Category Archives: creative


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


50 dreams are missing and they didn’t use the door

Just screamed a little hole where there wasn’t one before

Now the army and Gardai are searching high and low

For the saints who fell from grace with the rising of the low

The tide is flowing up hill

And the flies are kissing sky

The dreams are in the clouds

And the world is flying high

The birds are on the game now

The wall is crumbling soft

But smile is on the rise

With the mountain’s turning tune

The dew is singing poems

The cat barking songs

And the dog is sipping whiskey

With the burning of the woes

So let yourself be happy

Embrace a lonesome smile

And let the beauty find you

While the sun is in the sky

(C) frankie Mcgivney

Words thrown out random from a mind glad to feel the pen in hand for letters instead of numbers

May happiness embrace your souls

What to write

It was of a Monday when the lights came over the sun and the moon was just a memory not long forgotten and she held his hand by resting her head on his shoulder. No sleep had been enjoyed since love had been engaged upon with vigour and gentle touch under a moonless night. Never once from the beginning had he entered her body with the absence of a warmth in his heart which spread beyond the logic of his mind to delve deep beyond the locked chasms of his soul. A part of him he would have have denied existing but which he always held a secret hope of eventually discovering: she was beyond his reach in the normal course of human interactions with a beauty he would hold in his heart until the day its final beat lapsed his never ending regrets into the calm repose of nothingness. Somehow his words had transcended the physical inequality of their respective positions in the potential romantic pecking order of human interactions to allow for moments to be shared which would transform the world from one of drudgery to a place where the rainbow of the dragonfly’s wings sprinkled its magic along the yellow brick road of his destiny and he knows somehow hers too from the look in her eye and the smell in the air and the sound of her body.

The moon cast its trail painting a memory along the river under the bridge where he imagined grasshoppers playing fiddles among the dew drops of a morning capable and indeed willing to change the man he could ever be from such a silent morning onwards. Evolution expedited from a multi generational phenomenon to the wonderful instantaneous transformation of true love

As much as the field of daffodils did for a man of words so the moment would in vacant or in pensive thought be for ever the place he would revisit constantly to languish in a love beyond his highest expectations or imaginations.

To be continued…….

The most I’ve written in so long in a prose style. Words spilling from inside not sure of their origin but knowing the validity of their truth and the warmth of the image. Where do the words ever come from but once they start they refuse to stop there need to be set free only matched by my addiction to hear what they have to say. Voices in my mind would they have locked us in the home for the bewildered once of a not too far distant time. I promise myself to indulge with the keyboard on Saturday. What am I without my words but a beast roaming who has forgotten the beauty of the pen


Corduroy boots prancing

She stepped beyond the

Pole he wrote on the line

Weeping lines of ash

Trailers painted morning

Pink reflecting in Spaniard

Dancing boots of vacant


Hidden he commences

To descend above the flames

Burnt into pale fluorescent

Tattoos depicting the stray

Torture of a dreary priests

Last moments

Curled toes stretch to caress

The lost pole golden skin

Of the girl lying naked

Fiddling with his emotions

While her cross eyed stare

Describes the winter time

Design of her corduroy

Boots cast meaninglessly

Before the amber turf

Of his vacant fire

(C) Francis Mcgivney

It’s only worth it

It’s only worth it

If it’s worth it

Wheres the anger gone

The fight against the clampdown

Wheres the anger gone

The fight we never lost

Black and white

Brown and yellow

One and all

Just one race

One people

Wheres the fight gone

One creed

Dump your trump

Your losing card

Take the fist

From your balls

Raise it

Once then twice

Where’s the heart gone

One race

One creed

Take your religion

Your national pride

And burn it with your flag

Where’s the fight gone

One race

One creed

Francie talks


I lied when i said i cried

i told you it hurt inside

it tore my chest apart

it burnt my eyes my soul

but all you did was make me die

give it to me raw

i’ll take it home

to the fire inside

i’ll burn it all

the whole

to leave the ash

Take it

snort that


and float so high

you leave me to lie

to wallow in my pain

the one i pretend to feel

where the tear


and a stain grows

and I can be






(C) Frank McGivney

Talking to the Junkies

The white of the clouds is lying on the ground and you have a hoodie on and wrapped around that a caridgan with a hood and you forgot your cotton socks and the extra thick ones  from pennys are wearing thin and your mind is wandering and the times they are a changing.

but not for you or others just for some. Somewhere out there over the rainbow where the sun shines and the frost melts, a man with no goats or attachement to the land or the sea is singing a song he heard somewhere that goes “the mad ones never forget”. The girl on the bus beside him asks how to get of but he cant remember and the crowd sings waltzing matilda


he screams


she screams


the bus man roars and all at once there was crowd, a host of junkies on the quay.

they have held hands through it all. from the start to the end from him shitting in the bed to her doing the same. they have given their bodies to the brown and we walk by in disgust and once i said hello to them and he sneered and she winked and i wanted to tell them i didnt care if they stuck brown crap in the veins, no more than i didnt care if i am talking to a judge or a priest. but they didnt want to know no more than those others wouldnt want to know either. The identify their souls with who they tell themselves they are but all i see is the eyes and the skin and the mind and the thoughts

i’m selfish. I want to hear their stories, to laugh at the madness of their tales. the ones they tell once they give over with the sadness and the self pity. She would have been a ride in her day before it took it over. He was as ugly as fuck and dangerous looking in his wee skinny intimidating way.

the world passes on


And i apologise for not posting since 2016. more to me than to anyone else. I write at home on a laptop and few if any see it. The words are my friend and the sentences when  poetic my lovers and sometimes of an spring day they are hard to share because maybe no one else will embrace them the way i do but then i dream and i realise the truth of a butterfuly being only truely majestic when it flies free.


You that have power
Listen to the world
Sing me your song
Of why I should fear
Your weapons of war
Tell me your tale
Of peaceful death
You killed all our sons

You poisoned our souls
With your weapon of war
Sell me your
fairy tale of old
Cut me a dream
A slice of your soul
Serve it with a scream
For us your foolish pawns

Francie McGivney

Ireland today

The government doesn’t realise it’s shagged.
The wettest country beside a huge ocean is going to install water meter to charge for the very thing that floods us every year.
We love to complain about the weather.
The guards ( that’s our police ) are bearing lumps out of peaceful protestors. They had to get a loan of the riot gear because Irish people are usually asleep during the whole riot thing
Cows still produce enough Methane gas Ireland to feed all the bullshit in the dail (that’s our parliament. )
Irish girls are still pure gorgeous
Black pudding is one of our national foods.
An Irish man is the president of America once more
Leprechauns are real just like the fairies aka the little people.
Black humour is our passion. Nothing like the craic (that’s fun) at a funeral .
The poitin in the shops is fake But don’t drink the real stuff unless you want to go blind