Francie Lynch Poems
|1122.||Elegy For Dead Poets||9/26/2015|
|1124.||The Lads Are Streaming Porn||1/18/2015|
|1125.||The Flight Ahead Of Me||4/1/2015|
|1126.||My Poem Is My True Selfie||6/10/2014|
|1127.||Not All Fathers Are Dads||6/2/2016|
|1129.||Were There Five?||1/31/2014|
|1130.||Mary Jane Died Last Night||5/20/2015|
|1131.||A Child Is Born||12/18/2015|
Comments about Francie Lynch
A Child Is Born
I don't know destitute.
I could use the bathrooms
If I eat there.
I'm no refugee.
Neither are you.
We have computers, not canvas.
I warmed up the coffee today
And the dishwasher needs to go through
For the third time this week.
Homeless: We have them.
Poor: We'll always have them.
Hungry: Look to the soup kitchens.
Sick: The gurneys are lined in the halls.
Death: It's all around, and increasing.
And still, in that tent or Uber taxi
A child is born to change all this.
Between autumn's offerings and spring's wings
Our winter lights are everything.
Crisp sky nights string tinsel streams, and
Crystal air heils winter's dreams.
Poplar trees that snowed in summer,
Are treasures held in winter's slumber.
Bare branches reach in silhouette,
For crowning stars where none now sit.