Tag Archives: irish poet

plot

I wish I could say

I lost the plot

But I’d have to have found it first

So many words I have waiting

To sprint to finish the race

Lining up to slow for effect

Raring to roar for design

A structure waiting for logic

To define the curves of paths

Please spirit in the sky

Touch my mind with the tale

To light the shine of my writing soul

(C) Frank McGivney wondering what tale is there waiting to fill the void of the drunken keyboards lust for words

No longer I lie

Without a whisper to touch

The skin beneath my hope

My eyes fluttering to dream

I relish the Twitter , the tweet

And the tune they sing

Betwixt the green and brown

Calling to new lovers to hear

The beauty of their mellow

Song drifting in the air

(C) frankie Mcgivney the moments before sleep listening to my travelling companions among the leafs upon the trees

Forever

They drip to languish

Beneath the collar

The tears of realisation

Her smell was in your

Dreams but her hand

Is somewhere else

The smile languishes

Beneath the thoughts

The realisation her

Heart and yours

Will never drift apart

There is no Mountain Dew

No sunrise and falling moon

No painted smile

No flower in bloom

Can compare with her smile

The beauty spot on her cheek

The tiny imperfection

Of her perfect eyes

The colour of her skin

Her strength of her chin

The perfect curve of her nose

The shape her lips create

To form a aphrodisiac smile

Her scream upon your skin

Caresses the warmth within

The place deep inside your

Mind where your hearts

Beat is owned by her touch

Alone where the growl

Of your love making

Climaxes with eyes

Locked deep to see

The love you share

In mind and body

In flesh and words

In her in you

In us

(Frankie love her forever mcgivney

You forgot the end again

You forget where it began

Drifting from your eyes

Your fearful grip

On strands of words

You write each time

Her name her hair

Her smell her eyes

Lost to be refound

Through blurred notes

On unworthy slips

Of yellow and green

You make her laugh

You make her smile

You use your smarts

You use your words

To hide the fear

The darkness wins

Once more

The emotions remain

But her name

Even her name

Flounders on your lips

You forget when it began

But the agony of the end

Tightens it’s grip

repeats

To fade into a memory

Forever lost once more

You loved her once

You love her still

You will love her once again

(C)frankie Mcgivney

Random

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

Leather

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

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

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

a poem after tayto park

The Crisp factory Ride

There they were beneath me floating on by,

their white patterned images reflecting the

creative design of nature’s greatest art.

Above me the fellow members of my tribe,

their breath exhaling the whoosh of the warrior

chariots sweeping rise and descent into joy.

Within their blood Cu Cuchulain’s people shared the

joint heritage of the DNA gift of an African Jane who’s

tribe ventured beyond the Pale of their jungle home.

A crescendo of human vocal exhalations reached out

to the spirit of the man from Tir na nog whose sliothar’s

path if true, would have sliced a straight tunnel to Irelands

freedom from the wrath of the modern Hun and the

ancient beguiling weakness of an island’s lack of esteem

in what it was and who it’s people could transform to be.

The knowledge of garments, whose time had arrived to

overcome the grime of life’s passions and reach into the

bubbled waters of a washing machine cycle, grasped me

by the inner male reproductive organs and imparted upon

my now delicate stomach the rotating screams of dizzy

stumbling steps and mumbled whispers of irate brain cells.

Before one leg went west and the other went north at the same

time, I hung inside out and upside down and opened my eyes

and unlocked my mind and felt the purest of enlightenment

sweep me away to the lake where the swans of Ireland’s myths

Floated freely upon tranquil waters.

And the one with the auburn hair and the wit in her eyes

Grasped one hand in hers while the one with the smile

In his soul and the humour on his lips held the other

And I looked at the one I made the vow to and

I smiled

© frank McGivney 29.08.15 after tayto park

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

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