Tag Archives: ireland

Blood brothers

Blood brothers

Nowhere between lost and found
Where souls meet change
Where redemption pounds 
Shadows drift to light
And smiles dismiss
the twisted tales
A heart beat drums
The pounding rhythm
Of brothers born
Not of blood
But a common path

Frank mcgivney 07.06.16

Life to me is all about family. The family of you birth. The family of your home. The family of your work. The family of your mates.

Blood brothers

Blood brothers

Nowhere between lost and found
Where souls meet change
Where redemption pounds 
Shadows drift to light
And smiles dismiss
the twisted tales
A heart beat drums
The pounding rhythm
Of brothers born
Not of blood
But a common path

Frank mcgivney 07.06.16

Life to me is all about family. The family of you birth. The family of your home. The family of your work. The family of your mates.

For My Daughter

Her First Confession

 

Blessed with water, wrapped in blankets of white

Their tiny hands held our hearts tight

Filling our souls with joy

The pink of a girl or the blue of a boy

 

Wax dripping from the candle

That takes its place upon the mantle

Of homes that they light

With smiles that shine in their eyes bright

 

As school friends, they gather once more

Lined up with family in the pews pure

God’s gifts blossoming to flowers

In the town of Loyd and Round Towers

 

Bless me father for I have sins so mild

The pranks and tantrums of being a child

Holy Father cleanse our innocence

Pray hear our words of penance with your benevolence

 

I’m Sorry God, Connected

Songs sung as parents reflected

On the wonder of their flock of Belles

As fair as any page from the Book of Kells

 

The kind words of the Priest

Permission in lent for a treat

Cleansed and pure wee doves

Ready now for the white dress and gloves

 

© Frank McGivney 10 March 2014

Paddy tempts St Peter

Paddy tempts Saint Peter

Well
Well
There you are
Welcome Brother
good man isn’t it only your self Saint Peter
heaven awaits you
Jaysus that was easy
mmm taking the lords name in vain
what are you at
making a note
a note of what
your sins
I’m shagging well dead
mmm cursing
give it over
its says here you gave up going to mass
I didn’t believe a word of it
how about now that you are outside the gates
I’m still not sure
What more proof do you need
let me in to have a look
you have to prove yourself worthy
I could give you some money
mmmmm bribery
give over writing it all down
by the look of this you haven’t a hope of getting in
you aren’t doing so good yourself
what do you mean
well your stuck out here with me
this is where god put me
so the rest of them are inside having a whale of a time and your stuck out here with the likes of me
its is my vocation
even the boys in Hell know how they’re fixed, do they leave you in at night.
no I am always here waiting the souls
you got righty screwed for the bit of denial
I am humble in the error of my way
You’re a full gobshite,
Mmm bad language
Put down the pen for a minute and listen to me
I got this pen from Jesus himself
Did he post it to you
Well kind of
Exactly. Look come on down here with me
Where to
Down to the other side, sure give it a shot and see how you get on
You are a heathen
That I am but it could be good auld craic once the burning and stuff is over with.
Will there be girls
Loads of them, bad girls
Hang on a second
What are you doing
Posting back the pen
Good man

Francie passing five minute at lunch time

Saint Paddy’s children roam

Paddy’s Wandering Steps

 

 

He is in New York

Walking by the side

With a girl with purple hair

They would skit

Accept, not care

 

He talks in china

to the black hair geisha

In silk

Making her laugh

Touching

With hope

 

She rules in Quebec

Leading a board

Her twang from the lee

Her power from within

The Celtic queen

 

In Berlin his head

Grows grey from red

His voice the same

The bridges he drew

With pen and love

For the art they knew

 

They know us well

Its in the voice

They see the green

Among the red wisps

That flow from Celtic

Dreams of freedoms lure

 

© Francie McGivney 17.03.16

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. 

Saintly Ramblings

Saintly rambles

 

Line up St Francis on the 25th of July

Walk up that path among the birds

And the flies,

 

Line up the whore from the end of the

Street, shake up her ass and all the rest

in between

 

Line up St Christopher with the medal of

Hope, travel down that boulevard and

Dream all alone

 

Wake up the ginger dog with the shaky

Mind, walk that mama’s leg from the store

For a measure of wine

 

Wake up my lover with the one crooked eye

Strip off her mind with the hope she took

For a ride

 

(c) Francie McGivney 04.02.16

 

saint-francis-of-assisi-in-ecstasy(1).jpg!Blog

Apartment 45 a short extract: the Death Metal paragraph

The Death Metal paragraph

A racket is grating from behind the mould ridden door of one of the apartments, a din only a drug induced frenzy could produce, it screeches through the hallway. Beneath the plucked whines of the steel strings is the pulsating beat of a drummer who has lost the plot in a utopia of mind altering pleasure. The voice is demented, the vocal utterances reminiscent of someone been lowered slowly into a pit of sabre toothed, well fed but hungry boars. Jesus has long flowing hair apart from one side which he meticulously maintains shaved to an evening shadow consistency. His parents came from Africa where they had loved God enough to call their first born son after their saviour. I imagine the second went by the handle of Moses or Abraham. Jesus had inherited his mother’s propensity for excessive fat accumulation and his father’s poor taste in music. The cross upon which we were nailed grew in torture on a regular basis as the African prophet of Death Metal music practiced his self-composed creations with his fellow musically challenged buddies of Brad and Lucinda. Lucinda from the Bronx had a chewing gum addiction and drove men both married and single to distraction with her choice of minimal material based clothing. Brad was sired from the loins of a man who held greed as the central theme of his life’s philosophy. One day Brad would be saved from a detox centre by his Bentley driving daddy and taken to a better place. A world he should never have tried to reject where the girls all have perfect complexions and the staff enter by the back entrance hidden from view by an artistically designed hydrangea.

(c) Francie McGivney 26.01.16

I had a dream the other day 

I had a dream the other day

I couldn’t rid my brain

From the fear Santa was 

On the beer and

Rudolph drank a dram 

The manger  had a baby

The Shepards saw a star

The wise men lost the plot

And the day was on its way

The dog found the tree

The cat upon the top 

The pudding burnt the house

Down with golden burning joy

I woke upon a Friday 

The snow was in the clouds

The dog was lonely howling

The wine was stirring a curse

And I was singing a Christmas 

Tune slaughtering a carols dream

She touched my hand with vigour

I hit the floor with fright 

Santa had delivered 

The Christians were Praying

The Muslims were kneeling

The rest were drinking 

And the kids were playing 

The end (I think) 

Random writing of a Christmas Day because why not) 

Freedom

Belfast, Beirut, Palestine, Iraq, Syria, Sarajevo, Dublin 1916, the Congo, Paris, New York, London and everywhere in between where a man’s quest for freedom is demonised by the ones with their fingers on the triggers

He knelt among the rubble, the dust never to be cleaned from his clothes, her blood dripping on the stones where once the fire of their home warmed a family, before the bomb pierced his heart and all he ever had in life. The woman, he once waited for at the top of an aisle, was now scattered in crimson shades of slaughter among the stones, her body drifting in the eastern winds blowing over a paupers city decimated for no reason beyond the greed of men and the hunger of a world for the black blood beneath a dust covered land.
They sit in comfort staring into the orange of a fire lit with coal and turf, they listen to the words of the press, they nod in agreement to fit into the jigsaw of the non questioning man. From one to another as time drifts horrors into memories they ponder why he rose with battered breath to step forth to unsheathe the sword from its resting place within its scabbard.
Frank McGivney 01.12.15