Who am I?
I'm a piece of work.
A block of marble,
A chip of rock.
A driftwood face,
Waiting near a dock.
A song without refrain,
You won't sing again.
A pattern, pinned for sewing,
A garment good for stowing.
A man in queue,
Looking back at you.
A canvas smeared in gesso,
Leaning near a frame.
A sonnet missing
A rhyming couplet,
An octave and a sestet.
I am
A work in progress

I'm waiting with certain trepidation
Assured my reality
Is in for something big.

The eleventh dimension
Can't assuage my dread.
There's something happening,
As big as Dead.

The cellphone's our new Nativity,
Destroying my old myths;
Where's the white salamander hurrying,
Spirits hoovering, aliens lurking,
Hairy bipeds in the forests,
Yetis in the snow.
Nothing soon forthcoming.
It all looks like Alberta.

I can't snap inside the sun,
Nor freeze-frame a revolution;
Or the moment one feels love;
But truth is self-evident.
And the facts are yet to come.

All the best stories,
My life-changing beliefs,
Need one still, a black and white will do;
Til then,
I'll suspend
Disbelief,
And sustain credence,
Close to the dark room.

Then we'll be the Magi,
Bowing, grovelling,
Awed and surprised.

The Little King,
Who ruled here for thirteen years,
Now reigns in the undiscovered country.
Restrictions keep him in the freezer,
Where he's
Lying in steak.

The story I read, some forty years now,
Burns inside my head.
A young woman, ***** violently
By two brothers,
Hands and face mutilated,
The horror on her father's face.
Vengeance was his alone,
As he murdered her assailants,
And boiled down their bones.
His name was Titus.
The story was four hundred years old.
Re-told from a story three thousand years older.
Re-told today.
Rwanda, Bosnis, Syria, Jordan, Dahlmer et al.
Disfiguration with acid,
Limbs gone missing,
Tongues cut out, black sockets,
Missing parts of humanity
In prison camps and resistence movements.
We're still baking pies and feeding on human flesh.
Shakespeare was never so violent.

Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.

One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.

      so corn, cabbage and turnip too
      were left to rot. Daddy knew to strike
      when hot.

The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Keeps my nose from turning up.

     the front was never farmed again.
    
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.

I understand why we personify Life,
We live;
But why personify Death,
We die.
Attributing Pride to Death
Is senseless;
It's the last thing on the island.

You have said
As a Phenomenal Woman
That
Still I Rise,
and so you must to travel
The Road Not Taken.
But
If You Forget Me
In your
Dreams,
Dearest Annabel Lee,
I will sing like the
Caged Bird.

If,
When Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,
You should find yourself in
A Dream Within a Dream,
Then deny, for
I Don't Love You Because I Love You;
I love you more
As I Grow Older.

I will pass through this life,
Do Not Stand by My Grave and Weep,
You are not
Alone.
You too
Will Not Go Gently Into That Good Night;
For I
Don't Go Far Off.
This is the promise:
Hope is the Thing With Feathers,
or it can be
A Poison Tree,
Casting venom on
Daffodils,
Making
All the World a Stage,
And I,
An understudy in the wings.

I was up to my fingertips
Doing humanitarian shtick,
Visiting a nursing home
Where they're more dead
Than sick;
Playing and singing
And doing my licks
For those with clocks
Near the last tick.
They didn't mind
My performance was sick.

The woman occupying
The bed next door,
Would curse and swear
Like a Tudor *****:
Together we were
Rocking the floor.

Just then the P.A
Called Code Blue,
I played on through what ensued..
What was I to do?

Then we heard
Code Red, Code Red,
The one next door yelled,
****, I'm dead?

I heard her screech,
Code Pink, Code Pink!
I caught the refrain,
Played a chord,
The Tudor and I
Were in full accord.
What was I to think?

Code Brown, she bellowed,
Code Brown, she hollered,
Hitting the ground
Just near the toilet.

*Code Green,
Code Yellow,
Code White,
Code Black,
I'm the victim of a Rainbow attack.
**** it! ****! I'm gonna die!
Don't they know I'm colour blind.

