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Dec 2016 · 387
Now, That You're Gone
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
When you're gone,
Who'll I compare
To the setting sun,
To it's reluctant rays
When you're gone?
Don't think I don't compare,
But won't, now,
That you're gone.
Tip of the cap to L. Cohen.
Dec 2016 · 355
Where I Oughtn't Be
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
I'm close to where
I ought to be,
And far from
Where I'm from.
You don't have
To take my word,
Just ask anyone.

I've sought the plea,
Been up the tree,
Considered the Dane's To be...,
I've fought the weary,
Been wrought with envy,
I've sipped on lemon iced-tea.
I've finished much along the way
To where I oughtn't be.

In conclusion, I've no delusion,
I'll sing Let It Be.
I'm not outdone,
By anyone,
But what will be,
Will be.
Dec 2016 · 1.1k
Ladders
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
Why do you put up with a social climber
With two rungs left
Before his feet touch the earth?
Is it pity, empathy or indifference?

Choices are often ultimatums;
Free will is frequently channelled;
Chaos and dominos infiltrate like moles;
Serendipity and chance prevail.
A few rungs were damaged,
And the playing field is never level.


Why do you put up with one so down?

Ladders, she says, extend both ways,
The angles depend on aspirations.
Going up varies,
Coming down, inevitable.


She concludes with:
*The law of gravity is grave.
That's how.
Dec 2016 · 579
My Oleander (10W)
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
So pleasing,
Frangrant,
Approachable,
Even touchable,
But every cell,
Destructable.
Appearances are so unreliable.
Dec 2016 · 776
Skinning the Cat
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
Tuffy skinned a cat
Behind Walker Bros. Stores;
He was probably in on
The sand-girl's situation,
But no one believes her;
Yet believe Tuffy capable of such.
He wrestled ostriches and kangaroos
At Jungleworld,
Real ones.
Some say the animals were old and drugged,
But Tuffy pinned them all the same.

Margo's house burned to the studs
Following her ***-driven ******.
That was thirty years ago,
The same time Jungleworld,
With its spiders, snakes and caged bear
Died off with Tuffy and his peacock,
And the secrets of his take downs and holds.

I never saw Tuffy perform
His flaming knife-throws,
Destroying balloons between lips,
Slicing straps with his swordplay.
He would've thrived in Venice with Leonardo,
Dazzling Popes and Princes,
Who would be benefactors and patrons.
Tuffy would have lived in a villa,
On a mountainside, overlooking his audience,
And applauding them for their attention to detail.
Tuffy was a real life person in our community.
Nov 2016 · 625
Does the Light Get In
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
You were the perfect offering:
You wrote,
You sang,
You played,
Did anything,
But now -
Are there any cracks or crevices,
Windows, holes or doors;
Has the pine split below?
With the leafs gone,
Under Supermoon or blazing sun,
Does the light get in,
Or was it just
Another song?
Nov 2016 · 844
Ungowa
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
I heard Tarzan
Swinging through the jungle
Calling the wild ones,
The fringe dwellers,
With, Ungowa!
They answered,
Dragging their knuckles
Along the I-94,
Then stampeding to crown,
Their *King of Apes.
"Ungowa" is Tarzan's one word command. It means, "Be quiet, a white man is speaking."
Nov 2016 · 866
A Grand Opening (10W)
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Every minute
One thousand empty mouths
Are born into poverty.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
If I had but twenty-four hours,
Who would I call?
Each daughter would take a year;
The brothers and sisters would yammer
For a month each;
Every friend would spend a week
Re-hashing our adventures and antics;
Favourite teachers and colleagues
Would like longer, but I can't afford more
Than a day per;
All others, except my detractors,
One minute,
The latter,
One second,
And with them,
All,
I'd need another lifetime.
Who would you call?
Nov 2016 · 1.9k
I Have Found My Xavier
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Have you found a Saviour;
One to emulate,
Then denegrate,
Whip and crown and tree?
Then turn, and say,
It wasn't me.

Would I have seen the god-like qualities,
Listen to the sermons,
Eat the fish and bread,
Drink the watery wine?
Would he raise me from the dead?
Could my feet fit the prints
On the sands of Galilee.
Would he admonish me
For having two coats,
Finishing my smoke
With one straw in my coke?

