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Francie Lynch Aug 2016
From this hypocrite
To all others,
Let's not pretend
We're all brothers.
Stop the smile,
Stop the shakes,
The vacuous pats,
The thumbs up signals
That we're great.
I know you haven't
Got my back.
Let's assume
We're new strangers;
Start again,
Yet still pretenders:
It still comes out the same.
Francie Lynch May 2015
I admit, in writing,
I like my work read
Aloud.
So why do I cower
In dread,
When I hear it read
Before family and friends
At celebrations
For the living and dead.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
I always wanted
To be a sage,
Have ears attentive
When I speak,
Have listeners sit-up
In their seats.
Sadly, this only
Comes with age.

I always wanted
To be a looker,
Have heads turn
When I walk by,
Hear my name
In whispered sighs.
Sadly, this only
Comes from hookers.

I always wanted
To be a lover,
Have women oogle
Like no others;
Call out my name
When they scream.
Sadly, it happens
In my dreams.

I always wanted
To be rich,
Have everything at
My fingertips.
This is one
I got done,
My wealth I found
In my children.
Francie Lynch Aug 2014
I am a victim
Of crimes against
Humanity.
Being members thereof,
We are perpetrators
Sharing the accused's glass box
Or standing as a witness.

With arms raised
We surrender with deference
To pulpits, daises, chambers, courts,
Banks and dealers.
In a slight of mind
We conferred,
Then anointed
The con-men
and
The can women.

It's spellbinding.
Almost pointless.
We won't insist one
Indict one's self.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
I don't have
A portrait
Draped in my empty attic;
But I have
A rear-view mirror
To reflect back all my antics.
I see them strewn
Across the road,
Drivers swerve
To avoid these loads.
I've littered streets
With vices,
Discarded sharpened axes,
Hewed at those
Who've loved me
With remorse;
Regrets, I carry
In my trunk,
Like junk
They take up space.
I haven't room
For my spare,
Emergency flares
Or personal cares.
So, I stare straight
Out my windshield,
Convince myself
I'm healed,
I buttress nerves of steel,
And continue down my road.
Like all good drivers
I check my mirrors,
And there I see
Red lights draw nearer.
I should take up
Portrait painting
To cover up
My shame.
I am guilty;
I've not
Been framed.
Francie Lynch Dec 2024
The paper, with ** **s,
Lies crumpled on the floor.
The Santa wreath with berries,
Clings  haphhazardly on the door.
The darkling tree with heirloom baubles,
Will be tomorrow's chore.
I'll rise and go to bed now;
That's it. There is no more.

It doesn't change from year to years;
Behind my eyes, my happy tears,
Behind my lips, I smirk and smile,
Behind me lies this Season's sighs.

The following day I'll stow away
All semblance of this Christmas Day;
Pack up all my anticipations,
And closet my poor celebrations.
There disappointments and delights,
Are kept under wraps
When kept out of sight.

Yet, being a man of age and sage,
I know I will turn the page;
And begin again to wish and hope,
Making me a Christmas Dope.
Francie Lynch Feb 2021
My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under the sun's shield and the scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.
Happy Valentine's Day
Francie Lynch Nov 2023
My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under sun and scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.
Francie Lynch Aug 2017
Every misused glass of water,
Every slight at sons and daughters,
Every successful missile test,
Cars idling, cows lowing,
All the chemtrails we don't see blowing,
Every dent, every theft, every lie and mocking jest,
Can't be held tight to the chest.

Distended stomachs, cardboard boxes,
Soup kitchens and needy churches,
Gay slamming and alternate choices,
These and more need our voices.

Add the carbon in our air,
Two-headed frogs warning, Beware,
The paltry state of our bees,
The fires devouring our noble trees,
The motors on our inland lakes,
These and more will not wait.

All that crawls, swims or wings,
All of us and everything,
Is everything to all,
There's no time to hesitate,
For I am the aggregate.
We are the aggregate. Every sparrow that falls has its effect.
Francie Lynch Mar 2023
I believe in her.
Not in supplication or prayer,
But because she cares
About every countless hair,
Every fallen sparrow
And unopened flower.
I believe
In her power,
Her daily miracles.
She cries wet tears,
Her heart beats blood,
Her hands open and close
Around **** or rose.
She's no ****** deity;
She's not ascended beyond reach.
Not an image of pity,
Craddling a bruised and ****** body
(Though she would).
She is flesh and thought.
I believe
Because she is.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
I brought a poem
Into a room
Of well-to-dos.
They went to
North American schools.
They looked at it
For
A middle-class clue.

