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Francie Lynch Jul 2021
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
Turned noses down that stood straight 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.
All true.
Zywa Jun 2019
It is going well, we are driving fast
away from where the bombs fall
Fatima's hand sways move move

We are many
stronger than the rules
we break through them

to a rich country, not a monastery
we do come to live slowly
but we bring our own rules

We want to work, take time
to learn and get married
to have a future

and to give it
to our parents
who did not believe in it
Hamsa = five, the amulet “hand of Fatima”, originally “hand of Inanna” (Sumer, 5000 BC), then “hand of Ishtar” (Akkad, 2300 BC); Jews used the hand against the evil eye

Collection “The migration”
Francie Lynch Jan 2019
That's me in the picture,
A collage of brothers and sisters;
I'm held high in my Mammy's arms,
Days before leaving Ireland.

Six months later, in our new home,
On a couch in our front room,
We pose again.
(See the console in our romper room?
It's testament to our boom and boons)

There's thousands of miles between those shoots,
And four million loved ones left behind
In a life and land we won't have again.
(That's the way life was back then)
No Face Time, #MeTime,
Sometimes a landline,
But always a letter in a card at the right time.

Brothers and sisters are missing.
In neglected churchyards,
And yet my mother smiles,
All the while.

Sixty years on, we pose again,
Sharing four hundred years here,
With seven hundred left behind:
Years of Famine and Hedge Schools,
Foreign invasions and Imperial Rule.

We stand *****, shoulders touching,
Between them loved ones missing;
Gone before the shutter opened,
A partial story as pictures go.

We're Irish proud,
Some of Canada's best;
An Irish-Canadian
When laid to rest.
Brothers and sisters died before we left Ireland, and brothers and sisters died after we arrived in Canada. But the six sibs that left Ireland are still alive and well.
Edit and re-post.
A crush
that a
sparrow thrush
their derricks
while her
pipit engross
mere interlude
that multiped
flinch there
underground that
oil rich
with plasma
there made
this puppy
ready masquerade
shelter for
abject promulgation
A legal notice
Cian Kennedy Sep 2017
The capital’s streets weave around me

So tight that it almost looks like I’ve forgotten

but you can’t see what’s underneath

the ember of an emerald

Of vast green fields stretching as far as I can see

Of the white beads dripping down a 99

From the orange September sun



The capital’s buildings tower above me

So high no sun comes through

We seek it out

Like we’ve left it behind here or there

behind this building or that.



The capital’s people stare blankly

Not knowing their howiya from their how are you?

But we won’t hold it against them.

Their blue suits

White shirts

And red socks.



I’ll keep my colour scheme, thank you.

My fields

My ice cream

And my sun.



All that remind me of home.
ciankennedy.me
danny Sep 2017
Packed my bags
Flew the next week,
Ignoring the doubts,
I got fulfillment to seek.

Misunderstood accent,
Mispronounced name,
Ashes to ashes,
Foolish, its still the same.

Vague history,
Mistakes erased,
Broke and dream poor,
Resolve unfazed.

A new chapter,
closed door,
Figuring it out,
What I want and more.
I emigrated without giving it too much thought, and it has been very hard and tough but sort of freeing also
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
Garden Parkway YMCA
Dallas, Texas
22 November 1963

Darling Sophie,

Could it be only two months since I let your fingers slip from my hand as that train departed Voronezh station? I fear that this trip was a great mistake. . . .

The boat sailed from Sevastopol as scheduled. Just two days and we were through the Bosporus/Dardanelles and into the incredibly blue Aegean and the Mediterranean. On September 27 we passed Gibraltar and started the long haul across the Atlantic. The work was not demanding though the ship was quite ***** and not really very pleasant.

We docked at Houston in the state of Texas on October 9. Defecting was surprisingly easy. There was supposed to be work in Dallas so I walked/hitch-hiked here last month. But I have not been able to find any work.

The people here, though friendly, are coarse and brash. The stores overflow with televisions, record players, mink coats, but there are many very poor people here too...

The great American leader, Kennedy, was shot and killed today, driving in his open-topped car along the streets of this very city.

My money is gone; my strength, exhausted. How blithely I left you and Russia behind! I feel my lips brushing the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, your ******* swelling. . . . Sophie! May you know great happiness and love! I only ask that in the spring when you visit Krymskaya Pond, that you remember how we knelt there, how I whispered in your ear there, when the air is filled with the scent of its cherry trees that you remember what we felt there. . . .

  Yours, always,    Nickolay
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_055_sophie.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
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 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.
.
Nexus Sammy Jul 2016
I
They say if you are born poor
Its not your fault
But if you die poor
Its your fault
  
 II
Well my darling child
I have tried all I can
Made long journeys to the west
Mistreated and thrown away
Left stranded at boarders
Seen the struggling of emigrants
Searching for better lives
III
If Briexit was because of us
Then our future remain a bleak
But be strong my child
Cry not my cute baby
Once I noticed that
A rainbow only forms
After a storm
One day our journeys will make sense.
Let's treat one another with gentleness and respect then the world will be a better place for mankind
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