I have found my Saviour.
His name is Xavier.
Nov 2016 · 1.1k
#Not My Royal Family
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Not My President.
But he is. Let him live.
He and his minions
Are like the poor;
They will always be with us.
But north of you,
We have a Queen.
#Not My Royal Family.
They're needy and expensive,
Spoiled and enfranchised.
An extended, big family
Who gets free rides at Canada's Wonderland,
Best seats at hockey games... all games
For Lieutenants-Governor,
Governors-General,
And all the wee princesses and princes.
Rideau Hall is the official residence
The White House pales beside,
Sussex Drive fades beside its oppulence.
Celebrities and histories have planted trees there.
Jack, Marilyn, Nelson, Martin and all the heavenly host
Have approached those gilded doors,
Pretending to bow and curtsy to an absent Queen.
Back to #Not My Royal Family.
I didn't get a vote.
Canada is burdened with a Royal Family a growing number of us abhor. #Not My Royal Family
Nov 2016 · 1.3k
Not Because of Colour
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Do we remember John?
He was what we'd call a Simpleton,
Back when we were young.
He stood in his brown cloth coat,
Carried a notepad and a pen,
We suspected he had half a tongue,
Making notes on roadside lawns,
Near every manhole.
John was busy inside his head,
We never got a word he said.
Who was John before John was dead?

Did you know Stanley?
We didn't see him much.
He'd appear in the hood on holidays.
Probably went to New Hope School,
Where he was kept.
Stanley swore a lot,
He threw snot, drooled and spit at us.
We poked fun, and provoked,
Felt blameless,
For Stanley's condition was kept from us.
Segregated,
And not because of colour.
Nov 2016 · 664
Senseless Bigotry
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
I've a lingering scratch
In the throat,
An irritation
As I spoke;
I coughed, I choked,
And spewed out the last
Off-coloured joke.

There was a ringing
In my ear,
A clappering sound
You rang for years.
I blocked and stopped
And turned away
To silence the slurs
I refuse to hear.

I've black floaters
In my eyes,
The only colour
I surmise;
Other shades now subside;
I'm looking forward
With clear brown eyes.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy won't retreat.

There's a revolution coming,
It's coming as we speak;
The revolution's coming,
It should be here next week.

The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Fight the fight
To rein in their percent,
From navel gazing heights.
Desks in towers,
Those grasping power,
Will tumble in defeat.
The gravity of their greed
Will drag them through the streets.

The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war; and
Salvation for the weak.

There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write all the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.
Re-post. New title. Of course it's a Lennon line.
Seems appropriate with the goings on in the streets of America.
Nov 2016 · 709
Long Line-up to Hell
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
They're struggling at the water hole,
It's really getting rough,
Jackals nipping at the heels
Of the rhinoceros.
The ***** lie in the grass
Waiting for what's left,
But the water-line is dropping,
And the wild ones face the test.

The struggle spills into the street,
Into the houses of the weak,
Where it's getting stronger.
There's less light in the daytime,
The night's are getting longer;
If this is a Safari,
Do you think it's going well?
Or are we holding baskets
In the long line-up to hell?
Nov 2016 · 1.7k
Mayor Wills Rawana
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
On the ticket for mayor of Sarnia,
Was a sixties bloke, one Wills Rawana;
But the anti-*** vote,
With good conscience can't support,
A politico called Mayor Rawana.
Wills Rawana was a teacher who in fact did run for Sarnia's mayor.
He lost and has since passed away.
Nov 2016 · 23.9k
Trump's Boner (10W)
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
They pulled a *****
With Trump's *******...
I mean Election.
I always mess up consonants.
Bend over, but don't be too ******* yourself. :)
Nov 2016 · 3.6k
BTV / ATV / PTV
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
BeforeTV

Before TV,
When we were together,
Before growing apart
From father and mother,
We entertained ourselves with song;
All the sisters and brothers.

We gambolled in the backyard,
The clothes line was our zip line,
We fell soft, then hard.

We somehow got a hold of skates,
Not knowing what they're for,
So we took turns,
Laced them on,
To skate on cement floors.

We raised a high jump,
Skipped on the driveway,
Double Dutch and Speed;
We strung a line for volleyball,
Nailed a hoop below the roof,
Played soccer in the hall.
We paddled ping-pong on the table;
Our household freedom
Made us as grateful
As animals in a well-kept stable.

