Daisy jones and the six

Daisy daisy show me your garden true I’m half crazy all for the love of you

The mark from her fingers fades from crimson to white and I can feel the heat fade and I pray for the cold to leave well enough alone to stay far distant so the touch of her slap streaked across my heart will never be lost for with its loss melts the touch of her upon my soul

There’s something different unique unusual undefinable in her presence in her trail in her voice in her song the one she sings alone. Searching for something someplace she doesn’t know exists but hopes. Hopes it will wait for her for her song for her passion

And the world pulls back fights back anger against the beauty her wings to be clipped her love to be broken her mind to be seen her thoughts to be erased eradicated. A world of fools doing foolish things

Essential in the darkness her candle her truth her innocence her fragility her dreams her delusions her illusions

He wanders in the shadows in the darkness he sleeps grasping for the world but only wanting the moment the minute frozen the thought observed preserved the idea completed the theory proven the concept born created and evolved. Anger pain delusions illusions dreamed and forgot remembered and surrendered

Afraid of the fear of the need for her blankets and shimmers The moment the look the knowing the sense the feeling he knows she knows they know . It’s there forever from time began to time finishes and beyond the truth can’t fade the love can’t burn the lust can’t smoulder.

Words become songs and songs become tales and their fingers touch and their minds mend and bend and send them from two to one together with harmony and a chorus and they are different and strange and beautiful and the world is blind and the sea not deep and the sky not blue but all shades of pink and green and purple and shadow

Frankie writing words for daisy reminds him of the dragonfly

She will be for ever Flittering on the moon skirting the wheat chaffs of the sun while the song caresses the wonder inside.

Mental health

Sure he was always a bit quiet

No harm in that

No harm in him

Oh don’t know

Shocking temper

Mild to nuclear

Took no prisoners

Blood flowed

Ah no more than before

A bit more

Sure the size of him he has plenty to spare

His memories flowed

Away and back

To and fro

Meandering here and there

Just beyond reach

Then cascading in

I’m in in in they screamed

The voices screamed

No he roared and he cried

And bleed from his eyes

The head case

Ah no harm in him

He liked to touch the petals

The petals

Caress the petals to feel the quiet

To sense the calm of nature

To hear the colours he closed his eyes

And dreamt of the leaves falling

Drilled a hole in his head

Nah his lower back

And his head

Nah that’s just mental

A rumour

A procedure

So many thoughts to decipher

Intelligence breeds the madness

A strange world for one who thinks

Too much

Way too much

Can’t change a leopards spots

Or a mule’s nature

An inclination to be thick

Thick as fuck

He figures stuff out you know

Solves problems

Sees the wood

For the trees

Awful dense jungles

In the labyrinths of the thoughts

As they flow from paranoia to dreams

From theories to substance

From imaginations to poems

Drained the black from the white

Pressure he was under pressure

His brain or his mind

His soul or his self

Who knows who cares

Who wonders

He wonders

Why kindness is scorned

Why love is lost

Why lust is carved from stone

When love should be found

And lust melted from the wind

Of a butterfly’s wings

Is he mad

Or bad

Does he dream nightmares

Is he a nightmare

Is his violence in his soul

Is his kindness in his mind

Lost or found

Leave him run free in the field

Wild screaming to the banshee’s air

Calling out to the world

Sure who’d be caring or listening

Not even himself

A funny fucker at times

Strange

Nah just funny

He’d make you laugh

Or smile

Just wants the quiet

Sure who doesn’t

Loads don’t

Loads do

Hasn’t much to say for himself

Would talk the hind legs of a mule

Different strokes for different

Moments in time

Sometimes the words are lost inside

With nothing to say

Or nothing to feel

Just calm

Calm waters are the easiest to disturb

Throw in a pebble and a tsunami

Rips the heart out of the island

Still they drained the black

The pressure gently easing

Close his eyes

Close his eyes

And let his mind see the dreams

He seeks inside

Clean the blood and clean the skin

Refresh the mind

Let the river flow

Let the thoughts

Crash and flow

Gentle and wild

Let me be the man

Who touches the petals

Who talks to himself

Who sleeps in the quiet

Who roars in the night

Whose brain works and works

And travels here and there

North to east south to west

To see all the beauty

He can imagine and feel

And write something

Of beauty that meanders over your

Mind and touches your heart

And makes you shiver

And smile and love

Frankie writing after realising mental health is just a fine thread so easily tripped over. Where in lies the blame? Certainly not with anyone else but Frankie himself and not even fully with him for chemicals mix and match and swap and combine and he takes responsibility for everything himself and for his mind and thoughts and anger and the line we walk is one we can balance upon but the tight rope walker has a safety net because no matter how good he is he knows sometimes he will need the net to catch him. Thank god for the doctors and the nurses and the therapists who are our nets . And thanks for the pen and paper or keyboard which is the estuary to the opium of my soul which is my need to write

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

Irish strength

When the crown killed

Our children with hunger

Feed through greed

A nation learned to fight

By

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

Starved

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

Random

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

Gentleness

He could see it in her eyes the way she looked at him from behind the screen. her hand reached out to touch her son who had returned. The reinstated gentleness in him as obvious to her as the colour of the fields or the taste of hot tea after a walk of a stormy day.

