Tag Archives: irish poem

Irish strength

When the crown killed

Our children with hunger

Feed through greed

A nation learned to fight


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


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


When you send me your kisses

Take the wrapping from the flower

And shower me with your passion

Give me all or give me none

And in return

You can take with love

Everything of worth

The words , the love,

The kiss, the moans

The touch, the look

And the key to search

For more

(C) frankie Mcgivney

The Clamp

The Clamp

It came from a wreck,

An automobile of dubious ownership

Green with rust coloured trim

The name on the slip was faded to grey

A man of great substance

No wealth just a whole lot of nothing

The fine was mighty too mighty to care

Put a hole in the tyre, Dear Alfred she

Roared across the divide between her

World and theirs.

Yellow triangle with black trim

Dublin Corporation in proud script

Do not remove below.

The large giving the name

The small removing the gain

He was a cantankerous man

Of medium height and of lower measure

In the department where thoughts flowed

And dreams were meant to be formed.

It wasn’t they didn’t like him, or even hated

It was more akin to some form of deepest

Despise which permetated their laughter

Clamped Mr Purcell, you have been clamped

The world must surely pause its eternal progress

The powers that be may wait with bated breath

The cats may stop moaning and the dogs stop fooling

Until the problem is solved, the solution found

The raison d’etre is revealed, deduced and recovered

Get me the number of this so called corporation

Dial the digits, man the ford, line up the women

We are going to war and all hell will pay

“We have no record Mr Purcell, no record at all”

“You have the auto clamped Mr Corporation man”

“No we haven’t Mister”

“I’ve seen it myself”

“Were you left out for the day?”

“What the?”

Beep Beep Beep

Hello, Hey, come back

Right lads get me a car, a van, a bicycle, whatever

I am heading for the office of the boys in blue

Right you are Sir, right you are.

Hold on where’s it gone

It’s gone, It’s gone, it’s disappeared

What Mr Purcell

The clamp the clamp the heathen clamp

What Clamp Mr Boss

The one you showed me not but five minutes ago

No such recollection can I recall

He wondered many a day and a whole lot of nights

But no one would reveal the ghost he lost that day

©Francie McGivney

The funeral (a poem)

The funeral


Along the crumbling sides

slithering deep in their

disturbed home the worms

turned from her cries

A virginal tongue hung

out of the gaping mouth

where a trail of garlic

tinged, spittle dribbled

along the pale cheek

above the white collar


The decrepit retiree, who had only

the week before, in a moment of

clarity concerning the inevitable,

picked out his own final home;

a mahogany coloured box

with fake silver handles and

a cross in the style of a Celtic

Warrior’s sword-handle emblem,

dragged a shot from a newly lit

Major, watching the smoke trail

in blue fog circles through a ray

of freezing sunlight and yawned


The busy one who never missed

a funeral, state occasion or the

seldom invited weddings

nodded a fickle head

Containing a barren brain,

Supported on a crooked body,

Turned to his non attentive neighbour

who ignored his complaints of

annoyance at the delay the

audacity would cause to the

rest of his self important daily

schedule of gossip filled meetings

There was a brown jackass in the glen

who regularly refused to comply

and a herd of cattle in the pasture

waiting with teats in need of emptying,

united in ignoring the amorous

advances of a rampant bull jailed

behind an unfortunate white washed wall.

On the hill above the honey valley

a goat mixed with sheep consuming

anything foolish enough to succumb

to natures desire to bring

forth a vegetative head or end

out of the craggy stone-dotted soil

In a wooden shack a chicken delivered

Her morning prize unaware of a bushy

Tailed devious desire for her flesh

All of them combined in a distinct

Lack of concern for the occurrence

The boy’s body never flinched

His eternal sleep unperturbed

His soul shed not a single tear

His mother’s prone body

six foot down, five foot length

ways and loads of feet around

shook with her loss of the only

One who smiled at her for no

reason other the inherent desire

to reply to her own

The cantankerous man

who smile was never found

who grumbled at teenagers

who snuffled at gossipers

who cursed freely at priests

and shopkeepers and everyone

in-between, with equal resolve

reached out unthinking a hand

calloused but gentle to take her

from her refuge, ignoring the

Scratches, leaving the broken nails

in his cheek to be removed in time.

She melted into him until the heart beat

steadied and the mind fogged enough

to never forget but to survive

as the patient clay filled the space

She had vacated.


© francie mcgivney spain summer 2015


The short one 

turns out the short one was a man with pride

The barkeep who winked a kiss in his face 

Bleed on the stretcher while the nurse 

Removed the whiskey glass shreds

He had played pitcher for a horizontally 

Challenged baseball team in Japan

In some city not Tokyo some other one

He named but which I can’t pronounce

And don’t feel the inclination to spell

And the cuff wouldn’t fit but that was no 

Concern to the broken down divorced cop

Who shook his hand and let him go outside

In appreciation of the damage inflicted 

On a ball scratching, wife snatching, clap

Spreading son of an illigetimat father, 

Who never failed to leave the shot before

The lip was reached 
(C) Francie Mcgivney in spain writing for fun summer 2015

Father’s Day


It’s a tale like the rest

They all come to know

The man is your father

The script of the poem

the words in the rhyme

he sings to your soul

the beat of the drum

you danced with his love

the smoke trails a path

from the front to the rear

you sit alone and remember

his song, his reverie

the voice of a man

the spirt of a king

the eye of your friend

The one you hold dear

The hands were all calloused

The touch it was soft

The path he lead onwards

Was the best that he could

Now he lies floating

Away from your sight

Beside with your dreams

Inside you in love

And all that you long for

is the day when it comes

when he takes your hand

softly and leads you on home

© francie mcgivney Fathers day 2015