Some winters we'd flood the back,
And shoot and slide until the cracks
Turned to puddles,
Then I'd sail popsiclestick boats
Over oceans,
To distant folks.

On the frontwalk we tossed our stones,
Landing on the moon,
And hopscotch til we went for soup
And soda bread and **** milk.

If we had a ball and bat,
Chances are we'd not come back
'til the sun went down;
And then,
When the stars came out,
We'd *Hide and Seek,

Til the last one'd shout,  Home Free.
With dirt and patchwork dungarees,
We went in
For good-night tea.

Weren't we the normal family?

Then we got our first T.V.

After T.V.

We were landed,
Not gentry,
And we started channelling
U.S. T.V.

We weren't polite like Cartwrights,
Nor guaranteed Lil' Joe's birthright.

The sisters locked on Patty Duke,
Then dressed the same
To get the look,
So they ditched their Wellie boots.


We'd lie on the floor,
Stuck like glue,
On Sundays watch Ed's Big Shoe.
We didn't know the sun had left,
Our eyes were on the TV set.

The Cleaver boys still got dessert,
Though leaving green beans on their plate,
Left ice-cream and sweet chocolate cake.
We'd stare confused, yet salivate;
Such treats and food we'd never waste.

The Douglas boys had single beds,
En suites, bathrobes,
Hair on their heads;
Pillows and open windows,
And locks on doors,
They weren't co-ed.
We slept, at least, two to a bed,
Four to a room, two bedspreads.
We slept on mattresses with stinging springs,
Torn and traced with stale *****.
In the hot and humid summer,
In bathing suits
We'd swim in slumber.
Our small window couldn't open,
We roasted in our four walled oven.

We watched Lassie and Gomer Pyle,
Green Acres' Arnold had us beguiled.
We didn't get Father Knows Best,
His gentleness raised our regrets.
Lucy and Ricky, an odd couple,
Were always getting into trouble,
Like Fred and best bud, Barney Rubble.

Were these the models to emulate,
To blend in North of the United States?

These families had open conversations,
Shared their thoughts without hesitation.
Mine were full of consternation,
And alien, like My Favourite Martian.

We grew in a foreign land,
Beached like the cast on Gilligan.

Surely, we were Lost in Space,
Separate from the human race.
No gyroscope to set direction,
To separate fact from fiction.

We weren't stupid,
We were astute;
We weren't the ones on our TV.
We were a singular family.

Post T.V.

We numbered ten at the start,
Then aged and drifted far apart;
We can't gather to watch TV,
As we were once wont to be.
But I remember Ernest T.,
Throwing rocks to win Charlene,
And arrested by Sheriff Andy.
We laughed at all the silly doings
Of Barney, and Thelma Lou's wooings.

I send e-mails and textual banter,
(One brother still likes writing letters),
Reminding me of our early days,
How TV censured our innocent ways.

We never were small screen.
We emigrated to Canada from Ireland in 1957. A brave new world.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
The words have stopped,
The music aint flowing,
There's been the death of a lady's man,
The death of one Leonard Cohen.
Leonard died today. He was such an inspiration to me. Saw him in concert severals times, the last, two years ago. He was a novelist, literary critic, academic, poet, lyracist, songwriter, and so much more. We've lost one of the greatest voices of our contemporary world.
Death of a Lady's Man is the title track of one of his LPs.
Nov 2016 · 890
Sugar Daddy
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
White middle-class men.
I've heard them
Referred to, as the trans-emasculated.
Then the great white wave of women
Found him appealing, and then irresistable.
Hands down.
Who could hear the leaners, whispering,
Not daring to utter a name too loud,
Without bell, book and candle.
Surrogate or subrogation.
Rich in image, and derogatory by degrees.
Sugar Daddy, or real Daddy.
Enigmatic.
And I, being a ******,
And not in need of support,
Followed her,
Then raised my hands
In supplication and prayer.
Nov 2016 · 449
Crosses White, Poppies Red
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Crosses white, poppies red,
Remember how, remember when
Pale petals fell from blooming roses,
And padded paths where freedom goes.

Fierce fires doused a would be hate,
To quench dry hearts, yours and mine.
Love and duty burned paper chains
That shackled in war time.

Wise eyes, bright minds, aged souls, young hearts,
Traded rockers for grassy beds;
Gave up gray for blue-black youth,
Now honoured among our dead.

