Tag Archives: ramblings

Random

50 dreams are missing and they didn’t use the door

Just screamed a little hole where there wasn’t one before

Now the army and Gardai are searching high and low

For the saints who fell from grace with the rising of the low

The tide is flowing up hill

And the flies are kissing sky

The dreams are in the clouds

And the world is flying high

The birds are on the game now

The wall is crumbling soft

But smile is on the rise

With the mountain’s turning tune

The dew is singing poems

The cat barking songs

And the dog is sipping whiskey

With the burning of the woes

So let yourself be happy

Embrace a lonesome smile

And let the beauty find you

While the sun is in the sky

(C) frankie Mcgivney

Words thrown out random from a mind glad to feel the pen in hand for letters instead of numbers

May happiness embrace your souls

The Calm

It hits you soft

gentle in your mind

to smell it in the air

to feel it on your skin

to know

the turmoil will decay

the slash will heal

the demons in your soul

Freedom lies within

the crimson flow

from neck to ground

it sprays then drips

and the sound is fresh

hollow but clean

The return to ash

from where you came

 

(c) Frankie

 

Rambling spain

A line of ants passed me by unheeded by my presence as the sweat from my brow dripped upon their never ending toil. I however stood bent over fascinated at their maneuvers. My curiosity sated i passed on by along the deserted dust path with nothing but nick cave in my ear and the constant flutter of the hares darting in to multicolored half barren bushes as i approach. The smell of orange lingers on the air and i wonder are they hares or rabbits. Perhaps a bit of both. Crossbreeding and both species side by side. And i stroll on. The girl in the too tight leggings says hola. I find it hard to know where to look for her top is made for someone less fond of food as well. The auld lads all think im spanish i think. They give me the auld fella nods and the beunz diaz and i return the favour. Nick is hammering on about the big red hand and in the cool of the tunnel i feel shade and read the graffiti in illegible fluorescent shades of pink and blue and greens and i walk on somewhat more educated. The dog in need of anger management classes growls from behind an iron fence, his chain restricting him enough to put the hibbey gibbeys in me as to why he needs a chaining as well as a fencing. I tend towards the other half of the path while the tshirt is drowned in my hand and the heat on my skin reminds me of my bloodline which originated in this land where i feel so much at home. I bear their colour and their ease of pace and inside a fury made beautiful by its self containment within the bounds of self contentment.

I should have brought water but i feel strong. I have the goat in me to keep going, the mountain goat blood of my mothers side, the lack of equilibrium in my mental disposition acquried from the same source. The words and love of same dropped directly from the branches of my fathers orchard.

The point I’m aiming for is farther than it appears but it wont defeat me. The man with the moped tied with two dogs in need of walking passes me by and i smile. He raise his hand in salute and i do the same reflected in the mirror of his overladen motorised biwheel vehicle. A model long gone out of production yet still it plods along uncaring of its generational positioning.

I touch the wall and stop. Wild trees and a vslley to a near dry river. A long distance from the supposed catch of the so called fishing village yet still its holds the beauty of its functional claim. The trees bend with the multicolored flowered bushes to form the magnificane of this piece of the world where the ink traces the paper of the note book which was selected for me by the small hands i have held since her and his birth.

I smile and turn to return to the world beyond the wild of this moment

(C) frankie mcgivney in spain

Rambling crosskiel road races

Passing screams of bikes

Leather clad fans of speed

Swish by my walking mind

Listening to words wise

On the blues to make the

Melancholy shoes trample

The green fields to hear

The summer time tune

Of blue tit wings fluttering

The line well worn where

Beauty waits for the touch

Gentlly strong grasping

The joy of dew dripped

Strands of natures gift

(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.

Morning

Pen in hand searching for words . The other gripped firmly. One used the other motionless. Words spill out on to the page slow at first then erupting . Sprouting out in fountains of sentences and paragraphs. They speak to my soul telling me their plans their past their future.
Starting in a field not knowing where the path will lead but not that it matters. It’s the sights along the way, the words of the people you meet the smiles the tears the dreams. None of them are yours they belong to the story to the characters. They take your hand some hold tight and some loose and they lead you to their world