A poem is like
A piece of wood.
It can be ripped,
Chopped,
Shaped,
Sanded for smoothness.
Sometimes you nail it;
And it can stick like glue.
You can drill a hole
Right through it,
It might bore one
Through you.
It can get under your skin.
But when it's cut
Against the grain,
It should be read again.

We've been... a... part... so long;
We've not been... to...gether, a... lone.
Together alone.

I hear the lonely house sounds
Of dripping, creaking, and window wind whoshes;
The semi-muted fiber optic sounds;
The various vehicles dopplering past.
These I hear in my fractured second,
Before asking, "How ye doin?"
Which shatters into glass the silence
Held too long between us.
But now we are alone, together, alone.
A silent alone, together.

They thought she'd be Sassy,
You'll read she's no Lassie;
So they chose an Isle,
For kin and kith,
Meaning more than breadth and width;
Henceforth she's called Skye.

She's a dimunitive terrier,
She'll not be a harrier;
She'd fall down the holes
Chasing rabbits and voles,
And never be heard of again.

Too quiet for a guard dog,
In the pack, she's no lead dog;
If she tried herding sheep,
They'd bleat in their sleep,
And the sheep would lay down
For the wolves.

She's no sledder like Buck,
She can't carry a duck,
And certainly no fighter like Fang.
She's no Rin Tin Tin,
Can't run fast like him,
And she's not sleek like Roy Rogers' Bullet.

She won't find a body
Buried under the snow,
And she won't win blue ribbons
At any dog show.
But I'm convinced
By her snuffles
She's well worth the trouuble,
I'll take her out hunting
In the woods
For my truffles.

I am alone. I am.
The sounds are not naked
Scratchings from outside;
No soft paws scurry in the attic;
The floors beyond are tiled;
The stairs carpeted;
The hinges like cloth;
The curtains drawn against shade;
The phone doesn't ring to vacant voices;
Half-burnt candles would burn
In the whosh of a hallway.
And yet,
I hear you breathe,
Hear the rustle of sleeves;
A light slivering beneath the door.
And I am
Alone.

The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on

I shared an outside table
With two young American graduates
On an amber Scottish day.
They were completing
The European tour:
Not unlike the Romantics
Walking the continent.
A cap to an illustrious degree.
One scholar was blunt:
Do you believe in God?
No.
Why do you say that?
His companion leaned in for my answer.
Because you asked.
Both reclined into a smile.
Of course.
Then settled
Into a half-empty glass.

When I'm seeking shade from a relentless sun,
And brush a rejected leaf off my shoulder,
I feel poetry.

When I brought my girls home,
From hospital, school, a bad night out,
I've experienced poetry.

Walking Front St., or  Centennial Park,
While the buskers are busy,
The children are laughing,
The dogs are barking,
I've heard poetry.

If fortunate to espy a shooting star,
Enjoy the fullness of an autumn moon,
Witness the dawn light up my lawn,
Like a diamond mine,
I've seen poetry.

I've tasted poetry on my lips
With kisses and endearing words,
And lingering tastes from what you serve.
Yes, I've savored poetry's flavors.

Who reads poetry.

I didn't intend on joining
Neighbourhood Watch
When I stepped onto my perch,
The elevated porch.
I spied a lad
Trying a car door
In the drive
Next to the cop's.
That's forbidden fruit
In the dark of night,
Under the slight light
Of a quarter moon.
Had I called the cops,
Would he now be homeless
By an ignominous,
Effaced father.
His pride's a tailored fit
From rejected rags.
Friends may post the antics
In glossolalia on FB
For all nations to read
The mark against him.
I didn't call.
The sin of the father
Is exposed in the sun;
Not in alleyways
Under broken street lights
Where a rejected son
Devises a defense;
Thinking no one sees him;
Thought he was alone.
I yelled to him, go home.
Go home, very few can.

If you'll allow me,
I'll be the booming voice,
Or the low murmur,
You stiffled,
Long ago,
In your head.
But I won't allow you
To muzzle me.

We're deep to our waists
In February;
Trees look like a geriatric pool-fitness class,
And the grass,
Sparse as the bobbing skulls.

      I heard a lone Canada goose overhead,
     The V has left the others for dead;
     And a gray pall covers all
     With winter's threadbare spread.