The rose that's guarded by the thorn,
Against the reach of many hands,
Does the same in all God's lands:
Yet still the life sap flows.

This time of year is here again,
But remember how, remember when
Canadian pulses beat taps then.
Remembrance Day must never end.
Repost for Canada's and the British Commonwealth's Remembrance Day.
Nov 2016 · 554
Ticker-Tape Parade
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
The harlequin trees celebrate
With a red, yellow and orange
Ticker-tape parade
On all the streets of Ontario,
Announcing the onslaught
Of another miserable
Canadian winter.
I'm a fan of irony.
Nov 2016 · 488
The Magic Box
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.

The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.
Nov 2016 · 415
Memories are Treasures
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
There's stuff parents will never know,
The kicks and blows we all endure
To mind, body, spirit and soul.
The run-ins with society,
With the good and the Just for me.
Children should never ever know
Half the stuff they should never know.
The other half I won't tell,
Like the half my kids won't share as well.

Who else knows the stuff I've done,
Alone or with the chosen ones,
Who shared memories with me.
One has died,
One has forgot,
One was always on the spot,
But now stolen from memory's vault:
My recall is true and false,
But the memory now is real,
None here to make appeals.

He knew all of my youth and teens,
Knew my life and all my moves,
My families, old and new;
But his memory is fading too.
It's not forgotten,
It can't be retrieved;
It's lost and can't be found.
These memories now are treasures,
Forever buried underground.
Nov 2016 · 581
The Best of Hello Poetry
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
I will pen a real long poem,
One that goes on and on.
It will  be Universal,
Get added to all categories:
There's two thousand plus
Themes we write on,
From first breath
To the dust we lie in.

My poem would weave
The Fabric of Love,
Dripping from
A Heart that Hurts,
To offer solace and love's comfort.

It couldn't be one of
Ten Words,
But myriads in
A Sea of Thoughts;
Added to
All Time Favourites,
And Words Worth a Thousand Pictures.

If you like Beautiful Tragedies,
I'll jot a verse on Life Stories.
I'd pen a stanza for Love for the Moon,
Lines to make An Exceptional Poem.

The keen reader adds it to Genius Speaks,
The younger hearts to Sweets for the Sweet.
The darker side clicks Macabre and Mayhem,
They too are Becoming Human.

I'd accept a like for Best Sweet and Sour,
I'd  be happy with Whatever, Whenever.
The weird add it to Psychopath,
The regular to Treasureworth.

It may contain the Inspired Word
To advise those trapped in Parenthood.
Oh My Goodness, it's A Poem to Keep,
One to read, then Read and Repeat.

But mine will lie in Buried Treasures,
Disappear in Endangered Species...
Hey, I got a Thank You For Sharing,
This Made Me Smile.

I think you get my drift, indeed,
I've written The Best of Hello Poetry.

So, Poets Speak Loud on **** Good Stuff,
Write The Story of Life, The Ultimate Poem,
On Love is the Purpose, or Who We Are,
I'll add your verse to Top Notch,
And yours is one of *My Favourites.
Edit and repost.
With so many themes, who can claim writer's block.
Nov 2016 · 1.7k
The Killer's Already Inside
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
I needn't wait until dark
For the killer to stalk,
But I'll unplug my fridge,
Turn off the TV,
I won't use FaceTime
Or socialize on FB.
My cell screen is dark,
No Snapchat or Podcast,
Or Instagram and Vimeo.
The Cloud has been compromised;
In short, disconnect,
For the killer's inside,
And knows what to expect.
"Wait Until Dark," great thriller of a movie.
Nov 2016 · 892
Our Corner Graveyard
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Our corner graveyard
Looks so inviting,
The lawns are cut,
There's solar lighting.
A wrought-iron gate
Is freshly painted,
Shade trees shelter
Graves of the innocent.
The Italians built a mausoleum,
Where pictures of their deceased greet them,
Looking full of vim and joy
At having pictures taken.
Beneath the temples, in the crypts,
Celtic crosses and brass plaques,
Olympians and outcasts,
All professions, our world's best,
Lie wasting just like us,
In their oak, brass-handled coffins.
The solar lighting at the graves is weird. It looks like a city from above.
Nov 2016 · 631
The X Factor
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
We should be hardened cynics,
Putting plywood on our windows,
Yellow tape around our homes,
Cautioned shouting,
Never doubting
Who is number One,
In a race that's nearly done.
The finish line's stopped moving,
We hope to be disproving
The infallibility of man.
And thus we sit waiting,
Anticipating chaos,
Spinning the wheels of commerce,
Leaving treadmarks on the innocents
Who needn't to be literate
To mark their X to obliterate.
Like a ****** on a mission,
With cross-hairs on the decision.
Oct 2016 · 627
Talk Shows
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I no longer watch
The Tonight Show,
Can't stand his auto *******:
He Loves them all,
They're Fantasatic and Great,
They're all The Best;
And on his A List!
But let's be serious,
They're just entertainers.

