Boyne Writers 24.11.22

Childhood

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

There

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

The wisdom of the scars

Wisdom lies

Where the line ends

And along the trail

Of livid white

The cut of pain

Opens the flow

The scarlet path

Tracing the

Sprinkling stars

Where

Clustered thoughts

Delve beneath the skin

Waiting to reveal

The man you become

And the lady you are

For

the mind

Deprived

Of the scars

Loses

The fertiliser

of the soul

Frankie writing stuff