The alarm is set,
The time is right,
The season's snug,
But not sleeping yet.

     Soon, the beast will close its eyes,
     And Spring will march in,
     Fresh and vigorous,
     Like a new recruit,
     Green and anxious.

She'll fire-up roots, flowers and leafs.
In the pool they'll sway in the breeze,
Branches touching in Spring's reprieve.

I dreamt  I went to heaven;
(Or someplace, perhaps not there) ,
It surely was surreal.
I was somewhere in this vision,
For I certainly wasn't here.

In revelry I searched the crowd,
Saw countless faces shining.
Booth and Chapman smiled sublimely;
Oswald and Ruby discussed their crimes;
And Adolph and Idi were enjoying time..
Charlie and Earl began singing,
And Brutus danced out with  his brothers.
And the legions were carousing,
I wept while browsing,
I didn't see her here.

Did I take the wrong path,
As  dreamers often do;
And miss the gates of Paradise,
To go to Hell for you.

In the centre of this commotion,
Judas called me over
With his martyr's  smile.
We joined with the others,
(Ones he knows as brothers) ,
And lead me to the One I sought.
I'm in heaven when I'm with her.

I  roused myself,
Shook hard and long.
All the teachings we ingrained
On bent knees with hands inclined,
In prayer and subtle song,
Truly wronged us all along.
In death, I know, we leave behind
Our Hell-on-earth, and find,
Everlasting Peace-of-Mind.

.

I had hair, lots of it,
And wire rim glasses,
Bells, sandals
And elephant pants
With the Libra sign embroidered
On the back right pocket.
We wore leather wrist bands,
Listened to the cool music,
Knew all the Beatles' lyrics,
Dylan and Snow too.
We never wore peace signs,
Not after seeing Sammy Davis Jr.'s
Pendulous medallion.
We were trenders,
But that wasn't a term then.
Neither was sexagenarian.

Someone's mother died today,
So let's pretend her to be
A sacrifice to winter,
For birds are singing now,
The sun and sky
And all seem to conspire.
The chill has left the air.
The very ground has softened
To receive her.
We've removed an outer layer.
Namaste all the years.

I knew her before
She coloured her hair.
She'd wash and brush,
With a simple part down the middle.
I remember it falling silently over
Her shoulder blades, down her back.
It always looked like that,
After a full day at the lake.

And I knew her before
She used cosmetics
The way they're used this day.
Her cheeks glowed with youth,
Her brows arched like shorelines;
Lashes balanced droplets
Over rushing ruby lips.

I knew her to play tennis,
To swim, run,
To laugh and be fun.

I knew her
With lights on,
At dusk and at dawn.
I knew her for long.
I knew her so long.

An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.

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.

She saw me again, looked my way,
But I wasn't in her eyes.
Yet, I see her everywhere,
Even when she's not there.
How would you handle this.
What does one call this.
If you were sitting as I,
Looking through the throng
Of family and others,
Sitting through the ceremony,
You too would feel the entropy
Of vines tightening on your tongue,
Like ice cream melting in your bowl.
She looked again, I see,
But didn't quite see me.
I will steal away. Steal away.

Cold cement roads
And sidewalks
Hold the first, dry snow
Like grout
Between warm patches
Of lawn,
Speckled with Autumn's
Last offerings.
The neighbourhood
Reminds me to re-floor
My kitchen
In green-speckled tiles.

Add a verse,
You have it
In you.
Excrete and devise.
Throw-up
Your insides
In a technicolour
Burp.

A sudden splash of misty whiteness
Where sterile outlines fill
With skin pink water colors,
Then the rainbows separate into distinct arcs,
Blending again at my supplication.

Shushed whispers turn my head.
I listened for whistles, songs, familiar voices;
Pleased to praise when requested, when warranted,
Advise when asked, offer silence when needed.

I felt skin on my skin,
Sunblock and creams,
Long before your hand in mine.
I have offered my hands too,
Palm to Palm.

Your scent is forever,
And can't be covered with perfumes or incense.
At the most unusual times, it hits me.
I'll turn in a line, or somewhere,
Expecting you right there.
I enter a room knowing you're near,
Here, within.
Part of my life I live in vain memory.

