Category Archives: Writing

Walking

She held my hand today

To make me smile

She laughs you know

When I tell a tale

The dog barked

Along our way

She tells me things

To make me think

Wisdom in her eyes

Of twelve

Behind the look

The one we share

For rainbow smiles

And dragonfly kisses

The quest for wonder

She held my hand today

My daughter

(C) Frank mcgivney

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I forget to remember

I beg them to stay

To lay beside my bed

They were my friends

But off they stray

Away from where

I lost my way.

My words

They’ve gone

So far

From my pen

I feel the trickle

Of my dreams

Trail further

From my mind

I forget sometimes

To remember

But worse

I remember

All the things

I can’t ‘recall

My new pal

dementia

It’s calling echoes

In the valley

I hear it’s bell

I fear the hell

It promises

To reveal

When I stand

Lost in my land

The place I’ve know

As home

(C) Frank mcgivney

Pain

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

instead

and float so high

you leave me to lie

to wallow in my pain

the one i pretend to feel

where the tear

drips

and a stain grows

and I can be

Free

to

be

Just

me

(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

so

he screams

and

she screams

and

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.

girls in love 

she smiled feeling the skin of her finger caress the palm of her waiting hand. Beyond the walls a man from Belfast sang a tune about a dance. The silver from the New York moon shone through the slit in the curtains tracing a line between their prone bodies splitting the bed in two equal parts, a jigsaw waiting to be pieced together in mutual desire. Somewhere a child with over eager lungs screamed for a mammy who was too drunk to care, a cat shimmied through an alley in the display of metal rubbish bins beneath the window, where their eyes sought the unquestioned answers of a lifetime of timid downcast smiles and whispered hellos. 

Character

this writing malarkey is fascinating. Doing it nearly a year and a half now and every day I learn new stuff. 

The interesting for me the last few weeks is what happens when you add an extra dimension to a character and then rewrite what you had written previously.

It’s like a new world opens up, a more interesting one for the character to explore or in this case cause havoc. 

I’m excited what this let sing curve will throw my way next. 



Thoughts on writing

There I was with the words on the page. The first attempts at a novel and the sentences were piled up and I had listened to the wisdom of writers and was trying to use it. Then one night you think that the boy who is the story needs to live in the shadows with a mind like my own but willing to follow his thoughts. And the story changes easily and although Im still only at the start of writing it I am really enjoying the whole experience. If no one else ever reads it then it doesn’t matter because I will have enjoyed reading it myself and along the way my mind has developed.
I think anyone who has any inclination should try it. I’m far from a good writer but that doesn’t matter it’s the experience that gives the therapy and healing not the finished product. And more importantly the fun.