His Pros and Cons
Are so predictable,
The Superlatives
Are quite despicable.

I miss Mike and Merv and Phil
(Not Dr. Phil... he's a pill),
And Geraldo and Jerry,
Like Heckle and Jeckle,
Gave us our daytime fill.
Sally and Montel did well,
Like Ricki, **** and Arsenio,
Carson, Dave and Jay Leno.
They surpassed the late night swill
Of Jimmy's mono-drivel.
Time for Jimmy to change up the format. It's getting really boring. First thing to go, his "Thant You Notes." Please, stop the Hillary and Donald jokes, especially the annoying, yes, now annoying, impersonations of the Don. Been there, saw it... at least three hundred times.
Oct 2016 · 1.9k
Obsequious Flocks of Sheep
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I won't depend
On hashtag trends,
On free lending,
Or poems trending,
Or coupons for hookers vending.

I won't depend
On society blending,
Or relations mending
On wending paths of truth.

Then we're sending rockets,
Bending rules  for Rulers,
Tending obsequious flocks of sheep.
Yes, "We." We are all to blame for this fecking mess. Opposing systems colliding, and the Social Democrats are gaining in the East and democratic capitalism slips on the high wire and maintains balance.
Oct 2016 · 441
The Recital
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
You had a recital, I missed;
Your hands poised, back straight,
Toes touching the hardwood stage
Near the pedals.
Stillness filled the theatre;
I felt the transmission of inaudable notes
Blending, peeling,
Stinging my senses.
I confessed my unintended sins,
My one of omission -
The one that left you on the swing;
The one when you fell.
I missed your recital,
But I attend it often,
Echoing and bounding over swaying hills.
Such an Ode... such Joy
At the tranquility.
Such a burden.
Oct 2016 · 579
A Tempest
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
Your name, like acid rain,
Corrodes my brain;
Polluting each day
Of sun-filled joy.
If I cower in bus shelters,
Or under a tree,
Beneath an umbrella,
Or abandoned doorway;
You soak me, erode me,
Then wash me away.
It's a tempest inside
Swirling the dust I call skull;
I tremble and quake
For the sake of your name.
And I can't for the life of me
Shake off your refrain,
The cloudy repetition
Of your first and last names.
Oct 2016 · 570
These Moments That I Have
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
This happened
Faster than the speed of light,
Immediate like deja vu;
While coming across your picture,
Just then, I am with you.

As enlightening as an epiphany,
Shorter than a sub nano Zen;
I was one with my reality,
I am in the picture then.

I snap back,
I put it back
Beneath the orchid cloth,
Where time and space lie dormant
For these moments that I have.
The emotional tie to a picture of my daughter, and not unlike deja vu, yet much different, the moment of presence was real, but sooo instantly shortened. Wham.
Ever happen to yourself?
Oct 2016 · 546
Hurt
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I wish you could feel the hurt,
Not pain;
The thud and drumming of absence,
The waiting, listening, and loss of hope,
Silent, dull and lasting.
It's noticeable in my eyes and voice;
I see it when I shave,
In the clothes I wear.
It lies on me like a rash I can't scratch.
I look average. I look normal.
That's the hurt I wish for.
Oct 2016 · 784
The Golden Rule
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I've succumbed
To The Golden Rule,
I'll do to me
What I do unto you.

If I'm the cause
Of sorrow and tears,
Know you I've lodged
The same for years.

Should I be
The source of mirth,
Make you laugh,
Relieve the dirth,
Know that I too
***** this earth.

When I'm criticial
Of your best efforts,
You fall short
Of what's expected,
I'll look inside,
To see what I could be.

Though I'm annoyed
With your flip-flopping,
I know I've been known
To be the one that waffles.

