Boyne Writers 24.11.22


There was cheers and bees

And apple tree

A river of swans

Where the dawn

Rose in the honey valley’s shadow

We walked and ran

Shot guns of wood

And kissed a girl

And swam in a pool


Were dogs with mange

And cats with claws

And a mongrel who followed

Us along trails of dreams

And screams

And springtime treats

With tayto crisps

Mixed with yellow snacks

She was wild

In the head and she smiled

And held my heart

I should have held her hand

And the fish whooshed by and

The gooseberries would cut the stomach out of you

And when it rained the sun was shortly behind

The cowboys killed the Indians

And the soldiers won the war

Before dinner and

The Vikings beat the rest

Before tea

And we smiled

And we laughed

And the music was disco

And trad

And our jeans were ripped

And jumpers were from Dublin

In a black plastic back sent by

An aunt with older boys

With longer limbs and stronger accents

Who were all sophisticated

And the beach was once a year

And she was from cork

And tanned and sweet

And we played ball

And swam and build castles

And the parents drank

Guinness and brandy

And the bar was filled with smoke

And we sat and listened

Of stories with a hint of truth

And he carried us home on his shoulders across

The sands

And school had mad Brothers with metre sticks

For the hidings and teachers in need of prison

And laughter and we took the bruises

And ran and played and forgot the rest

Amidst the noise and the clatter

You stand inside yourself

Comfortable in your silence your words flow gentle in your mind the rapid thinking the peaceful reflections and internal smiles wam the hearth of who you are

Retuning to the true self you open the door to the calm you once loved but feared

If only in days of youth you could have recognised the strength embraced by the gentle touch and the near silent whisper of words

The shake is now gone from the echo of your voice. The embarrassment of a younger you the nervous tremor passes with the scars of life .

When you talk now it’s a whisper which comes from so deep inside of you it’s volume has reduced to near silence yet the words are full of the child inside you never lost

How can you be the writer you are with out clasping dearly to the child inside

The one who held wonder at everyone and everything the beauty of the sea the sounds of the daffodil the touch of the bee the colour of the rain filled sky when the sun defracts the crystals

Even when the volume rises the softness has now returned and the smile of peace with a world where sometimes the sky is a shade of purple and sometimes red and sometimes a vivid blue. Where the man with the cup outstretched touches your soul and you don’t know if he’s tale is true but it doesn’t matter because when his knuckle hits yours he reveals himself to be your brother by virtue of kindred spirits of lost souls who aren’t lost at all but a different shade of the human condition.

Lost to the world of man made mind mangling muscle massing medical mistakes you lost a bit of yourself while gaining a bit you would never forego for it was the journey which mattered but the journey now is softer and gentle and your mind wisps to the ease of the summer stream and your soul touches the world with the gentle kindness of the ladybirds dream

The need to fight the love of a good scrap the blood flow of the lift is still there but different . A changed perspective a controlled rage of beauty where the physical utilisation of the body mingles with the working of the brain. A peace within the chaos

The making of a man who was old when he was young and now young when old. The fake bravery of the drug replaced with the returned courage of the gentle. The loud and boisterous a sand burying shield no longer needed when inside their is no storm to defeat

And the pen feeds your soul. The moments when you transcend reality to touch the reality of the story growing inside your mind the smile as the words flow and when you read them and the people laugh and smile and you feel a warmth because you could sense one of them needed to laugh and one learned something and the rest just for those five minutes forgot their worlds and abandoned themselves to your paragraphs and your gentleness touches the world with a tiny slice of joy

Frankie writing on his return to the peace of the introvert who now understands the whisper reverberates beyond the reach of the scream . The picture is of me with my mam and my aunt chrissie the two most intelligent people I have ever met who’s humour and joy have touched my heart and my mind making me laugh and ponder and love. They have always understood my words and concepts. They have given me their thoughts and understandings and concepts and theories and stories and made me think more than any lecture or book by people of educational prowess. I am forever in their debt. When I hadn’t even a whisper when silence was my own means of communication they were the guardians of my self on this reality which sometimes is difficult terrain for us who aren’t quite the standard creatures of a poorly defined normality