The blood flowing in his veins cleaned and cleared, his mind behind his own eyes softer, more aware of the world around him, with memories fleeting but still there to be welcomed for the precious time until they flittered back behind doors not locked but jammed shut in need of prising open when the inclination would come upon him. Sometimes they just swing open on their own accord. A glimpse of beauty wrapped in a gift of feelings and images and heightened sensory delights.

he recognises in himself the words of the nurse. “when your mother says no she means no” with a smile on her lips for the respect for a woman of determined mind while it roams in a desert of uncertainty and fear.

In himself he embraces the gentleness. his words comforting his soul as he listens to conversations and recognises a calmness he lost among the chaos and the process of living.

not that the time between gentle tides was anything but filled with wonder and joy too. the ebb and flow on the sunny beach needs the ocean’s scream to sing the mellow tune of peace.

(c) Frankie McGivney 10/05/2021 (feeling blessed)

Dancing

I stroll down slow

On account of knees

I need of a mechanic

Of a medical inclination

The darkness of the night

Is cracked gently by the red

Of the sun waving farewell

To a moon heading for the

Land of kangaroo fields

The tunes in my mind

Pitter patter with a smile

I cast to the side

My frog eyed slippers

And with a breath deep

In my soul

I

Dance

In

The

Kitchen

On

My

Own

(C) frankie Mcgivney

Pitch

At 6 there are cars on the roads and the sky is sometimes pink or Scarlett red

Peoples day have begun while others grab the last few days of winks in scratchers of various states of dishevel

At five the ladies stand at the bus stop and I wonder where they go when they disembark and the men in hi vis jackets stand waiting for the vans I don’t wonder so much for them. One building site is just like another.

But their numbers are sparse at 5. More scratchers are full of snores and fears of chores

The radio man whispers to me as I stroll playing songs I could never forget and half way along the tiredness falls away. My eyes open and I feel alive.

I do a bit of workday planning before I stop myself and focus on the walk. I sweep a tide of calm filled nothingness through my mind and the moon appears as the trees suddenly have leafs and the air surrounding me is felt on my skin

There is a new walkway around the town I take for the desire to prevent my heart from succumbing to the rigours of inactivity.

It’s a tunnel through trees and bushes with blackberries and fields of corn. There’s a secret passage way some teenagers have dug in to the wilderness and there’s a field of cattle. The peaceful scene of them lying in the moonlight green resonates in my mind

Through the pitch darkness I feel the morning efforts of determined spiders catch across my forehead and I imagine-their journeys along the same path I walk stretching a strand of web way beyond the 2 metres now associated in our minds with social distancing.

And it is pitch dark with the fear I should feel crawling along stretching out to touch my mind. Who is waiting in the shadows? Will someone knock me out with the one punch challenge? Will the spirits I sense in the tingle in my spine manifest themselves in a sudden light of revelation.

But I don’t feel the fear beyond the realisation that I should surely be a bit apprehensive of walking in pitch darkness in the middle of the night a little too far from civilisation .

Instead I relish those steps where I am completely alone. I can’t see the path with the darkness yet still the wonder of millennia of evolution allows my eyes to adapt just enough to make out the minuscule difference in shades of grey and black.

I would welcome the spirits I would welcome the one punch attack I would welcome the friendly hello In the darkness I would welcome the cry of an animal in need of help I welcome the darkness and it’s beautiful silence and it’s clear air and it’s purity.

Along here it doesn’t matter who I am or how I look. It doesn’t matter what people think it doesn’t matter if one eyes drifts it doesn’t matter if I’m obese it doesn’t matter if I think differently it doesn’t matter if I look like an escaped member of a difficult hospital for the demented it doesn’t matter if I earn a million a year or scrape by on free bread and berries

The darkness accepts me for being a part of the nature around me

I am part of the darkness of the ecosystem of the night as much as the spider and the sleeping fly

I turn the radio of and I listen and I hear the wonderful whispers of the nights silence as it reveals its innermost secret. That none of the human concerns matter here. All that matters is been a part of the morning moment

Frankie loving his 5 o’clock walk to work