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Francie Lynch May 2019
Foresight gives us 20/20.
Hindsight prepared us.
Don't get blind-sided.
#45
Francie Lynch Jul 2018
#45
Draw an asterisk,
Then enlarge it,
Til it's the size of an *******.
Then frame it and name it #45,
And
Hang it.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
I'll depart this world,
Leaving it three times better
Than this entrance.
Ha! You've already formulated
Your argument, beginning with
*******,
And concluding with
Deluded.
My counter proposal has
Three hypotheses:
Kathleen, Maggie and Andrea.
My girls.
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
There's a ******* dog
Prowling our streets;
Not the kind that likes to eat,
But devours us,
Piece by piece;
Whether we're up,
Or trying to sleep.
Relentless in pursuit,
Dripping, pausing at each dark house,
Crouched and listening
For tears and shouts;
In the shadow, drooling,
And then there is a wooing,
For one to run out
To its insatiable hunger.

It tears my peace asunder.
Have you seen it loping by?
By God I know I'm in its eyes,
This mongrel escaped from Paradise
Before we knew its name.

This devil dog
Feasts on losses,
Gorges on gains.

A ******* dog
With its bone,
A rapacious beast
Best left alone.
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
God has relinquished
Ownership
With a blast of his breath,
Blowing the dust
Off the rock,
Sentencing us to death,
Worse, maybe life,
With our will.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Hobos don't ride box-cars,
Cowboys don't wear white;
The cavalry's dismounted,
Is there anything left to write.
I could subjucate my life,
Get involved in a barroom fight;
Have my memory confiscated,
In an internal war of strife.
If my father'd been a minister,
Or I laid my head in the oven,
Would they record I was sinister,
And died so lacking loving?
Could it end by a mad mosquito
Who ****** the blood of life.
Would they read my paltry droppings,
And understand the offerings
Found scattered on the floor
Next to the body
Of work.
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
I've scorned and derided,
Needled and spited,
Those, who are closest to me.

I've cheated and lied,
Vilified and decried,
Those, who are closest to me.

I've toasted many glasses
With strangers in places
Where I shouldn't have been.

I've smoked and laughed,
Admired strange ***
In lands where I cannot be seen.

But mention your name,
And all seems so vain,
Those promises I failed to keep;
The losses that haunt me in sleep.

Despite confessed sins,
My transgressional whims,
I know I've always been true;
And when I bow out,
My whisper will shout,
*Above all, I've always loved you.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
A broken heart,
A silent ****,
Both invade,
Both degrade
My senses.
One consumes,
One clears the room,
Both are too intense.
Francie Lynch Apr 30
Do you see
How all things
Have conspired
For an average ******,
Like me.

I am grateful
To evade
The poxes
Others have endured.

The cold, the hunger, the homelessness;
The hate, the fear, the lonliness.
There's more.

I have never
Stretched out
A hand or fist
In want, fear, or hate.

I held chalk, and *****, and babies.
Such things sealed my fate.
Peace and Love
Filled our waves;
No poppies and crosses
On a friend's foreign grave.

Yes, all things conspired.
And this time got it right,
To live happily ever after
In my middle-class life.
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
There's a large white canopy
In the cemetary;
The guests are in their best.
The vows averred
So long ago
Are proved
And laid to rest.

The effigies once
On the cake,
Immortalized,
At the wake.

Inside the gated community,
Dead and wed,
A surety,
Now silent
For eternity.
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
Accidents happen in the Spring.
Babies are born from left-over
Autumn bonfires,
Never properly extinguished.
The sun should shine for an extra hour
So I can finish “The Burial of the Dead.”
Small dogs can escape out doors
Opened for a breath of fresh Spring air.
If there had been a screen on the door...
If it had been a cat...
If it had been raining...
If the sun had set sooner...
If the stranger had been kinder...
Would April accidents happen?
Instead, a sad woman cries,
Ah, nao. Agrander a Deus.
Nao por favor. Mitzi.