Irish strength

When the crown killed

Our children with hunger

Feed through greed

A nation learned to fight


Talking with words

Rhyming lyrical beauty

While saying nothing at all

A rich culture

Devoid of material wealth

Adorned with tales

And sceals

Of Swans sailing across

The wide sea to heavens door

Silence holds the strength

The foreigners never could

Sense within the feelings

Of the mothers in the uplands

Who dug stones with hands

Worn of nails

And skin trailed with tears

Wept for children


A genocide fed

Of potatoes rotted

And crops on ships

Set sail for English lands

Frankie mcgivney writing of a march day after listening to a historian waxing lyrical with mr tiernan

Tears drip from blue

To yellow trailing the pain of fear

Tanks roll where babies should crawl

Missiles roar the screams of war

Silk blankets flutter in the dark

Covering the devils incarnate

While air raid sirens cover

The old sheltering the young

Death can’t kill the soul

Of the brave

With pockets filled

For the sunflowers to grow

Freedom can’t be taken

From the spirit of the people

Frankie mcgivney

Excuse the language but fuck you putin you evil Humpty Dumpty bastard

In the pub



Nah whiskey

I’d prefer a martini

A who

With a small drop of gin

Sweet Jesus

Now Tommy mind the tongue


A green spot, make it a double and a martini with gin for Denis there barkeep

Right you are Tommy

Nice dress there Denis

It’s Denise tonight Richard

Your right there now, it is Denise for sure

Is it comfortable


Well the get up

The get up?

The dress

It’s not too bad.

Breezy I’d assume


Yeah fresh

Grand colours by the way

Ah green goes well with my eyes

Ah here give over with that now

Do you not agree

Yeah right

And the under carriage

Ah tucked and slung


Ah he would climb down from the cross

Be no harm and we in need of the wood

I wouldn’t be wanting to get that now




You know a surging down below

Ah right

Yeah cause me an injury

So come here tell me are you a transgender or a transvestite or a cross dresser

Well I won’t be getting anything cut of

Thank fuck for that

Yeah I just like the liberating feeling of it

Sure gives you more choice


Well you know a more varied wardrobe


Jeans trousers skirt dress shirt or blouse

And all the colours

So are you set for the mart tomorrow

Ah yeah come here get me a pint of stout will you

For sure

Fecking half shot from that martini malarkey

Frankie with a WIP


Roses grow where the rivers flow

Do you think so

Well yes

By the bank?

The river bank

Where the crocodile sings


Yeah roar

Not in this country

Or county

Unless one escaped from the zoo

They’d have a long way to crawl

To the Liffey

The scummers would get it

Ah the croc would win

Be hard to win with a crocodile

Or a cross woman

Eyed or nature

Either or

Coffee or tea


Red or white

A big glass


Nah red

Frankie mcgivney random conversation again just to get back into swing of the words


There you are and he milling the spuds and no bother on him while the blood floated in the air and the roars evolved to screams and the light fading to dark.

The beef didn’t meet the appearance of steak and toughness would be the word best used for a texture hidden by an over zealous salt shaker

And he told them to stop the swinging

Why they asked sure isn’t the damage done

Because the juice from the cow is all I have an inclination to enjoy

Sure we’ll be finished soon

So will I so just hold on until I put the fork down on the plate beside the knife in a patrolled fashion or perhaps with the top slightly touching

And the sound from the radio is a song from a time when he was young and bolde and seeking truth and he will be humming it for the day

There was no need for what they had done but he couldn’t be telling them when he was the one who bred them into the ways of his heart

Her smile drifts from the shadows. Laughing at the strange ways of him knowing she wouldn’t be having it any other way apart from the unusual touch of his mind upon the world

The cat on the wall beside the bush where the sycamore watched the blackberries erupt in autumn yawned with the mundanity of the scene

The napkin slipped to lie on the once proud floor

I’ll be heading then he replied

Give ma a hug for us

Right then

The wind smelled of a factory in need of closing as he stepped outside and wondered where the madness ended and the sanity began

Frankie loving the words spilling from his mind


With yellow roses

Scented on the touch

Of skin fragrent

In morning dew

With translucent glimpses

Of passing ghosts

Behind fluttering curtains

With words lined in order

Of radiant sentences

Constructs of telling paragraphs

In silver lined tales of imagination

With a smile

Radiant through time

Illuminating dusty trails

Where dreams sleep

Between adventure strolls

Frankie writing words 1st Jan 2022