Tag Archives: @shortstory

Amidst the noise and the clatter

You stand inside yourself

Comfortable in your silence your words flow gentle in your mind the rapid thinking the peaceful reflections and internal smiles wam the hearth of who you are

Retuning to the true self you open the door to the calm you once loved but feared

If only in days of youth you could have recognised the strength embraced by the gentle touch and the near silent whisper of words

The shake is now gone from the echo of your voice. The embarrassment of a younger you the nervous tremor passes with the scars of life .

When you talk now it’s a whisper which comes from so deep inside of you it’s volume has reduced to near silence yet the words are full of the child inside you never lost

How can you be the writer you are with out clasping dearly to the child inside

The one who held wonder at everyone and everything the beauty of the sea the sounds of the daffodil the touch of the bee the colour of the rain filled sky when the sun defracts the crystals

Even when the volume rises the softness has now returned and the smile of peace with a world where sometimes the sky is a shade of purple and sometimes red and sometimes a vivid blue. Where the man with the cup outstretched touches your soul and you don’t know if he’s tale is true but it doesn’t matter because when his knuckle hits yours he reveals himself to be your brother by virtue of kindred spirits of lost souls who aren’t lost at all but a different shade of the human condition.

Lost to the world of man made mind mangling muscle massing medical mistakes you lost a bit of yourself while gaining a bit you would never forego for it was the journey which mattered but the journey now is softer and gentle and your mind wisps to the ease of the summer stream and your soul touches the world with the gentle kindness of the ladybirds dream

The need to fight the love of a good scrap the blood flow of the lift is still there but different . A changed perspective a controlled rage of beauty where the physical utilisation of the body mingles with the working of the brain. A peace within the chaos

The making of a man who was old when he was young and now young when old. The fake bravery of the drug replaced with the returned courage of the gentle. The loud and boisterous a sand burying shield no longer needed when inside their is no storm to defeat

And the pen feeds your soul. The moments when you transcend reality to touch the reality of the story growing inside your mind the smile as the words flow and when you read them and the people laugh and smile and you feel a warmth because you could sense one of them needed to laugh and one learned something and the rest just for those five minutes forgot their worlds and abandoned themselves to your paragraphs and your gentleness touches the world with a tiny slice of joy

Frankie writing on his return to the peace of the introvert who now understands the whisper reverberates beyond the reach of the scream . The picture is of me with my mam and my aunt chrissie the two most intelligent people I have ever met who’s humour and joy have touched my heart and my mind making me laugh and ponder and love. They have always understood my words and concepts. They have given me their thoughts and understandings and concepts and theories and stories and made me think more than any lecture or book by people of educational prowess. I am forever in their debt. When I hadn’t even a whisper when silence was my own means of communication they were the guardians of my self on this reality which sometimes is difficult terrain for us who aren’t quite the standard creatures of a poorly defined normality

Irish strength

When the crown killed

Our children with hunger

Feed through greed

A nation learned to fight

By

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

Starved

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

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

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

Little notes to myself

They dumped the Trump. Finally realising he wasn’t the winning card but losing cad

Katie Taylor beat the world

Feed the nightmares by eating a cheese sandwich. Does different types create different imaginings

Talking reaches out and takes sadness in its embrace

There’s no coming back from treating some one with the ultimate contempt of believing they will except a betrayal of love. The betrayal is nothing only a moment in time. The contempt of thinking so little of them represents an internal self definition which last a lifetime with no return

Love yourself the way your dog loves you

Love others like a cat loves you

Sometimes another human can make you turn away with the desire to lash down a Valium by drinking a dissolvable tramadol

Blind boy’s pod cast look it up

Take a break and learn from the laughter created by Tommy tiernan

Read something

Remember you belong

Don’t be going off asking an Irish person a question if you aren’t prepared to spent a bit of time listening to the story of the answer

The story won’t be all true but you know it’s not true and I know it’s not true but we both know it’s not true so that’s okay.

Problem is some people don’t realise the stories aren’t fully true. The real quest is to meet the challenge of knowing truth from story telling and discovering which to enjoy and which to ponder upon

Cats love while still protecting themselves by remaining the cat who allows the human into their lair

Dogs love by wagging their tails and jumping around like a lunatic just out of the house for the bewildered after 20 years in a strait jacket

No matter how bad COVID is or anything else the options are to learn from the experience or to not

(C) frankie Mcgivney writing stuff

Long goodbye

Stretching out he reaches but fails to touch the fingers he loves to sense inside his mind feeding the spirit of who he wants to be.

