#lynch
A friend of mine
though I never met him
a man, a soul, as to a soul,
spoke of fish as ideas,
ideas as spirit,
spirit as if a dream.
You sleep but do not dream
when you dive for the big fish.
There they wait
your whims and themes
below the murky depth.
And I,
a flower upon the waking world.
I am lesser for your passing,
but know your words live on,
and therefore I still fish
fish for the big fish
in that murky dark.
I know my fish still waits.
So I dream in its dark slumber,
waiting, waiting, waiting.
The tendrils of my means
creep out to find me,
saying
wait, wait, wait
your life is still not complete.
But reveries of old,
stories never told,
a deep dark mist,
a yearning hollow,
a dust of dusk tomorrow,
a heart like a sea
silent after the storm has died.
That
and there
this again.
We are glorious suns died
in a city without sun,
a world beyond sin,
a hope so ancient
it is embedded on our eyelids,
a yearning so deep
we cannot sleep without it.
As I age,
as I dream,
the fish never sleep.
But I
I fish.
Fish for my big fish.
Still.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:30 AM UTC
Francie Lynch gets it! (The Thin Red Line)
https://hellopoetry.com/francie-lynch/
“A poem is like a tickle,
it gives both joy and pain:
with blissful tears and tearful
giggles, you'll read that poem again.
A poem is exactly like
a damaged heart in
need of surgery:
a cut that heals,
a line that
leaves a
scar along your heart.”
F. L.
<~>
I,
now in possess
of said thin red line,
where they cut me
just so, opened
stem to stern
for a rethreading repair, a repaving
of the highways & byways of
my little blue engine that
almost but couldn’t quite could but thought…
b e l i e v i n g
it could eke by for a little longer
new observable routine,
first item of my daily rising
now includes a pre-diurnal poetic
extraction~erection~ejection,
an intro~introspection
of an
introductory, petite reflexive
contemplative
reflection
of life’s mysteries,
like enjoying that
first bang of eye~opening conscious breath and a
disruptive need to spill
a few verbal beans before the
daily dead~lines of to do’s
strangle me into oblivion
a morning dispatched
by the poet paperboy
on his cardio bicycle
with
tearful eyes,
and many mirthful
gaggles of
giggles
yep,
a tickle
too,
no
extra
charge✅
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 2:39 PM UTC
Don't be afraid to
come into the backroom.
Part the curtain first
if you think you need a peek,
but honey, I've been waiting
here with all the answers.
You'll see.
What do you seek from this trans-trash
patch of bleached grass? Underneath,
infinite versions of me/my design holes,
tunnels in mud searching for sunshine.
But I want to ask you, who claims the noose?
Who gets to rise past the others in the end,
but then gets the knife so as to start again?
All ants, all ants, pull all but two legs loose,
and you're dancing in pants, wearing the tune
of the long, last living human in blues.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
A lost castle
In Galway called Lynch's,
Long lost
Its princesses and princes;
The blood took its chances
On foreign Romances,
Now Lynches
Spread over the globe.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC