Roundup Magazine With one of my short stories…/uploads/…/01/VOL_2_2.pdf

One of my more adult stories in this one. I think the whole magazine looks pure class.
Its not one for the squeamish, so be warned before you look at it. But I like it. I’m on pages 20 and 21 (I always wanted to be a cowboy)

The Final Fight

The Final Fight

I took the home you had inside

I fed the cat until he died

I showed you how to love a man

Was I the greatest lover you ever had

You slapped me once on Sunday night

You burnt my clothes after a fight

You held me tight that day I cried

You were the greatest love I ever had

I read you poems I wrote with chalk

I hit you once when you refused to talk

I took your dreams and held them tight

Was I the bastard you dreamed at night

You took the dog, the house and hope

You found a lover to help you cope

You rode us both on the same night

You were the one who won the final fight

© Frank McGivney 29.01.15

What they want

the wait is long sometimes

eventually it drifts to nothing,

melting to a memory

you don’t recall,

a passing glittering

Christmas tree sparkle

in moonlight

the click starts it again,

the wait from their first words

to the time when they ask.

They always ask

The prize they seek,

hidden among the rest

The hellos the goodbyes

The how are you’s

the game begins

They search

you give

they grab

and the wait starts

Fading again

(c) Frank McGivney 28.01.15

The writing of a poem

I don’t know if it will be much good but I like it so far. The poem I helped write when on a forest adventures with my children I care and share with my first and only love. My best friend and wife was ill so we headed out on a hike, me , her and him, one daddy and two childer, They complained while laughing. We do that a lot in our house, laugh and joke. The camera ran out of battery, we got lost , kind of anyway and our boots were muddy. The people saluted us back as we walked in the county my father was raised. They like him know the true meaning of life. By a ruined boathouse we picnicked with apples and bananas and a bottle of water. They played I watched and talked and wrote . He gave me mad words and lines while she gave me sweet lines with beautiful words and together we wrote a poem by the side of a lakes gentle ripples. It’s the best lake poem ever written. It doesn’t rhymn it won’t be published and poets might scoff but to us it’s the poem we wrote by the lake and that makes it the best one. We missed the last part of our family of four but she was there with open arms and love when we came home and she was better of not seeing the muddy paths and the worms and the knocks and the wet woods we explored.


Free writing

A whiskey
With ice?
She’s looking at you
Hard to know
Not really
Why is she blind
She has good taste
And a squint
Her hair is nice
Go talk to her
Do you want to dance with the devil in the pale moon light
Your a bit of a joker
I can be if your bat woman
Sit down soldier
Nice legs
A drink
Sure rum and coke
I write poems
I read some
Yeah sometimes
Durkin, Heaney and kavanagh
He was a miserable fucker
In a majestic way
Let’s go
Where ever the night leads
Typical man
No lets just walk
In the moonlight
By the sea
You are a poet

Notorius (version 2)


Onto battle

we march as one

not to take part

but to take over.

Notorious rises

with passion in his heart

Fire in his kicks,

and steel in his fists

Down the rocky slope

We climb to stand

To take his side

To fight to win

To sing our song

For Cu Chulainn again

The sliotar flies

Lodging on

An octagon floor

Proclaiming the onset

Tir na N’Ogs prince

Steps forth to

Dance the warrior’s art.

His hand is raised

Before the bell.

With fighting words

He buys their soul.

With swinging kicks

He takes their chin

The world is ours

With green eyes

Below red hair

The white celts

Rule once more

Our flag wraps

Our warrior as king.

(c) Frank McGivney 21.01.15

#conormcgregor #TheNotorius

Notorious Poem on Conor McGregor



Into the war we went

Not to take part

But to take over

Notorious rose

With fire in his heart

Lead in his kicks

And steel in his fists

Down the rocky slope

We climbed to stand

To take his side

To fight to win

To sing our song

For Cu Chulainn again

The sliotar flew

Lodged in the square

An octagon door

He climbed

Tir na N’Ogs prince

Steps forth to win

He beat them all

Before it began.

With fighting words

He took their soul.

With swinging kicks

He took their chin

(c) Frank McGivney 21.01.15

Francies Chronicles a paragraph


“We are all born with original sin on our heads and looking around this classroom, some of you fine specimens obviously had it worse than others. The holy priest, most likely my good self, cleansed you lot, the best he could of the sins of your forefathers, when you were innocent babies in the sacrament of baptism. But now it’s time to wipe the slate clean again and it will take some cleaning for some of you.” Father Murphy wasn’t the worst of them really, Nan didn’t give out much about him so that was some kind of a good sign on his behalf, because Nan usually cut the socks of the clergy even worse than she cut the rest of what she called the privileged gobshites. I don’t think she realized gobshites was a curse word because she never blessed herself after saying it, the way she would when she used the other words I was forbidden to know, not to mind use. How I was meant to not know them when her-self and Daddy used them constantly, was beyond me. Mammy used get shocking upset with my father for using them while my-self and the brother were in the room. The only one she would permit herself to use was “feck” and that was always when she was giving out socks about Daddy and even then she would bless herself and call for the forgiveness of the good Lord who is up in heaven. Much like I will have to be doing myself within the next few months for the first time.   “Yes Father” the rest of the class say in response to some question the Holy Father has asked. That Micheal O Suilleabhain catches my eye from across the room and sticks his tongue out at me. A right class of a full idiot so he is, him with his white collared shirts always done up tidy with a blue tie wrapped around it like some sort of Nancy boy, while the rest of us look like we have just come out the far end of the worst hurricane ever to have hit the town of Ceannais Mor. Not that a hurricane has ever actually hit the town, as far as I know, but sure there’s no harm in wishing for a bit of excitement now and again. Of course the mother goes on like he is a great chap altogether.

(c) Frank McGivney 21.01.15