Biography of Francie Lynch
- What Would Truth Tell Me -new-
- I Don't Want To Grow Old -new-
- Butler's Snug -new-
- Simonize The Car, Biffo -new-
- Is There A Doctor In The Senate -new-
- Promises... Promises... Promises -new-
- Golf For Life -new-
- It's A Wonder Any Of Us Are Here At All -new-
- John Died Tuesday Past -new-
- Maggie's Getting Married
- Clipping Found In A Wallet
- Grass, Mosquitoes And Hearts
- Last Day Of School
- Harlequin Romance
Francie Lynch Poems
A Child Is Born
I don't know destitute. I could use the bathrooms In McDonalds, If I eat there.
Mary Jane Died Last Night
The younger sister Of the second wife Of my dear friend Of forty-five years
Were There Five?
There were four high pines, straight, that branched out over the hedge with holes.
Dark at day, Light at night, Chaos mocks us With villainous smiles.
Not All Fathers Are Dads
We lived In our Goodwill bathing suits During our arduous summer isolation From school and friends.
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 Flight Ahead Of Me
The ravens survey The gated community, Scouring for a meal. They swoop low,
The Lads Are Streaming Porn
The lads Are streaming porn. Don't be too quick To scorn;
How I Measure Time
The hands have moved. The sun is up and down. Stars shift. Tides advance and recede.
I was a teacher. I loved the job. I didn't need to be intelligent. Many of my students
Elegy For Dead Poets
When poets die, Sad, but true, It matters not What their bodies do,
He tittered and cackled At the refugee plight, Revelled in innocents Running for life.
I chose ice-cream Over yogurt; Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate. Each equally without prejudice
Active Vs. Passive
When you write Your next verse, The active voice Is a better choice.
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