Now comes the part
That deals with heart.
God forbid
I break yours in two,
But know you that
Mine breaks too.

When your days take hold,
When you grey and grow old,
I'll tend your needs,
Do what I please.

And when our lives
Stop being our light,
And dark prevails,
And day is night,
And we've departed
This corporeal cesspool,
I'll know I succumbed
To *The Golden Rule.
Oct 2016 · 774
O Canada... Oh, America
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
Hailed as the land of opportunity,
The four corners sent humanity
With promises of liberty
For those suffering cruelty
From religion, race and poverty.

Today it's a land of delusion,
Too many in exclusion
Because of religion, race and poverty,
By displaying inhuman duality.

Come visit Canada,
Here you'll see,
What America once aspired to be.
Something... everything got derailed.
God Bless America... you're worthy of so much more.
Oct 2016 · 625
Sperm Bank (10W)
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
Your ***** bank
Has recorded N.S.F.
Make deposits,
Don't withdraw.
N.S.F.: NonSufficient Funds
Oct 2016 · 569
What's Dark Lives On
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
There were sharp, dark nights
When I was sent to the store;
The alleys and empty lots
Were void of comfort light.

There were night sweats
When figures approached;
I would pause on the sidewalk
To hear the retreating steps.

I'd turn to watch a dark outline
Cross under a canopy of branches;
His procession out of the light
And into the long sharp night.

Abandoned houses had draped windows
In the dark of morning deliveries;
Black, steel steps lead to balconies,
Beneath them darker yet.

My window displayed the silhouettes
Of cold thin twig fingers;
And the darkened stairs had a balanced creak,
Or a shoulder bumped into the landing.

I pulled the blanket over my head,
Darker still, I let the night roll on.
That was night.
Tomorrow has dawn.
What's night is night.
What's dark lives on.
Oct 2016 · 1.2k
Borne By the Dead
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I can't recall being born,
The cuddled snug of being warm
Beneath a roof so weathered
On a seasoned flax-mill farm.

I've an inkling of being two,
In a scene played out by me and you;
On a mattress, in the sun -
A new-born cried, and died too soon.

Then memory's blur cleared by three,
We sailed away on the Irish Sea
On a listing boat, across the Blue,
The last link to the last banshee.

By four we'd long since slammed the door,
And I knew cowboys and Celtic lore -
A new-born cried, she died too soon,
The eye peeped through the Judas door.

By five so many had left the home;
By eight a.m. we were left alone
Pushing prams, swings and forward,
No T.V.,  radio or telephone.

At last, by six, I clearned the webs,
A whole new world lay dead ahead -
A new-born cried, he died too soon;
By seven I'd internalized
The dreaded finality
Borne by the dead.
.
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
The things some do
When they're alone,
Would melt the marrow
In your bones.

Some scratch their ***
With such vigor,
Sink to their knuckles
Up their nose,
**** themselves
In *****-hose,
Find their stash,
Find their liquor,
Get high alone,
And that's good for some.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They scrape the goo
From their eyes
In the afternoon;
Hork out phlegm
In the kitchen sink,
**** loudly,
And not think it stinks.
They pop a pimple on the mirror,
Do nasty things
(I won't say liver).

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

They'll surf the net
For *******
In HD or photography.
They'll roll gobs of wax
From both their ears,
Run naked up and down the stairs.
Landscape private body hairs,
And like a monkey, smell their nails.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.

Some deficate in the shower,
******* until they holler,
Then spark a doob,
Check out the mirror,
Then cogitate on tomorrow.