It's a poem, I said.

... and I know it.
...and violets are blue.
Said someone who
Said she knew
A poem or two.

To my dismay
And loss of face,
They'd never heard
Of Keats or Yeats,
But everyone knew
Of  Dr. Seuss.

I will write a rhyming verse
About a dog or cat or simple mouse.
Francie Lynch Apr 2022
I'm hardly the one
You left behind,
Twenty odd years ago;
The suit fits much better,
Now I'm in the show.
I'm not using slight-of-hand,
No smoke or mirrors,
Just running sand;
The big tent long left town.

I know the four directions,
And how my wind will blow.
And even at a four way stop
I know who has the right-of-way.
And when it's my turn to turn,
I'll step on the pedal and spin my wheels
And drive myself insane.
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
Oh, I can fly,
And not just
In dreams;
And the landing's
Safer
When I spread
My wings;
And open my eyes
In my dive,
For the rush of
Trees.
Francie Lynch Mar 2021
I was told if I ate worms,
I could fly.
Ever since, I've stepped over sun-baked sidewalk worms.
I recall eating an orchard apple from the ground.
That didn't end well.
Rockwell suggested frying them.
Hamlet punned about worms travelling through a King.
Don't be called a worm.
Don't worm your way in,
You'll likely find a hook.
I'm forever grounded.
The worm hasn't turned.
Thomas Rockwell wrote How to Eat Fried Worms.
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
I can't forget what never happened,
With false memories of you.
I wish to forget the events that did
The ones that haunt me still.
The ribbons and bows of preparations,
The unbridled joy of celebrations;
The returning  from varied vacations,
The last corner turn onto our street.
The Sunday meals with family,
Grandkids bouncing on our knees
While I sit content by you.
Afternoons with books and tea,
Steeped in a ****** mystery.
The silent walks beneath our galaxy;
Entwined and wrapped watching t.v.,
The quiet evenings burning fires,
The passion of our own desires.
Or just laying awake while you sleep.
I placed the whats in the who, where, when;
Recalling shadows of future events,
That won't be happening again.
Francie Lynch Sep 2016
I can't stop you falling
When you're not in my arms;
I don't hear you crying
When you're in foreign lands.
I can't hear you calling
To me from afar,
And I can't spread a balm
To cure cuts and your scars.
Your plight's universal,
But personal to me,
Your growing pains hurt
When you learn to be free.
But,
If I could just hold you,
Behold and enfold you,
The first thing I'd do
Is probably scold you.
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
I chose ice-cream
Over yogurt;
Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate.
Each equally without prejudice
Attracted.
The fifteen year old server
Was kinda short;
The vanilla tub had about three scoops
Remaining,
Stacked hidden like frozen snow-*****
As in war games.
His task would have been daunting
And embarassing,
And I, a humanitarian
From higher education,
An altruist from St. Joseph's,
Could not allow it.

The chocolate tub
Was yet covered,
And the sobbing child's cries
Were hardening in my ears
As Dad tried to allay
His chocolate tears,
Applying the five second rule.
I am an empath
By nature and poetry,
So, turning from chocolate,
Left me strawberrry.
Triple scoop too.
I believe
You thought through
Your choices
Like flavors of ice-cream.
Being imaginative,
I do.
Francie Lynch Jan 2018
Take solace from sol;
The icicles are long,
And elongating.
The longer the icicles, the closer spring.
Francie Lynch Jan 2017
We're so sure
Concerning births,
With one hundred billion
Born on Earth
Since chaos turned to form;
There's fourteen times more people dead
To the eight billion this time round.
And yet,
I can't conceive
The finality of death.
The equation's misconstrued:
Of all the numbers
Come and gone,
I count mine,
Not yours.
No transmigration, reincarnation, elevation, ascensions, etc. Just death.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
On my bookshelf
There is a stuatue
Of a monkey
With wire-rim glasses
Reading,
Looking
Like Rodin's Thinker.
I don't know who
The sculptor is,
But he's guilty
Of Identity Theft.
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
She clung to me like willow shade,
With one step I'm in the sun;
If my day got hot and hazy,
I knew where to run.

She dropped a force field round me,
From ground up to my crown;
I burrowed once beneath her,
But I was digging down.