It's bitter sweet, this journey,
And we are the salt of the earth, our earth.
From deprivation to overload.
And I sense, with sound insight,
We can still get it right.

I love the number three
In all its numerology.
The universe,
Yes, every atom
Builds paragons,
With protons and
ons and ons...
Three illustrates our progression
As the sum of all before.
Our music finds accord
When three notes
Blend to chord.
Love and all we deem
Of worth,
Is here,
Third planet,
Earth,
Where life gives birth
To you and I and us,
Dependant on
Animal, ore and vegetation
To ensure regeneration.
We grew, grow and nurture
In past, present and future.
Our words, thoughts and deeds
Are civilization's seeds
For a wholesome, safe and peaceful life
With Faith, Hope and Charity.
My favourite three priorities:
Andrea, Maggie and Kathleen.
Now,
With the birth of Aine,
I'm in love with four.

Must I,
Like some fitness freak,
Do 10 000 crunches
To see my feet?
Or,
Rely on
Water's erosive powers
To expose my toes
With 10 000 showers.

I paid a visit to Byron.
He was distressed about
His sixteen year old son.
A smart lad.
Can't sign his name for his driver's license.
     He was never taught cursive writing, By.
I lamented with him.
The blue book, half the size of standard,
With the two solid blue lines,
Divided by a-broken-red-line.
We began with dull HB pencils,
So not to tear the pages.
By Grade Five, we had fountain pens.
Pages and pages...of loops, sticks, slanted at the correct angle,
Through the red line and all the way to blue,
Or (and this took serious concentration),
Only three-quarters the way,
Up, and/or down to the lower red.
Pages of o's, p's, q's, x's, z's.
Every letter its own uniqueness.
Then joining them like a chain gang:
Creating words that dug, turned over and spread out.
Any and all words making sense of the world,
In sequence, patterns and sound.
Such power.
Letters to distant Grandparents,
Valentines, notes.
Hieroglyphics.

Your Signature.

Francie Lynch
246 Devine St., S.,
Sarnia,
Ontario.
Canada
North America
Western Hemisphere
The World
The Solar System
The Milky Way
The Universe

I was one with infinity and creation.
In ink. Real ink,
By age 10.

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with hard rain that night
I was trudging uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

Just picked up my thirtieth pair of glasses
(perhaps you call them eye glasses).
Progressive, photo-chromatic, temples with wrap around cables.
Same round frames since I was sixteen (first saw them in How I Won the War).
I don’t mess with what works. We fit. No need to look further.
Had my eye on the prize.
They give me perfect sight. And I waited years to get perfect sight.
Always needed glasses. Finally got them when I was eleven.
Big family. Immigrants. No health coverage. So, no glasses.
Couldn’t see the forest or the trees. A genetic thing too.
Several sisters and brothers are as myopic as moles.
Mammy and Daddy never wore glasses (which is not to say they didn’t need them).
All granny glasses are wire rims with a golden finish.
All of mine were. These ones are round black wire rims. I’m being so adventurous.
I remove them (singular is a monocle) to shower and go to bed. I never ask to try on someone’s frames, and I never loan mine for a second (Period)
I also have a face that has grown so accustomed to glasses, that my eyes have surely deepened into my skull. I don’t recognize myself on my driver’s license, health card or passport (Why do they insist on that? I’m never asked to remove my glasses upon surrender of any document for visual verification).

I’ve yet to regret the wealth I’ve spent.
Their cost could pay the rent
For a third world family for years.
It would feed and clothe a village, I’m sure.
I'm not blinded by how good I've got it here.

Kirk was a flirt.
Bones could clone.
Scotty liked scotch.
Chekov goofed off.
Sulu, he flew.
Uhura went further.
Chapel would coddle.
But
SPOCK,
He
ROCKED.

You've been vetted,
But I wouldn't
Bet on it,
The election is years away.
So, pound the pavement,
Rally supporters,
You'll need a prayer and a wish
Day by day.

We minimilize,
See a world of greens,
Prefer concerted solitude
And simplicity.
We cut and draw;
Like weeding words,
And gaining more
With fewer strokes.

