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Francie Lynch Jul 23
Now
If the past is only an idea,
And the future does not exist;
Then we have the present,
Though immearsureable,
It's what we have,
And it travels faster
Than the speed of light.
Grab it.
Now.
.
                                smoke
                         ­            of
                                 puff
                                   a
                                like
                      diss­ipates
                                  it
                     ­           until
                               up
                                and
                          ­   up
                                and
                          ­         up
                              and
                           up
                    going
                swirls
             ­       decreasing
                          ever
                ­                in  
                                gyrates
    ­                         and
                        spirals
                    time
   pre-determined
our
Francie Lynch May 19
Beulah gave out
Blossoms this spring
As big as sunflower heads.
They entwined the branches
Like the ribbon enclosing an expectant shower gift.
It's fragrance was the extract
Of an unbottled aroma
That is the Magnolia tree.
I rooted her in the yard
Four years ago.
She is iridescent for a brief time
Past mid Spring.
She has many Springs to go
Above the green growth below;
Many seasons beneth
The blue Summer skies above;
During the Autums ahead,
When I am dead,
And colder than Winter snows
Below her;
She will be there.
Rooted with care.
Francie Lynch Mar 2022
I scanned the old man
Through my translucent curtain.
He stood before my door, hand raised,
Seeming ready to knock.
Wires ran into his large ears;
His waddle swayed over his crew neck,
Beneath a brown corduroy jacket.
Liver spots crowned his wispy head,
And the back of his hand.
He listed and bobbed
Like a Huron laker waiting to unload.
He had a distinct and not unfamiliar look;
A man with full faculties.
I opened the door to him,
But he said, "It's not time."
"Time?" I asked.
"To let me in."
And that time hasn't come as of yet.
Francie Lynch Jul 2021
I have today grown old.
I was never told,
Make every day count.
I counted days,
Missed some years,
My advice may fall on deaf ears
To those who know how to live their lives.
Everyday. Everyway.
It's not easy.
I recognize the mantle
On my children's faces;
See them counting milestones,
Running theirs through the paces.
How do I tell them
Count every day,
and not count every day;
But make every day count
?
.
Hannah A Apr 2016
Not like this.

the path you stumbled for,
left you for some footsteps of a goddess
that we never were sure of her existence.

He left you on the road
oh, beautiful landscape of all
such green trees, such brown leaves.
Do you wonder how I wonder?
wanderlust, collecting dust
of the wasted decades we had
of an item we never truly got to reckon it's form
I do not believe in time
it does not exist
break all hour glasses done.
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
Years ago,
More like lifetimes,
I was better
Than most anyone
In any sport.
A champion.
I was very good,
Better than most anybody
In my education, with family,
Had two closest pals.
I had cars, motorcycles,
Clothes, girls.
I always had the better part
Of a North American middle class life.
Today, I'm elated
To be one of most anybody.
No egotism intended. It's all tempus fugit.
Francie Lynch Jan 2016
We convened a conclave
Where the famiglia
Was casting sideways looks,
Keeping secrets from survivors.
Papa had passed,
His mantle drapping the remains.
And a day looms for its passing
To an unelected recipient
From the unresponsive benefactor.
Dirges were played.
Outside I lit a cigarette
And the cloud of smoke rose skyward.
The ballots have been counted.
Jack Phippen, RIP.
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

— The End —