I want to cross the street.
I want to ride a bike.
I want to stay til morning,
To keep with her all night
.

I listen for the breathing;
A sign from her eyes;
I want her lips to move and lie,
Only babies cry.

She lay with no reply.
My willow waned and died;
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
Some past details are sketchy now,
There's things I know I've done:
I did a spliff with Neil Young,
Had a pint with Pete's best singer,
Walked on Nelson's ship,
The ship that shook Napoleon.
Stole The Dubliners cigarettes,
And the matches too.
McCartney once played for me,
Cat Stevens served us tea.
Leonard was with Suzanne,
He'll always be your man.
I imagine Lennon at his white grand,
Making love to ivory keys;
Krishna George on a cushion,
With sitar on his knees.
Joni's paradise was paved,
But we saved many trees.
I once floated on a zeppelin,
Beneath the dark side of the moon.
I didn't need an aqualung
To help with songs I sung.
We were changing with the times,
And the times they were a changin.
ELP and Alice Cooper,
Zappa, Jackson Brown,
Brought us high,
But we came down.
There's so much more to be done,
But when this life has been run,
I'll cross my legs and play some chords
Of yesterday and days before.
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
They believe I did it,
They saw it in my eyes;
But I didn't really do it,
You know the kind of lie.

I simply compromised;
And so, I didn't do it;
But I know I lied I did,
Have you used this disguise?
Caught up in your silly lie?

It started out sincerely,
I really meant to do it;
I had the plan in place,
It took me by surprise.

I honestly didn't do it,
And they believe I did;
But I know I didn't do it,
And I can't ****** answer, *Why?
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
Be careful spewing in idiotic arguments.
Idiots has two I's.
Francie Lynch Sep 2017
I don't like that picture framed,
Looking from my shelf;
You're no longer like that,
No longer you're yourself.
I don't like your smiling eyes,
I don't like your hair,
I don't like the way you look,
I don't like you there.
I had plenty,
I was twenty,
A life ahead of me;
I don't like your picture there,
Looking down on me.

I'll place a new shot on the shelf,
A recent picture of one's self,
Mirroring pangs of time,
The heartaches that are mine.
A picture of an aged-worn man,
A head that droops,
Shoulders stooped,
A face laced with worry lines,
A wry smile covering crimes;
A still life and a pantomime.
I don't like that picture there,
When I was in my prime.
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.
Notes
Francie Lynch Feb 2016
You dream.
You dream like me.
I dream.
I dream of you.
Submit.
Admit to twilight swirls,
You dream,
You dream like me.

During the night,
Out of the blue,
Not always,
Yet always,
In the most unusual settings:
The dreamer and the dream concur
The reality is not so sure.

There's those you expect to see,
Leaning into conversations;
There's others there
We want to talk to,
The scene eludes you,
Trying to get through.

The conversatin goes nowhere:
A room full of comfort people
We're surprised to see.

We think it not quite possible,
But the talk makes us believe
These unreal cacophones,
You see,
You dream,
I dream too.
Francie Lynch Mar 2020
Nero fiddled,
POTUS diddled,
The outcome is the same.
Handbaskets are in flames.
I, said:
Others are to blame.
The USA needs a leader, and he's not it.
Oh, and Nero blamed the new religion, Christianity. The irony is, Trump thinks he is the new religion.
If
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
If
If you were a book,
I'd read you again.

If you were a ride,
I'd wait in line.

If you were my dream,
I'd never awaken.

If you were a star,
I'd never look down.

If you were a flower,
I'd never look up.

If you were mine,
I don't know what I'd do;
But I'd do it.
Francie Lynch Nov 2017
The disembodied radio host asked:
If you could live a past experience,
What would you choose?

I searched my far and recent memories.
What would it be?
Some thought ensued...
Then some more.
A week's gone by. Here's why.
Seven days ago...
I'd like, I thought, to bumper-jump
In four inch snow.
Then six days ago...
The tender, innocent, inviting experience
Of my most amazing, surprising and tantalizing
First Kiss.
Then five days ago...
My university years. They happened once.
Then four days ago...
Achieving a pleasing place with my avocation.
Then three days ago...
The first born, second born, third born. Daddyhood.
Then two days ago...
My happy and contented first day of retirement.
One day ago...
A Guiness and a shot of Jameson. Grandahood.
And today?
What would I like to re-experience...
Many more days
Like today.
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?
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
If I say
I hate you,
I mean to say
I know you
As much
As if
I love you.
Francie Lynch Apr 2021
Take your Seven Deadly Sins,
And butcher them with punctuation.

