Biography of Francie Lynch
Born a while ago in an area of County Monaghan, Ireland, called Loughegish (Lake of the Learned) . When the flax mill failed my father went to Canada and we emigrated six months later to Sarnia, Ont. I grew up here, worked in Education for my career and am happily retired writing poetry.
- If You'Ll Allow Me -new-
- A Better World -new-
- Fun Under The Sun -new-
- Mustard Seed -new-
- It's A Crayola World -new-
- Lasting Impressions -new-
- Retracting Thorns -new-
- Not Til I'Ve Done It -new-
- Our Crayola Life -new-
- Dying Times -new-
- Pebble To Poem -new-
- The Terrorist -new-
- Where Did My Brother Go -new-
- Gone To The Dawgs -new-
Francie Lynch Poems
Dark at day, Light at night, Chaos mocks us With villainous smiles.
The Lads Are Streaming Porn
The lads Are streaming porn. Don't be too quick To scorn;
Active Vs. Passive
When you write Your next verse, The active voice Is a better choice.
The Flight Ahead Of Me
The ravens survey The gated community, Scouring for a meal. They swoop low,
How I Measure Time
The hands have moved. The sun is up and down. Stars shift. Tides advance and recede.
I chose ice-cream Over yogurt; Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate. Each equally without prejudice
My Poem Is My True Selfie
My poem is my true selfie, An X-ray of the inner me, A snap-shot of reality, A close-up of what's really me,
The Dogs' Days Of Winter
Those dog days of summer Near forgotten and gone, Are stored for the winter, Now remembered in song.
The Leprechaun's Ball
On the Emeral Isle when the brier's green, Occur strange sights seldom seen. There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes, And wee folk dancing every night.
I Have To Pee
In fathoms Between my flannel sheets, There's no better place To sleep;
Mary Jane Died Last Night
The younger sister Of the second wife Of my dear friend Of forty-five years
The cock on the steeple Proclaimed and denied to four corners, and Looked down and twisted. Old men in green suits with crow's eyes and
Godzilla And Ufo's
Damn. I ran over a toad On the way home, In front of the courthouse.
That field stone bridge, as bridges do,
Waits over brown waters, joing roads where
Legions marching, marched on and on.
Her waters breached the ocean, bringing back
Bottles, birds and songs.
In the morning between the columns,
The water breaks from sloping bends,
But under the evening light, when the house