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Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Mammy's accidents usually happened
Within a hundred foot radius of her stove.
Except the one time she had to work
Outside the home,
At the Aylmer Tomato Cannery.
     (Daddy was in his wet season,
      Being laid off was his reason)

The tip of her thumb was snipped,
And gone.
The joke never got old.
Someone looked inside
Every can we opened -
From that day on -
Truth is,
We always knew
A good bit of Mammy
Was in her stew.
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
The year following
Jimmy's death
(my first encounter,
and my little brother),
I smothered myself
In every read on
Parapsychology,
Astral beings,
OBE's, NDE's,
And plasma projections,
Reincarnation and all
Aberations.
I awarded myself
An Honorary Doctorate
In ******* (Ph. D.B.S.).
Then I met ****** Mary,
As the police called her.
Her keen abilities
Recovered bodies
And the snatchers.
She had a dead-on reputation.
She spoke German and gesticulated
Wildly while she oracled.
Her husband translated simultaneously.
Her sun-room shone,
There were plants on
Every table. No candles.
Perhaps I was mesmerized.
She had one message for me
From the other side:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

Marlene
(my darling little sister,
And my next encounter),
Had a dream the very same
Day I saw my seer.
She dreamt Jimmy
Was alone,
Crying at home,
And through his tears
She clearly hears:
     Tell Francie to leave me alone.

****** Mary was free,
That's right... no fee.
She said her gift
Was for sharing,
And she shared
Her gift with me.
True story. I have left him alone all these many years. "There are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio." (Hamlet)
Francie Lynch Dec 2021
The red bloom that festoons your petals
Reminds me of your petulant cheeks,
Fading in the light
To a coarse rust,
Breaking, falling
To the base,
Mixed with dust.
So take that :)
Francie Lynch Jan 2018
I equivocate way too much.
This time, I want to be absolutely blunt.
Hoping whomever reads this has a moment
Of recognition, insight and acknowledgement.
I would use the word epiphany,
But I want to be as blunt as
A dropped egg, a ***** diaper,
A rock, bird **** or lights and sirens;
Not like cryptocurrencies and 17th century tulips.
I hope to say something full of oomph.

*Don't **** it up again.
It's sliding in that direction.
What business is it of ours
If Canada wants nuclear weapons,
Or Ireland, or North Korea.
Accept all issues of sovereignty,
Except genocide. Then get involved.
We could straighten Pisa if so desired.
The space program by itself should've given us
A hundred years of peace and behaving *****.
We're not going to get another chance at this
For ten million years. That's a guess. A conservative guess.
I love how the past is history,
How the present makes history.
Tomorrows deserve history.
Francie Lynch Jul 2021
We're kinda small,
But we can be tall,
And play with the switches
On the walls.

We can run.
Ready. Set. Go.
You'll never catch us,
Don't you know.

We can reach anything
Out of reach.
We ride our bikes on our street.
We sometimes laugh until we ***.
We get our bruises riding scooters.
We're one on our teeter-totter.
We see-saw you.
Brigid and Ophelia, my twin granddaughters.
BOB
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
BOB
My girlfriend's girlfriends
Have a friend,
     Whom
They demurely refer to as:
      Bob.
He's ever-ready,
Like the bunny,
Current, never late;
And yet he'll never
Ever date.

He's no fireman,
Or a cop,
More Chippendale -
They say he's hot.
He's not needy,
He's out to please,
From what they say,
He likes to tease.
He's not a boy,
He's not a toy.

Later, when the deed is done,
He's not one to kiss and run.
He's the Alpha
And Omega,
He's the cause
Of their hysteria.

Bob surely has a way.

And should the girls
Play hard to get,
Bob's not one
To sit and fret:
And should the girls
Still want to play,
They replace
Two Double A's.
BOB: Battery Operated Boyfriend
Francie Lynch Jun 2015
My girlfriend has coveted
Installed bookshelves
For over thirty years.
She has imagined them
Bookending her hearth,
When a visitor walks up
To scan her collection.
She has books lying about
On her tables, my tables,
A few on outside tables.
She is an insatiable reader,
But never had shelves.
So, as a double gift,
I fabricated,
Installed and stained
To match her gum wood mouldings.
From vision to reality,
Better than Plato.
She's so pleased and proud
She refuses to use them;
To distract the viewer's looks
With books.
Francie Lynch May 2015
I will re-visit
The modern picts,
The viking border people
Comparing *******
And slapping bellies
While giving dheagh shlainte.
They've plundered their last village;
It's been a while since they protected the walls
While sleep sets in.
They raid the pubs,
Raise a glass shield,
Weild a shot glass
Singing shlainte,
The dragon ships have sailed.
dheagh shlainte: Your good health
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
Let's ban beer,
Expel wine,
Prohibit whiskey.

Let's banish ****,
Curse smokes,
Relegate ***.

Drive off knives,
Expatriate guns,
Deport bullies and fists.

Let's ward off the devine,
And the ghosts,
And those who think
They're holy sons;
In any or all
Religions.

Let's proclaim a holy war,
A jihad, if you wish,
Crusade against what
Makes us human,
And live in boring bliss.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
Inside,
I'm naked
And warm,
Where our hearts
Beat
Despite the storm
Of whirling air
And pulsing blood,
Digestive growls
And umbilic crud.
I snuggle in
Fetal bliss,
Where I await
My first kiss
And first cuddle;
Safe
From elemental muddle
Of outside harms.
I see a light,
I'm being torn,
No going back,
I'm reborn.
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 Mar 2017
C                         F                C
On this day we share the notion
           Am             F         C
That a Child born long ago,
                G7                        C    
Called us home to live as children;
C                    G7                  F       C
We hear our name, we're not alone.

C                            F          C
Gather round, sit at our table;
                     Am        F               Dm
Stretch your arms increase, expand.
                 G7                            C
Bless our children, bless our parents,
C               G7             F               C
Count our blessings while we can.

G7           C                           F   C
Oh for today we share believing
C            Am             F        Dm
That the Child from long ago,
                G7                          C
Called us home we are the children,
C                G7                   F     C
We heard our names, never alone.

C                       F              C
Gather round, sit at our table,
C                    Am        F               Dm
Stretch your arms, increase, expand;
                   G7                             C        
Bless your children, bless your parents,
C                 G7              F               C
Count your blessings while you can.

C                            F             C
Borne on the promise of a notion,
C         Am           F     Dm
On the promise of a seat;
            G7                       C
By our love and our devotion
C         G7                      F          C
To the Living Son, our Living Feast.
Same meolody as "The Coast of Malabar" by Ry Cooder and The Chieftians.
Francie Lynch Dec 2015
On this day
We share the notion
That a Child
Born long ago,
Called us home
To live as children;
We hear our name,
We're not alone.

          Gather round,
          Sit at our table;
          Stretch your arms
          Increase, expand.
          Bless our children,
          Bless our parents,
          Count our Blessings
          While we can.

For today
We share believing
That the Child
From long ago,
Called us home
We are the children,
We heard our names,
Never alone.

          Gather round,
          Sit at our table,
          Stretch your arms,
          Increase, expand;
          Bless your children,
          Bless your parents,
          Count your Blessings
          While you can.

Borne on the promise
Of a notion,
On the promise
Of a seat;
By our Love
And our Devotion
To the Living Son,
Our Living Feast.
Repost
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
I'm a born mourner;
Not a whimperer,
Or whiner;
Don't cry for me,
Don't worry for me.
Let me mourn.
Although an orphan,
A singleton,
I'm better off
Than all the dead poets,
Stacked one atop the other,
Babel high.
When that high,
It's a sudden drop.
If somethings human
Should locate
Forty percent of my bones
Sometime down their road,
Then you can worry about me.
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
She was going on
About something,
But the metaphor
Wasn't universal.
Not like,
The funeral was as sombre as Cohen.