Capitalize on floods, famines and fires.

Express sickness, war and homelessness.

Parse politics.

Syllabicate and spell out for all to read
The horror of homelessness and apathy.

There.
Nothing's too real we can't fictionalize... marginalize,
Again, and again, and again.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
You'd play too
If life was
Like tennis:
99.9% out
Is 100% in.
Francie Lynch Aug 2017
I am not a King, like Henry,
But I've princes and princesses.

I am not a Neruda,
But I'm read.

I am not a Lewis,
Yet others laugh with me.

I am not a Palmer,
Though I've aced a few.

I am no Lennon,
However, I'm asked to sing.

I am far from being a Casanova,
And yet, I'm not alone.

I am no Graham,
Though the spirit moves me.

I am no Saarinen,
But my children sleep in beds I made.

Don't call me an Einstein
Because I've understood.

I am not a Child,
But you are welcome at my table.

I am none but myself.
If they spoke,
They'd envy me.
Francie Lynch Apr 2017
Hey, Xavy:
If we're still here
When you get older,
Check out the potholes on my street;
Are we still planting telephone poles,
Accusing animals for sky blue holes?
Are there tourists in S.E. Asia;
Did Manhattan disappear?

Are people dying with different bodies,
Still thinking with their transplanted heads?
Do we build schools, did the shootings stop?
Is work still measured by the clock?
Do well-heeled shepherds still manage flocks?
Have you seen our  fingers evolve,
Does anyone listen to voices at all?

When you get there, Xavy,
Take a look.
Did they heed the Richter scales,
The geo-thermal warnings,
The snow caps' warmings?
Does wildlife drink from Winter's brooks,
Is the soil capable of growth,
Does Spring herald re-birth?

Your spirit is indomitable.
No problem insurmountable.
Denial is unintelligible,
The sacrifice regrettable,
But no other choice acceptable.
And the legacy left remarkable.

Ah, Xavy, What I would give to be a small part of your unfolding world.
But I've got to go.
All the Best.
Granda
Xavy: Short for Xavier, my grandson.
Francie Lynch Aug 2016
If you'd been here
When I was young,
You'd not forget
What we'd have done.

We'd climb roofs,
Jump in the river,
****** neighbour's pears,
Then skedaddle,
Laughing with sweat-matted hair,
Wiping off those grown-up cares.

We'd bumper-jump in four inch snow,
And never let our parents know.
Oh, such fun we two would do,
If I could stay as young as you.

We'd skate and bike,
Play street ball,
Act up in school,
Stand in the hall;
We'd hike with jars
Along country brooks,
Read and trade
Our comic books.
Lie in the sand,
Burn in the sun,
Forgetting it was time for home.
We'd never tire of our treats,
And often we'd forget to eat
Because we're having all our fun:
If you'd been here when I was young.

We'd play Tag and Red Rover,
Flags and Chase,
Then have sleep-overs.
We'd swap tomorrow
For daily pearls,
Then swap each other
For pretty girls.

We'd be up to our shenanigans,
Sleep the sleep,
Then start again.
This is the way
We'd have our fun,
If you'd been here
When I was young.

But now you're here,
And I'm much older,
The things we'd do
You'll do with others;
But when you need a  boost to climb,
This old man has a shoulder.
Yes,
I'll sure have lots of fun,
For you're here now.
That keeps me young.
For my new Grandson, Xavier (b. July 23rd.)
Thanks for all your readership and support. I hope you enjoyed the read as much as I enjoyed the write. Peace.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
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.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
If you want a ballad
On a tragic conflict
Of important people,
With a little magic,
I can write of kidnapped girls
Who disappeared
From our world.

I can pen a narrative
On the Lady of the White House
Seeing her world
Reflected in a mirror,
Like Jackie's interior struggles
With all of Jack's trollops.

Perhaps a dramatic monologue
Such as Push one for English.

Sonnets will cost you more,
But an ode comes cheaply
As I praise your features
In lofty style,
Or personify
Your shoes with soul.

