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

kells

Here’s a bit of an auld poem or whatever you would call it about the town I live in, which I just wrote because sure why I wouldn’t I. 
Kells
The people pass me by while I walk 

With the pages of my words in blue

My pen is black my hair gone grey

My dreams still a rainbow of hope

They nod and smile and I reply 

With a wisping joy of a home I found.

And the pubs stand with open arms

And there’s more Chinese food than

Native grub to purchase in silver trays.

The cross has a head missing and when

I stare the pagan in me sees the 

Beauty of the three spirals designed 

In the wind and truck beaten stone. 

The book, they pilaged to the place 

Where the west brits learned the rules 

Of domination, is missing, driving the

Spirits of the monk’s half lunatic mad

In the quest for their coloured pages. 

They look and can’t find their inks.

A tower is round, a saint’s home square

I sit in front of a wall writing auld words 

Some which rhymn and some which shock 

And inside I remember the people who 

Came before me from this historic mammoth

Of artistic beauty and wealth of creativity.

While somewhere beneath, a river runs, avoiding 

The stone chasms which need pile-driving to 

Penetrate the heart of a place where a gypsy 

King lies sleeping in gold beside the graves 

Of nuns and people of all shapes and sizes

I meander along the boulevard with my 

Thought which turn into wonder seeking

Moments of eternal relaxation while 

Around me they all seem to do the same.

The tale ends with a sun set over a spot 

Where the Vikings plundered and Cromwell

Marched and the monks hid and the priests

Said their auld prayers to the devout masses

From books at a hidden alter by a well

And the world is for a moment as it should.

© Francie McGivney 26.06.15

#hayfestivalkells Hay Festival Kells

The Final Fight

The Final Fight

I took the home you had inside

I fed the cat until he died

I showed you how to love a man

Was I the greatest lover you ever had

You slapped me once on Sunday night

You burnt my clothes after a fight

You held me tight that day I cried

You were the greatest love I ever had

I read you poems I wrote with chalk

I hit you once when you refused to talk

I took your dreams and held them tight

Was I the bastard you dreamed at night

You took the dog, the house and hope

You found a lover to help you cope

You rode us both on the same night

You were the one who won the final fight

© Frank McGivney 29.01.15

Music a poem and a mention of whiskey

Went to Tommy Fleming concert tonight. The Sligo man has a golden voice smooth as honey sliding down a blade of morning dew on grass.
Her indoors put in a request for hard times the song not the aspiration and didn’t he only song it, the hero. Well she was only delighted with herself and it was the best song of the night. The woman obviously had good taste.

So I feel a poem coming on and here it is I hope :

I want to write the words
The words of honey and wine
To sweeten your soul
And intoxicate your heart
I want to put it down on a sheet
Of musical lines an octave above
The sound of silent heartache
And when you sing it my love
I want you to sing it for my heart
To fill it with the joy of your voice
(C) frank Mcgivney 18. 10. 2014

There it came out alright I love honey and wine although whiskey and beef are things I prefer.