We can't plan for mistakes.
We call them accidents.
Francie Lynch Jun 2014
For the child born today,
Will there be seasons
To play in leaves,
Build in snow,
Smell flowers grow?
Swim in fresh water?
Will wars end,
Friends make amends,
Will we finally stop the slaughter?
Will there be clean air
And rich soil?
Will there be moments
Free from turmoil?
I sit at peace, and wonder
If this child may be the answer.
Well, writing's better than pacing.
Francie Lynch Dec 2015
I don't know destitute.
I could use the bathrooms
In McDonalds,
If I eat there.
I'm no refugee.
Neither are you.
We have computers, not canvas.
I warmed up the coffee today
And the dishwasher needs to go through
For the third time this week.
Homeless:  We have them.
Poor:   We'll always have them.
Hungry:  Look to the soup kitchens.
Sick:  The gurneys are lined in the halls.
Death:  It's all around, and increasing.
And still, in that tent or Uber taxi
A child is born to change all this.
Francie Lynch May 2014
I stand sturdy in this room,
Facing you new from the womb.
I press my back against the wall,
To push you back,
To watch your back,
To be your wall.

I keep my heels against that wall
Where others stood before I crawled.
If I'd been dipped in River Styx
I'd linger longer,
But I will fall.

I'd daily bathe in ambrosia
To ward off eternity,
I'd lean forever
Against this wall,
But for mortality.

And so my hands are calloused,
My great grief known;
I have Achilles' burning rage,
I have Achille's heels.

Before that day we'll warm a bench
Near the rowan tree,
I'll wear a cap, carry a cane,
Sit small ones on my knee.

We'll name Lakers, carrying coal,
Fewer now to unload,
And tell silly tales, and get old.

I'll know the joy you'll bring me,
Like letters carved in a tree.

My happy heels press and stall,
I'm stalwart facing you;
I'm backed against the wall.
Edited and reposted.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
Imagine
if you can I say,
the certainty on Christmas Day
If Infinite Wisdom should decree, Christmas
Day to be snow free. Happy children need Christmas snows,
(Ask your parent, they already know);
To use their skates, sleighs and skis, And mitts and coats
so they don't freeze. History dictates outside toys
Combine quite well with outside clothes.
Skates match well with socks and toques, Sleighs slide faster
warm in boots. Snow awakens sleepyheads, gets kids outside riding sleds. They'll ride their sleds down downy slopes, begging
brothers to man sled ropes.  For smiling Cherubs on Christmas morn, hope and pray for snowy lawns. There in safety they can mold
a fortress or a snowman bold. HA! Now listen to my homily, snow's not for kids only. What would we do on Christmas Day, with ready kids, no snow for play. Imagine kids - your very own - doing
everything at home. Your son, too eager with his horn,
playing Gabriel in the early morn. Recall the rush for toys and games, the push of crowds gone insane. "Why won't she play outside at all?"
Instead she cartwheels down the hall.  SCREAMS OF LAUGHTER - RESOUNDING;  PEELS OF JOY
ECHOING; HAPPY SHRIEKS
RESOUNDING
on silent
Christmas
morn.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
Troubador keep your happy songs
Of love and sin;
Sing for the lost in night and day;
For those that crossed
And cannot say
That love lies lonely
In the grave.
It's dark,
Cold and stark;
Colder than
A cold dead heart
That shuns one's love today.
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
An inconvenient truth
Is a convenient lie.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
Driving home
From Toronto
I had to stop
Before the ***
Took over me.
Underneath
An overpass
I had to do it,
I couldn't last,
I put the car
In park.

Whilst waddling
My zipper
I noticed a blue box.
Of course I meandered,
As I wasn't stranded
So I took a look.