I can be a winner
With eulogies
And elegies.
I once grieved for Elvis
While standing
At the dais
With lyrical style
And more.
Just say what you adore;
If you need a poet laureate,
I can write a couplet.
Francie Lynch Jan 2017
When you soar,
Others are up there too.
When you fall,
You fall on someone.
When you stand,
You don't wait alone.
When you dream
Of having wings,
Or being chased, tripping
And falling before the beast,
When you dream
Of being naked in the crowd,
Laugh out loud,
You're still not alone.
There's a few billion doing the same.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
If your heart
Is racing,
Rest between
The steps,
Breathe between
The pulses,
Respire with desire,
But don't
Miss a beat.
Francie Lynch Sep 2015
If I were to write you
A love poem
(this is only hypothetical),
So, let's pretend,
Like poets do.
Would you fit inside
The confines of a sonnet:
No, you're more free,
More like a breeze.
You're not ballad-like;
Though you could be
With those alluring green eyes.
I'd work on an ode
But you don't like heights.
We're not close enough for couplets, yet.
Free verse sounds like a fine fit.
You may end up being a muse someday
If I get the hang of it.
Most certainly when our elegy's written.
Francie Lynch Aug 2017
I appear unexpectedly,
For no apparent reason;
And I begin a conversation
You've waited for.
You're reticent when I speak,
When I sit in a familiar chair
In a room we both know;
Where I don't belong.

I've no control over my visits,
No more than yours.
Others are peripherally present,
With marbled voices.

Your focus is me,
Wondering why I'm there.
Do I move to your blind spot, occasionally?
I am invasive and untoward.
I am not plasma, a phantasm or apparition.
I emerge from the mist to your surprise.
     What are you doing here?
I ask the same when you visit,
Yet I love to see you, relaxed, intwined.
You treat me as an old friend
With inquiries and interest.

I have so much to confess to you,
But you're disinterested in past failures.
Someone interrupts us,
You leave,
Through the same ethereal.

If you called to say you were coming
For a visit,
I'd get no sleep.
Francie Lynch Sep 2024
In my 20's
In the 70's
I was long in hair,
Donned vests and jeans,
From Goodwill Stores.
But I spent hard cash
On calf-high boots,
Raven black platforms.

Now in my 70's
In these 20's,
They threw me a party.

Hello 70's.
You Are Invited
To a 70's Party.
Groovy attire welcome
.

Was I obliged.
Soon compelled.
Nearly obsessed.

Then the epiphany.
The Bard,
Reminds this walking shadow
In the long, gray-haired rented wig.
Phrased I refused to use back then: Groovy. Far Out. Heavy... or Heavy Duty. Savage Cabbage. blast
Other than that, things were cool.
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
I hate love
When forced
To say
Good-bye.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
You
   can             shine
a     light
          on        me;
          yes      please
            brighten                    up
    my                   day
           just send
   five
   bucks
    my
    way.
Mail cheque to me. Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. N7V4B5
Francie Lynch Sep 2015
I have a nome de plume,
A pseudonym,
An AKA that let's me tell
My secret.
None but me,
And the new moon
Knew it til this day.
I'll start
And end these poems
The same:
Using my new name.
I'll start
Saying something simple
Yet so simply profound;
The surest poem
With truth to its words
In all of creation -
*I Love You
Francie Lynch Jun 2021
It's not your business,
But you asked;
Don't.
There are bigger concerns,
The phone lines are open.
Attend a town hall;
Write an editorial.
Churches have eager ears
That listen in the dark
Behind oak lattice.
You could walk away
With three Hail Marys,
And a slew of Glory Be's.
But I have a question for you,
What's your business?
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
I'm not in love.
I once was,
The knock-down feeling,
Gasping.
Was it on a summer log,
Or was that jealousy
Of the lapping  water at your feet.
The snow angel made
When you lay down.
The burning leaves still tingle.
I picked the orchid corsage.
Love goes,
But never seems to leave.
I've compared.
You're more fragrant,
Warmer, cooler.
Still in the world
To remind
There's only so much time.
The date will follow
The chiseled hyphen,
No other name
To read.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
I hear a motor
In my head,
Cranking, moaning,
Turning, turning...
Nearly dead.

I have an onion
In my head;
Has it a seed
I can embed.
So I keep
Peeling, peeling...

I have a pencil
In my head,
An HB2
With blunted lead,
Scratching on
A blank cortex,
Itching to put
Thought to text.
Scratching, scratching...

I have dough
Inside my head,
Needing kneading
Just like bread.
When it's baked
Sliced and spread,
I'll serve it up
Outside my head.
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