When I heard, ... blah, blah, yada, yada,
My attention span snapped,
Started thinking about those born
With a golden voice.
Tip of the fedora to L. Cohen
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
I counted
Thirty-three flies
Stuck
On the fly-paper.
A few stll
Wiggled their wings,
But the feet
Were cemented.
Even if you're born
With wings,
You can't fly off
When well-grounded.
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
We have only ourselves.
Our universe
Is on borrowed time.
Speak truth to power,
And don't dismiss the facts.
Why insipidly focus on polls
Like the failing Times,
The Murdochian lies
And the Hedge Fund huskers
Do.
CNN is rudderless.
The media is fascist,
Bending facts to fit the frame.
There is no Venn Diagram
For comfirmative circles.
Don't treat the true and the false,
The outrageous and the normal
As glossed over good people on both sides.
The sides are not equally valid
Because the Post opines it so.
Inspired by reading the news.
Francie Lynch May 2018
Pop bottles. Boxes of them.
The old man brought them home.
He collected them on the construction site, between lifts.
Sometimes it would be days between lifts,
So he filled time collecting bottles.
Hires, Fanta, Tab, Fresca, 7 Up, Mountain Dew,
Canada Dry
...
Emptied by men, like him, from all over.
What conversations did he have with them
When he picked up the empties.
Did he indulge? He'd have liked Vernors.
Pop bottles were as good as gold.
Large bottles, a nickel: Small, two cents.
He kept us busy, weeding, straightening nails, digging, mixing cement, building fences, painting them, and the house;
Root cellars, garages, additions;
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
Winter had it's own cuffs.

We'd cash in the bottles at Walker Bros.
Every Sunday he'd leave for weeks,
Up North, to places like Kapuskasing and Hearst.
He must've been thinking about us up there,
Collecting our bottles,
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
In Canada we call soda, pop, not soda pop.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
(Warning: This poem has been de-activated on another site. You must be 18 yrs. old to read this; although we were only 15 then)

Way back then,
When we were
Post-pubescent
Boys,
We sat in a circle,
Not a **** ring,
And rhymed our things
Like this:

You make my **** rock;      
You make my thing sing;      
You make my **** stink;      
You make my log throb;        
You make my stick thick;      
You make my chub rub;
You make my ******* long;  
You make my stump jump;  
You make my pole roll;        
You make my wiener leaner;
You make my bone moan;    
You make my man stand;      
You make my limp primp;    
You make my rod applaud;
You make my spear smear;    
You make my peter sweeter;  
You make my one eye cry.

And all in unison:

You make my *******.*

We'd continue with our lines,
Til the case was as empty
As our rhymes.
Them there days of simple joys,
Post pubescent
Boys with  toys.
Send me a few and I'll add them. Could be a rap song by the time we're finished... and more meaningful. :o :)
Francie Lynch Apr 2020
Let me take you back
Over ***-holed tracks
To present day nostalgia;
When six feet away meant a grave,
And not a rule of order.

Let me take you back
Through ***** air,
When smog and soot were normal;
We didn't attend strange masquerades,
Breathing wasn't formal.

Let me take you back
Down the spiral stairs,
When holding rails
Was common.

Would you,
Go back,
To that Brave Old World,
Where we have the poor,
Wars are raging,
The environment's in peril,
With despots engaging.
Hoarders cheat,
Ice-caps retreat,
Animals compete
With billions at the table.
Oceans over-heating,
Egos are defeating
The food chains of our world.
Forests burn bright,
Crops rot from blight,
None treat us right.
And a hundred thousand unsolved queries,
Compounded by some glorious leader.

Let's not go back,
Take small steps onward
Into our Brave Newer World,
That compels us forward.
A tip of the cap to Shakespeare.
Francie Lynch Apr 2020
All global wildfires are extinguished.
Kim has a new heart, and dismantled his *******... arsenal.
Brexit is complete, without N. I.
Millions of refugees find new homes.
Climate change has changed.
The O Zone hole collapsed on itself.
Acid rain got ph-ed.
Russia votes in new fearless leader.
Covid-19 is a Democratic hoax.
Trump resigns saying only,
Oops.
Pigs grow wings.
On an April Fool's note.
Francie Lynch Oct 2023
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
I measured the steps
From the back screen door,
Past the rock water well
And the garden plot,
Down the gravel drive.
The crush of stones beneath
Were the sounds of anticipation.
At the end,
The road stretched and ribboned,
Grey, beneath the harvest sun.
I numbered the fence posts
Up to the tree with embedded wire,
Demarcating the next acre.
The telephone poles like guards
With cats-of-nine tails,
Red-winged blackbirds and wrens
Hanging on trapezes, upsidedown,
With rigamortis clutches.
The few cattle stood cooling in the pond,
The chickens pecked the farmyard dung.
Each day my steps imperceptibly decreased,
Speeding up the monotony of my walk.