A dead and frozen cat.
That's a cruel fact.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
When you write
Your next verse,
The active voice
Is a better choice.
The passive voice
Isn't as terse,
Your readers get lost,
They may curse,
Or worse,
Disperse.
Will I...
Should I...
Could I..
Might I...
Start a line that might lie,
Start a line that might die.
Can I...
May I...
Would I...
Do I...
Start a line sounding sly,
Start a line that won't fly.
Be pro-choice
With the active voice.
Be the action,
Not receiver,
We'll be believers,
And you'll
Be briefer.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
The weekly news
For the past 5200 weeks,
Fills like the undug dig.
Famine, disaster, disease,
War and ruination
Are piled and plied,
Recycled and reused,
Familiar and alien,
Storied and spun.
Beheadings aren't new or news:
Meathooks and blades
Are rusting beneath the surface,
Dug and brushed off
As relics of our century.
But digs never give the whole story:
The Acts of Kindness,
The ***** donors,
The designated drivers,
The visit of a friend,
The holding hand,
The unexpected gift,
The touch at the end,
The altruism.
We don't lose these;
We don't bury them.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Squeeze, squirt and smear
A pimple,
Keep it disgusting,
But keep it simple.
Like lance a boil
To release its ****,
Describe it well,
Make a fuss
Over the putrid sore,
Use poetic words
To enhance the gore.
Drive your finger
Up your nose,
Spit green lugers
Like gargoyles.
Present yourself
Like a loser.
Pick morning goo
From you eyes,
And wipe it on
Your naked thighs.
Don't clean the dirt
Beneath your nails,
Au natural seldom fails.
Don't brush your teeth
Til afternoon,
This should make
Your lover swoon.
When you pass
The silent bomb,
Take the blame
With aplomb,
Smile as though
You've done no wrong.
Clean the wax
From both your ears,
Use something white
Your love holds dear,
Be ruthless,
Don't show a care.

Use some or all
Of the above,
I guarantee,
A cure for love.
Cohen sang, "There ain't no cure for love." I think I found it.
Francie Lynch Jan 10
We should know better
With or without schooling.
If we willfully refuse,
If we disregard the facts;
We are ignorant.
That's below below average.
We made a choice.
A choice is not a chronic disease.
Not like mine.
It was never my choice.
I don't know if it happened
Before or After,
But the manifestation was slow, profound,
And addictive.
Many just don't get it.
Francie Lynch Apr 2020
While cruising Corona on the net,
I saw pangolins not eaten yet.
Many, you see, believe its scales,
Are cure-alls to cure whatever ails.
And its meat festoons the rich Asian table.

Who ate the pangolin from head to toe.

China lauds its laws to say they save
The endangered pangolins,
At home, in Asia;
Yet in Wuhan, locked live in cages,
In wet markets like our Dark Ages,
The scaly pangolin is sold.

But Revenge,
We know,
Is a dish best served cold.
Francie Lynch Mar 2018
They called him, Paddy,
Who brought the old world here,
With curses, **** and beer.

We called him Towser,
A cur-mixed bowser;
A dog with a bone.
Both lived at home.
"Bowser" is an old word for a dog. Usually a mongrel.
Francie Lynch Mar 2020
I've seen the sequel,
So this ain't the prequel.
Stay strong. Stay SD and use soap.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
This bark's outlasted
The wintery blast,
But at the cost
Of the main mast.
Raise the spiniker
And the jib,
Hoist a sail,
Man the pumps,
There's no good reason
To jump - just yet;
We're temporarily adrift
Searching for a friendly shore
To lay anchor deep,
Waiting for your
Lighthouse eyes
To show the way home.
Francie Lynch Jun 2016
On Sunday, my S.O. and I
Drove to see Chorus Line
At the Stratford Festival.
A matinee. Beautiful day.
We left the Refineries of Sarnia
For fine entertainment.
The Avon flows gently
Buoying white swans gracefully.
Blah... blah... blah.
All very real.
You can see why it's called, Stratford;
There could be no other name.
A good choice.
Best Shakespearean Festival in N.A.
She explained all this to me on the drive.
If contrary people suffer
From low self-esteem, I didn't help
The situation.
As we drove through rich, green farmland,
Grazing cattle.
She asked why some barns
Have ramps leading to the barn doors.
Well, says I,
The farmers, because of the economy,
Have to sell their livestock in parts,
So the ramps give easy access for the animals
Back to their stalls.