Quiet in himself he resides within thoughts made of claddagh ring eternity enshrined in the unbroken circle of silver band surrounding his heart

Fear of losing if the path is strolled on the left compounds the eternal turmoil of fear beset strolling the path on the right drawing his heart further from the fingers touch

Where’s the water edge? For I long to walk beneath the waves to feel the hollow bath surround the whole of my self. The ripples of the echos blocking the pain of a world outside where joy lies in a blackberry thorn and the red of the morning burns inspiring moments of spontaneous meditative states of mind

Inside the pages the worlds of escape over the sacred release to forget for a spell the long goodbye harrowing through his marrow. A rhyme to celebrate the only drug worthy of consumption the medicine of paragraphs growing into tales of darkness splintered by light

Words of songs linger developing plots unworthy of trust or belief yet as real as reality perceived by a species devoid of the wherewithal to know the dimensions beyond our fickle self determination to be who we can be while ignoring who we are

Frankie writing random words to seek the crack he lost today among the fogs of his mind wondering why the long goodbye keeps playing as lyrics in his soul

Love

Inside her heart

She can fly when she dreams

She can sing when she walks

She can smile with her soul

And love with her eyes

She can touch in the lark

And pray to your mind

She can dream for you both

And make love with her words

She can snuggle from afar

And in the brown of her eyes

She can reflect what yearns

Inside my heart

Frankie Mcgivney writing stuff that matters

Small things

Butterfly on my hand

Where will you go

Will you stay a while

So I can recall the red

Mix with the blue

Summer sky of rain

Where will you pour

Will you stay a while

Upon my brow

Remind me of my skin

Alive in your touch

Words of an authors tale

Where will you flow

Will you stay a while

To caress the space within

Empty of all except the words

You share to tell the world

The path you spin

(C) frankie Mcgivney

no more

No more I’ll go a roaming

Through the silent rivers where

The crocodiles sing the blues

To a man born of slaughters love

Whose blood never coloured

the blush of a maidens cheek

Upon a river bank she owned

With her smile shadowed by

The distant rainbow scream

Of a cloud born of a womb

Coloured grey in amber flames

No more will the soft of her skin

Touch the jamboree of piano

Accordion strings spread wide

To return from worlds where

Memories he recalls of adventures

In crystal clear monotones

Which he knows never existed

Beyond the shattered lines of chaos

Roaming in parallel triangular

Opium shaded brick roads

Stretching deep within to find

The girl with the off centred eye

With a tale to relate of crime

Designed to spin the crumbled

Side of a golden dollar bill

As it spins further away

From where his heart belongs

Frank McGivney

A seat

The bench, old and worn, was cold to the touch through the wool of my trousers

Hi

I could see a line of grime etched into the lines beneath her face as she looked up from her can and threw the shortest of dirty looks expertly mingled with a sound mixture of disinterested distain

Sometimes no doesn’t have to be put Into words or perhaps a look is the strongest no

Still and all it’s not a bad day all things considered

The look again this time I noticed a bunch of her hair stuck together with blood or sweat or vomit or whatever sticks hair together when a member of the human fraternity doesn’t get to avail of the washing facilities of a day or even a month

You can go fuck of if you think you getting something out of me I’m no hooker

I’m no punter either

Good cos I’m particular about who I be having the fun with

Me too

Yeah right

Yeah right exactly

Don’t be getting fucking smart you fucker

I just saying I not into hookers

You should be

Ah here

Well the state of you with the head on you and that Gammy eye and you look like your mother picked out the clothes. Is that wool?

Feck sake you’re worst than a commentator on one of them shows

What shows

You know the xfactor bollixology

Here listen don’t be using that kind of language in front of a Lady

Fair enough

And a slow breeze trailed across our path while we both looked on at the city passing by. a quietness in the kaleidoscope of hustle

You know no one talks as they walk

I looked up and listened and watched

Your man over there is talking on his phone

I thought I told you not to be a wise fucker

You only mentioned being a smart one

Whatever. He is on a phone that don’t count

Why not

It just doesn’t

Why

Cos it’s like the mad cunts who talk to themselves it’s not real talking it’s just pretend chitter chatter

I see what you mean

About the phone

No about them not talking they just are all rushing

Yeah

Yeah

Have you a light

Have you a fag

Yeah

Right then

And I saw her eyes were brown when she held the flame

She would have been a beautiful daughter to some Da a long time ago

She held the smoke deep inside, feeling it’s warmth before slowly releasing it back into the world

I better make a move

She nodded and looked back down

I touched her shoulder gently when i stood, the briefest of contacts; she didn’t react, maybe she hadn’t noticed

I walked on with out a word been uttered to a soul, a member once more of the rushing throngs

(C) frankie mcgivney

Just a random story of top of my head I hope it reads okay. The words I love to write