I missed the sheep shaped clouds,
But saw them move
Across verdant dales,
Following the stream,
Like lambs.

Today, I look out my kitchen window
To see where my son,
My disheartened, lonely boy,
Counts the steps to Brigden Sideroad,
Feeling the gravel
Hard beneath his feet.
Brigden, Ontario, Canada
Francie Lynch Feb 2017
In my youth,
They called it an Idiot Box,
But at six and eleven,
The real news arrived.
Africa, Vietnam,
Assassinations;
Mr. Ed and Mr. Sullivan shared our dessert.
The IB gave bedlam meaning.
Now,
We're patients in the asylum,
Spotting wardrobe malfunctions,
Commenting on roses,
Losing airwave evangelists
For commandments
Flung from the Tower of Babel.
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 Apr 2016
Whatever hand swirled
In the cosmic bucket,
Continues to stir the stars.
Keep swirling them
Across my sky.
In daylight I know
There's work afoot
Maintaining the equilibrium
Of the gyroscope;
But remove it,
And we're feeding oats
To the horsemen's rides.
The stars will fall in upon themselves;
And me,
And you.
Digits of chance, luck, chaos and coincidence,
And the thumb of phenomena
Move through the infinite waters,
Clockwise,
One second at a time,
Swirling, swirling, swirling,
Like the snail on a rock.
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
I have a Buddy,
True Buddy,
A Buddy all life long,
When days are long
My Buddy,
Makes right
All that's wrong.

I have a Buddy,
Dear Buddy,
A Buddy when I'm glad,
For years I know
My Buddy,
Can always count on Dad.

My little Buddy
Has a Buddy,
To always depend on;
When Buddy
Needs her Buddy,
She'll always hear her song:

     I want you Buddy
     To read to me,
     Walk with me,
     Skate with me,
     To share with me,
     To laugh with me,
     Sometimes
     To cry with me.
     I need you Buddy
     To stand with me,
     Grow with me,
     Be by me.


I have a Buddy,
True Buddy,
A Buddy
All life long.
When days are long
My Buddy,
Makes right
All that's wrong.
Written years ago for Andrea.
Francie Lynch May 2015
Do atheists
Privately pray
For God to say:
******* Off!
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
I notice tadpoles
Wearing push-ups
To look like bullfrogs.
Francie Lynch Feb 2016
*******. Pure and simple. *******.
Be like a vampire
Refine your tracking trait,
Saving time and disappointment.
Recognize it when you hear it,
See it, read it.
I've had to eat beside it.
It rarely smells until identified,
You sense the patties are everywhere,
Inside and outside the paddock.
Speak out when encountered:
*******, plain and simple.*
Point in its direction,
Be a searchlight.
The room goes silent
Like a stop-action clip,
Frozen for the stink to seep.
Everything has the stench.
They're skilled,
But shallow.
One needs to go home and wash,
Do the laundry. Clean the kitchen.
Honestly!
Francie Lynch Jun 2015
Find yourself
A moment of leisure,
Read a little known
Poem;
Give it life
For one less known
In Buried Treasures.

Let me begin
With Lady Death;
She penned Words.
It's worth another post,
Well-worth another read!
Too many superb poems that don't get our attention. I've been doing this for a while now. I'm stunned at the number.
Francie Lynch Aug 2016
If you're callous
Towards Humanity,
Expect heat blisters
In Immortality.
Francie Lynch Mar 2018
Eight of us sat at the table that night,
Rehashing the news,
Retelling the plots,
Familiar voices singing old songs;
Getting it right.

Between hors d'oeuvres and bottles,
One wife remarked,
She wished her husband
To be better read.
To us who knew her,
She said better bred.
A point best kept
Within her head,
Silent and unsaid.

He turned red,
The goodly man and dad,
A lad who could build
From ethereal prints in his head.

I could feel the company's dread.
He pushed his chair out,
Stood sturdy and stable,
Looked at the company
Sitting full round his table:

I can't read or write too good,
I'd be a Stooge in Hollywood,
Don't believe she said it in spite,
For forty years she's been my wife.
She knows I'll never change my ways,
She says things just to hear her voice
.