Oh, the things some do
When they're alone,
It's good they're done
Alone at home.
But not us. :)
Oct 2016 · 7.0k
The Little Red Bike
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
In a museum, or forgotten barn,
A small red twelve inch two wheeler
Hangs on invisible wires,
Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust.
But Tannehill rode it once,
Like something in a dream.
He was too long-framed for it.
He controlled it, rounded the corner,
Pedalling hard down the sidewalk,
Across the street from our new house.
I gawked from the front yard:
He was a boy with his bike,
Like The ****** on T.V.
It was the first I learned to ride,
And the falls were magnificient,
On grass or asphalt.
Girls' bikes were easy,
One size fits all.
Then I learned to pedal
Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'.
Push the pedals,
Shift the midrift, and be gone.
Always from somewhere
To somewhere else,
Far from the soft front lawn.
"Leave It to ******:" "And Jerry Mathers, as the ******."
Oct 2016 · 2.1k
A Handkerchief
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
When I was young
We left our Granny
Back in County Cavan.
She surely thought
We'd meet no more
On this side of heaven.
I was but a lad of three,
One of six... no, seven;
For many years
She wrote to me,
Far from the Irish sea.
Inside her air-mail envelope,
She told how much we're missed,
She'd enclose a hand-stitched handkerchief,
Edged with her Irish kiss.
Emigrated to Canada in 1957. Saw my Granny one more time when I returned at 27 for a brief visit.
Oct 2016 · 655
How I Love the Night
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
She was here
Again last night,
She shows up
In my dreams;
She slipped her arm
In mine, held tight,
And called me
By my name.
I can't say for sure,
You know what dreams are like,
But I felt her here,
As if awake,
How I love the night.
Oct 2016 · 909
I Met This Girl
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I met this girl
Who couldn't speak,
But signed
And sighed she loved me.

I met this girl
With discerning taste,
Who held the virtue
Of human grace.

I met this girl
Who couldn't hear,
But felt me beat,
And knows my tears.

I met this girl
Who had the touch,
She wasn't one
To demand so much.

I met this girl
Who couldn't see,
Perhaps that's why
She's in love with me.
Added two stanzas and reposted.
Oct 2016 · 2.9k
Sunflowers
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
We sped along the highway,
Faster than two hundred year old clouds;
All at once a yellow blur of sunflowers
Filled the only view we had.
Fields and fields of sunflowers
Facing the south sun like a choir;
And ready for harvest.

Denise remarked she liked the seeds,
And the oil is good for pharmaceuticals, etc.
We use them a lot, I quipped.
But we were in a rush to see
Stratford's As You Like It,
So they never got a second thought.
Til now, you see,
For I'm feeling somewhat vacant.
Tip of the cap to Wordsworth
Oct 2016 · 510
On the Way to Georgian Bay
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
The familiar small towns,
On the way
To Georgian Bay,
Have gone;
Box store intersections sprawl
Where General Stores once served.
It's hard to find pie and coffee,
To watch the cows come from the barn,
Or comment on the standing corn,
Of a late September morn.
Oct 2016 · 638
I Was Found Lacking
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
I was driven to the wilderness
When a flaming sword appeared;
Then tethered like a goat,
For the demon was revealed.

I've got a mark, like Cain,
To identify me;
So I stumbled through the gulches
For a place to be free.

You told me I was naked,
I never realized;
You should fit inside my head
And see me with my eyes.

I've slept with swine,
Caroused with jackals,
Spit in the face of Him;
It was then you found me out;
Cried and mourned,
For I was never good at hiding;
And thus you found me lacking.
Sep 2016 · 413
The Unforgiven
Francie Lynch Sep 2016
I want to remark
On my disease;
It's not as obvious
As a sneeze,
Or an allergy to cheese.
It's not profound
As cancer,
But will lay me in the ground.
It's worse than an itch,
Though that's part of it,
I can't stop scratching.
I look the picture of health,
You'd never know I'm sick,
Until you get a whiff.
But I am,
Bottle or can.
****... there's no pill to take,
And the cocktail doesn't work.
The worse part of all,
Those who say they love me,
Think that I'm a ****.
I'm not.
I'm sick.
Sep 2016 · 393
Consternation
Francie Lynch Sep 2016
When does the best come out:
A scream? A shout?
When in judgement of our friends,
Animals and sibblings;
Or teachers and politicians,
Seldom in Amen.
So often in the end.
So now, before me,
Me, with your first steps,
The same who dressed you,
Then drove you when the sun rose,
'Til the lid closed,
On many we loved best.
We have years to go,
'Til what rest
Comes out,
After so much consternation.
Sep 2016 · 423
Walk of a Lifetime
Francie Lynch Sep 2016
I must walk away
Til I reach a place
Where the world ends;
Where the sky meets.
Especially at night,
I'd see shooting stars-
Brief as they are.
I'll start out barefooted,
Bring coffee and some cigs.
So, I begin.

Distance dwindles,
I focus on a silhouetted outline,
Always, as a dream...
Just ahead of me.

I recognize a gait from behind.
Siren-like, then me.
And I walk to catch-up,
Walking from everything,
With the end of my world.
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