
In neglected churchyards,
And yet my mother smiles,
All the while.

Sixty years on, we pose again,
Sharing four hundred years here,
With seven hundred left behind:
Years of Famine and Hedge Schools,
Foreign invasions and Imperial Rule.

We stand *****, shoulders touching,
Between them loved ones missing;
Gone before the shutter opened,
A partial story as pictures go.

We're Irish proud,
Some of Canada's best;
An Irish-Canadian
When laid to rest.
Brothers and sisters died before we left Ireland, and brothers and sisters died after we arrived in Canada. But the six sibs that left Ireland are still alive and well.
Edit and re-post.
Jan 28 · 702
What Matters
Francie Lynch Jan 28
If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.
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