Then sat with his elbows back on the table.
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
The local storm warning finds me on the porch,
Out the back, observing the strength of wind,
The swag of trees.
The eye of the storm is passing overhead,
And the lightening blinks wistfully,
As a gesture to take cover
Before the rain and hail fire down,
All over town, windows open,
Curtains drawn, lights on early.
I persevere, but my dry season is coming to an end.
I remembered the storms in Kilarney,
Looking out from *Butler's Snug.
Snug: Pub
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
The three-legged stool
Wobbles, and I have sat
Waiting to be knocked
As one tumbles a tall
Statue and proclaims
Freedom from tyranny.
Me, a demi-god,
That fed manna
For your desert sojourn
On wind-swept dunes,
Following car tracks
And the fore-prints of
Your elders.

Lift the ****** veil,
Smile at your betrothed,
Seal it with a ring.
Masters are butterflies pinned
To corkboard,
With translucent harlequin colors.
These high towers,
And stools,
Give One
Insightful perspectives.
The Monarchs
Have left for Mexico.
Francie Lynch May 2014
I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true),  not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your ***.” every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-***, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell  you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo  ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco.  Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *******,” he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***.
Francie Lynch Jun 2014
I golfed with Byron yesterday. And no, he didn't "kick my ***" as promised. It's always an edifying round with Byron. On the links he looks more like Dorf than Frodo. Sometimes I glimpse the top of his head when he's in the rough, or see a cloud of sand, like the Roadrunner hitting the ground after the inevitable fall. Our conversation (his conversation)  gamuts from his re-constructed porch to life on Mars. He'd like to build a porch on Mars. He is an Everyman almanac. His back swing is like a tilting windmill, and I, his Sancho, suggesting which club to use. In fairness, he makes some remarkable shots. Here are some I've heard:
"To pinch one off, inhale, then cough." This sums up Byron's intestinal fortitude. He takes heavy doses of codeine and morphine for his back.

"Don't swab your ears with asparagus spears." This is the extent of Byron's relationship with veggies. He's more a plant man.

"During ***, if she wiggles her toes, she's still wearing ***** hose." Byron gives a full belly laugh at the double entendre.

"If you pick your nose choose the best plastic surgeon." Yeah, I know. Cute. Byron himself sports a double car garage.

"Men who manscape must **** or go ape." Pure irony for Byron. Nothing sharper than the bearded axe approaches his iron.

"Ladies, when you quin manicure, design it with a touch of *****." That's Byron. Discrete, gentle and quizzical.

"If you *******, get to the point. Don't hesitate." Byron would never admit to such self-indulgence.

It was a gorgeous golf day. Byron seems to make the sun shine a little brighter. He promises, next time, he'll kick my ***.
Francie Lynch Jun 2014
Byron wants me to invite all my friends on HP to a pig roast. Rest assured, when Byron has a pig roast fun is surely to be expected. Here's his invitation.

You're invited to my pig roast.

I told him he'd have to do better, that he's talking to a collection of rhymers, wordsmiths, and gesticulating anthropomorphics. He had no idea what the **** I just said, but he did do an edit.

Here's his edit.

You're Invited to My Pig Roast

Your toad on the road
Only squats, never stands,
Or sits 'til he splits
Between the treads of your van.

Your mouse in the house,
If it isn't found out,
Drops pellets in pots,
'Til snap, then it stops.

Your bird on the wire
Sweetly sings then lets fire;
And a cat in a hat
Is cute, but that's that.

Your horse from the stable
Won't be served from your table;
And the deer by the brook,
Well, too much the Bambi to cook.

Yes a bear in the wood
Indeed craps where it should;
He's best left alone
While your meat's on your bone.

Then there is the PIG.
A ruddy pink porker,
Intelligent and clean,
An innocuous oinker.
It does nothing that's heinous,
And yes, it should shame us,
As it lies silently smiling
With a spit up its ****.

Please bring your own lawnchair, *****,  and women.
The pig's on me.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
Peep. Peep. Peep.
Wee chicks
I love to keep.

Peep. Peep. Peep.
Chicks cluster
At my feet.

Peep. Peep. Peep.
In warmth and comfort
Sleep.

Peep. Peep. Peep.
For weeks
You feed and peep.