A triumphant voice denotes
A life leaving this room.
We should not be surprised;
It tells us:
          I once was there where many stories
          filled many shelves.
And now, another memory becomes
Another treasure to mine in days of leisure.
          We join in exultation.

There is less serious work about now.
We step in and out of shadows
Cast by the sun filtering through
Her tree and picture window.
The shadows reach many rooms.

She and I were present  
In many of Shakespeare's tombs.
Together we witnessed Royalty paraded:
Elinore, Lear, Macbeth, The Dane.
Her lineage is confirmed.
Our busy stage is less crowded
With the exit of La Grande Dame,
Elizabeth.

Einstein refined
Space and time.
Failed to define
Divine Design.
Almost divined
A superior outline:
But the subtleties
Were too sublime.

I'm looking at branches
With baby buds
Waiting to bubble open
Above seeded and fertilized lawns,
Growing lush between our toes,
Soft beneath reclining heads
Interpreting whales and camels above.

Moons rise. Suns set.

Our first home
Was a skeleton with skin shingles;
Floors with no sounds;
Rooms with no emotions.
The car, all shiny and new,
Left an oil stain on the asphalt.

Wheels are turning.

My innocent, wide-eyed believers
Now share the same blameless lies
With innocent, wide-eyed believers.

Suns rise. Moons set.

Don't eat that or drink this.
Roll up your sleeve.

Astronauts blasted off for the ISS
Wearing masks.
Before their return,
We will cut, rake, bag and burn.

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.

So many things happened
So many years ago.
You hitch-hiked to have tea with Mammy;
But not me.

You scaled the Mount to succeed;
Without me.

We slid the Fiat into a Rambler,
Before your big night.
The front got bent out of shape,
But we still went,
Drinking whiskey from the bottle.
Nothing stopped us. We couldn't bother.

We stayed at Sean's,
Or various friends,
At Inns, or canvas tents;
All were means to our ends.

It was fifty years ago...
Half a century of years;
Decades of joyous laughter,
With many unanswered tears.

You'd play too
If life was
Like tennis:
99.9% out
Is 100% in.

Expectations were soaring

The invitation addressed:

Me and a Guest.

Expectations were tense.

The last suitcase labelled.

I shaved in my mirror.

Gave the shoes a black shine.

(Pulled back the flap,
Laid a grip on a bottle,
Gave it full throttle)

Expectations were high.

I saw the mailman

Wasn't far from my drive;

Still facing the northwind

The mailman

Walked by.

Expectations can lie.

I hear too many sirens,
Their call has no desire;
And yet their plaintif wails
Makes one feel alive.

But there's a chance
A child's at risk,
In chaos children die;
Not all kids are underage,
Children are the majority,
Their older than you gauge;
It's like they live at home:
They did: They do: They don't.
And the sirens
Still mean the same.
Someone's child
Left parents grieving
This side of their grave.

To begin with,
We have YOU,
And we have Me.
And we also have THEM, THEY, THEIRS THOSE, WE AND US.
As well, we have:
SOGIES
Asexuals
Allies
Intersexes
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gays
H­omosexuals
Pansexuals
Queers
Straights
Heterosexuals
Gender Binaries
Afabs
Amabs
Agenders
Androgynes
Gender Blenders
Bigenders
Cisgenders
Cross-dressers
Drag Queens
Drag Kings
Enbies
Gender Dysphoria
Gender fluids
Gender Non-conformists
Gender Queers
Gender Variants
Non-Binaries
Questioners
Transgenders
Transitions
Transs­exuals
Two-Sprits... and
LGBTQIA+
(Flora and Fauna?)

Does Genesis have anything right?

Follow your North Star
'Til you drop in your tracks;
Your story's ahead,
Don't turn and look back.

Your dreams, when awake,
Are dreams that you follow;
The ones in your sleep
Are misleading and hollow.

Aspire for greatness,
You'll make some mistakes;
But the distance you travel
Will make your ground quake.

If you reach for the stars,
And pull back too soon,
You won't have regrets
When you land on your moon.

The Sphinx's riddle
Ended with a stick man holding a stick.
The cane.
Those Egyptians were on top of the chain.

What will Lady Liberty's Riddle be
For today's Empire.
After the machines, tubes and electronics
Have made us blade runners.

With a cane.