Francie Lynch Poems

The hands have moved.
The sun is up and down.
Stars shift.
Tides advance and recede.
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When poets die,
Sad, but true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
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I'd rather hit the links today,
And take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.
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I was a teacher.
I loved the job.
I didn't need to be intelligent.
Many of my students
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Who's comb-over looks like shite?
Donald's comb-over looks like shite.
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
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I chose ice-cream
Over yogurt;
Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate.
Each equally without prejudice
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When you write
Your next verse,
The active voice
Is a better choice.
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Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
Now remembered in song.
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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.
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