Oh little Peeps
On grain you're fed;
Wee Peeps,
Wee Peeps,
Now dead.
Now dead.
Byron raised his first ten chicks and we brought them to the slaughter house. Byron needed to write this to flesh out the bond between man and chicken.
Francie Lynch Jun 2014
Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ******. The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my ***” in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.

Intimations of Fairway Play

I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.

I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.

I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.

I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.

I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.

I'd rather shank or stub my ****,
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.

Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.

Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all *******.
Francie Lynch Jun 2020
It's not a macho thing.
It's not a Republican choice.
He's not worried
We won't hear his voice.
He just can't wear a mask,
It's not because of manly fears;
It's just Putin
Likes to hold
**** lickers by their ears.
The mask would keep slipping off with each lick.
Francie Lynch May 2017
An infant has no cares
For affairs of any state,
Outside its snotty, soiled, salty-eyed self.
It needs no By whose authority.

From a second passing glance,
The child recognized individuality,
Exerted some influence,
But succumbs to authority.

By the teens, there is control
Over the body; offers suggestions,
Some listen;
Builds a matrix,
Sits for ID,
Moves from table to table,
Much more careful of soiling.
The third glance confirms the leap

To twenty-one, a global adult
Of the **** Erectus.
Exposing clan colours,
Digging trenches, eating meat.
Soiled, salted and respected

At fifty, and recognizing the conflict,
The approach of incriminating retirement,
Visitors commenting on the lack of edges,
The smoothness of demeanor.
Late life arrived before relaxation,
And the falling off of directives.

Who wants to **** with you
And your remaining sanity.
By whose authority do they act.

I grow weary of worldly affairs
As infancy nears.
Francie Lynch Nov 2019
Ever find oneself in a situation
Where one's completely caught.
The evidence is overwhelming,
The witnesses so incredible;
One's on the gallows of one's own design.
One knows it,
No matter how sorry one feels for oneself.

Even the phrase, Never Give Up
Gives no meaning to hope.
One is spiritually destitute.
Morals, ethics et al all good.
Head mixed up, but operational.

… and... and...

One's alone with one's thoughts,
Perhaps for days, weeks.

… thinking... thinking...
... searching... searching...
... for
A solution requiring a solid, tight ally;
Brother, sister, close friend - closest -
And it worked, but for one thing:
The ally must die,
By one's own hand.
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Cain's despair of separation
Needed no mark.
His anquish looks back at me
Through the ink spots
And small words,
Useless words when the ethereal is in play.
The co-joining and sharing
Of organs and events.
Children carrying my stories to you
Like a string between two cans.
I hear your virbrations
Through them.
Whew!
Glad I live here,
And not there.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Happy Canada Day!!
One of the finest
Edens on Earth.
July 1, 1867 -

NB: I would never choose Good Reads or Let It Trend unless it was Canada Day.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
When you hear of a new diagnosis
For someone known,
It begins again.
Every cloud seems special,
Every disappointment relative
To the breaking news.
My eighty on the links
Isn't so remarkable now -
Or is it?
Relative or not,
I'll carry my clubs tomorrow too.
Pain is a continual part of our lives.
Francie Lynch Jan 2016
The air is charged and ominous,
A stench is settling on us,
Like ashes on our skin.
How did this begin?

Bones held in hands
Took foreign lands;
Fires on sticks
Extinquished the magic
That once held us in awe.

Then the sky's truly lit,
They've fired bigger sticks
From beneath the waves,
Into the air,
Or silos hidden
Below the stars,
With candles brighter than before,
That darken skies,
Turn day to night,
And colour our skin
With ashes.
N. Korea has just tested their H-Bomb.
Francie Lynch Nov 2019
We tagged him Candle Sticks,
Called him that
When he was six.
Snot oozed down
Around his lips.
It was one of those taunts
That seamlessly sticks.

When he ran in the race,
He finished dead last;
His pants fell down,
Exposing the ***,
Of a hometown clown.

Many times I'd see him
Standing in the movie line,
Taking his aisle seat.
Or stocking butter and cheese
In the dairy case at Foodland;
Or under the bridges,
On a bench, watching the freighters
Power on to foreign cities;
Smiling at the fishermen casting their lines.

I think I saw him cry,
In the library, reading the local paper
In a secluded carrel.

I heard he walked to the Bridge,
And jumped.
Candle Sticks.
It stuck.
Bluewater Bridge, Sarnia.
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