Huh, said S.O.
That's so thoughtful!
Timing is everything.
Sincerity in voice, critical.
Hurry on to a new topic.

Someday, for sure, she'll tell someone, somewhere
About the considerate farmer.
She will.
Timing.
Like the kick line.
Like a *punch line.
Stratford, Ontario, Canada
Sarnia, Ontario, Canada
Francie Lynch Aug 2017
Mammy's favorite colour was red.
Cycle red. New born red. Deep cuts red.
And roses.

Daddy preferred earth colour.
New potato patene, manure mix,
And bottle brown.

We all knew green-eyed envy,
White-flag truces and surrenders.
Black somber calls in the pitch of night.
The passion of purple,
Serenity of blue wounds.
The orange hues of morning and evening
Where anticipation and destination meet.
Colour = color when you're Canadian.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
A father is a tree.
He is sappy at times,
And once distilled,
He's sweet.
He radiates limbs
To provide shelter
And shade from harm;
His roots are deep
And nourishing.
He is oak and willow,
Fruitful and sharing.
But most of all,
He hugs like bark.
Francie Lynch Jun 2021
A father is a tree.
He is sappy at times,
And once distilled,
He's sweet.
He radiates limbs
To provide shade
And shelter from harm;
His roots are deep
And nourishing.
He is oak and willow,
Fruitful and sharing.
But most of all,
He hugs like bark.
Francie Lynch Sep 2015
A fool and his heart
Are soon parted.
Sounds flippant
And distant;
Unless you're the fool,
And it's your heart.
Francie Lynch May 2015
I misquoted Marlowe
To my girlfriend;
Whose name happens
To be Helen:
Honey, I said,
You've a face
That's sunk a thousand ships.

She fired.
Francie Lynch Jul 2014
I'm up to my elbows
In Summer sun,
I've hit my funny bone;
The gangs have hit the pavement,
No one mentions home.

The towels are stretched
On sand dunes,
Water falls free and clear,
There's no time for dwelling
On one's sun-kissed despair.

There's amusement parks
And animal farms,
Camps and hiking trails;
Boats slice turquoise water,
I've daughters tugging tails.

And there,
Beneath the snuggled moon
Couples spoon,
Leaving room
For air.

We end our daily frolics
With our evening walks;
I'll find time
To lift my elbows
After equinox.
Francie Lynch Mar 2016
Winter's pristine blankets
Have seeped into the ground.
Animal ****'s like scattered landmines;
Cigarette rubble and plastics
Are strewn about like the aftermath.
I look for survivors.
The thaw has people
Stumbling out of winter
With hands covering faces,
Hiding tears and smiles.
They wave,
As if okay.
Now the reconstruction
Begins.
I like the simple garden. Grass.
Some vegetables,
No ponds or waterfalls,
Or barrels with trickles.
Lost two limbs out the back
Last fall. More sunshine.
A *****, a mower, a compost box,
And a watering hose.
Equinox, **!
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
You have lingered long
At the community gate;
Rubbing yellow fingers
Stained by oxidized
Wrought iron.
Marble arms became
The new paradigm,
The temple curtains tore
And the tabernacle light
Flickered in the breeze.
I stood beside you
In the humidity
As memory divided,
And the dance of the veils
Covered you.
I offered my hair
As a replacement
For your old photos
Pressed between
The pages of
Genesis and Exodus.
Repost. The site had problems.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
Watch
While you have eyes.
Breathe
While you taste the air.
Walk
With your head inclinced.
Touch
With care.
Things
Make sense this way.
Age
Like sleep is stealthful,
Putting the unfeeling
To rest.
Like a woman
Walking away with sway;
You say:
I used to remember such things.
Francie Lynch Sep 2022
We've been cautioned to surrender
Before jack-boots hit our streets;
It was an open warning
With podium bleats like sheep.

They side-stepped all discretion,
They pivoted 'round masked stealth;
They aired their anonymity
On the media's lips of wealth.

And there, behind the curtain skirts,
Lurking in the wings,
In shadows and back street doors,
They listened,
Pulling strings.
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
You're losing weight,
You're eyes are bright,
You're skin is smooth,
Clear and bright,
You're looking great.

You've got a skip
In your step,
You haven't used
****** yet;
Your hair is dark
And deeply thick,
Botox hasn't
Touched your lips.
You don't use an
Under-shaper,
Or lipo-suction
To fit a diaper.

I do believe
You're aging well,
Enjoy what's heaven
On the way to hell.
Francie Lynch Oct 2021
A good liar
Is a bad liar,
And I was the worst.
I lost your trust;
Gave rise to sorrow
And a life of regrets.
I don't ask you forget,
But forgive, with peace,
Lay it to rest.
This is a well worn theme.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Every minute
One thousand empty mouths
Are born into poverty.
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.
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
It's a happy mouse
Trapped in your hold.
Snap!
I'm enwrapped
In rapture.
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
We had *** yesterday.
Reminded me of the cover
Of a Harlequin Romance.
You, the school librarian in the foreground,
Hair up, glasses on a chain, reading.
Me, the Principal in the background,
Just entering your workroom door.
But, back to reality.
The breeze flipped the curtain corner
Along your bronzed leg, and you looked up and smiled.
Was it something you read, the thought in my head,
Or the breath of joy passing by?
Out through the screen, now open in Spring,
To bring the irises to move and radiate.
A breeze that ruffled and teased.
You directed your eyes, bent to your book,
Pleasured and pleased as me
The lace tail fell back to the sill.
Your leg never moved.
Notes (optional)
Francie Lynch May 2015
We've heard from
Abraham, Jesus,
Mohammad and Selassie;
God!
If we'd heard a humble apology
For the pre-emptive strike
In Eden, way back then,
It would have saved us all
A lot of grief.
Francie Lynch Jun 2018
Her party conflicted me.
I worry if her expectations were met
After the last gift's been unwrapped,
And she's wearing her Princess elbow-length gloves,
Her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and chic ball cap.
I took a picture of her sitting on her new bike,
And on the table you can see the remains of birthday cake,
Cards, some ribbon and paper, crumbled past the folding creases.
It's over now, and there she sits, feet on pedals,
A serious look on such an innocent face.
You might think I think she's greedy or demanding,
But I don't. She's not, she's a child,
Expecting great things on a special day,
Her day, which comes everyday,
Until she won't remember this day,
The way I will.
Turned four.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
When she speaks of me
They will think Granda
Is an old man, who wears
Corduroy pants
And a cloth Paddy cap.
They will also think
I wear wire-rimmed specs
And slippers.
That I have a loving heart.
I do.
I'm so pleased Aine
Speaks of me.
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.

They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.

They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.

They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.

They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.

They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.
"our game": hockey
Francie Lynch Jan 2016
Consider the couplets
Cohen sings,
And the rhyming lyrics
Rappers bring;
And tell me
That ain't poetry.
Francie Lynch Mar 2014
A kiss is a sentence
it may run-on and on and...
stop, step off, take a breath.

A kiss is complex
if you're young or inexperienced;
but not to worry;
with time, it's enigmatic.

A kiss is compounded,
when confounded and complex:
and should you try expounding it;
your kiss may lead to ***.

A kiss that is declarative
is indicative not imperative.

A kiss can be inverted;
that's diverted, not perverted.
(or vice versa)

A kiss is exclamatory,
As in, "Not now!"    "I'm sorry!"

A kiss is.
A fragment of a kiss.
At osculum interrupta.

When is a kiss too questionable?
When it's probing, or incredible.

My advice.
Skip the semantics.
Don't parse stars and moon.
Just
Keep It Simple Stupid
Full stop
(or not...)
Francie Lynch May 2016
It's not the losing hair
That's bothersome;
But the bone
With eyes and brows gone,
And an unattached jaw.
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