Confusion

(based on a timed quick write during the summer course)

He struggled to open his eyes. How do you wake up tired he asked himself. But..tired he was. Exhausted. Drained. He thought back to when it had happened. He wiped the sleep crust out of the corner of his eyes. Come on, he urged himself, remember. It was like a plea. He didn't recognise the weakness in his whisper. And yet, the memories kept slipping through his mind, he was like a child unable to hold on to a ball. Each time he grasped at a memory it slipped out of his reach.

They'd been together, of that he was sure. Definitely. They must have been together. They were always together, yet, why was he alone now? He looked down at where his strong muscular arms should be.

Confusion.

Papery, spindly, skinny arms with thin, long tapered fingers. And the blotches and the veins. He couldn't take it in and yet it was familiar. He'd get to the bottom of this. He looked around the room, everything in a soft, blurred focus. His uniform. OH!! There'd be hell to pay. Where was it? One of his bunkmates must've hidden it. Where was it? He was always fastidious, his uniform as clean as a new penny. He needed the security of his uniform. Once he put it on, all would be ok.

He rubbed his hands slowly over his face.

Stubble.

He'd be in trouble if he was seen with stubble. He'd be given the what fro. He'd shaved that morning, using the small broken mirror and resting it on his canteen. In fact, he'd managed to nick his chin in the process. Funny how he couldn't find the scab of it now.

He sat back down on the bed, tired, frightened, a nervousness creeping over him. He knew there was a horrible truth, a reason, a finality just dancing at the edge of his mind...just out of his reach.

He needed to sleep. He'd be late for line out and there'd be hell to pay, but he needed to close his eyes. He lay back and closed his eyes. His eyes dancing under his eyelids as if still searching for his uniform.

She quietly tiptoed towards the bed. He was asleep. His mouth was ajar, snoring softly, his thin chest rising and falling slowly. She pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. 

Poor Eddie she thought... an old man of 90 in his body, a young man in his prime in his mind. She shook her head in pity and disgust. Times had changed, but still, young men women went off to fight the wars and some continued fighting them even as they neared the end of their lives, their minds forever trapped in no mans land. 

As she closed the door to Eddie's room, she thought of a poem she had learnt in school "Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori"- it's a sweet and good thing to die for your country. She wondered if Eddie would agree with it if he could.

 Thoughts on time.

Time. It waits for no man..but it can stand still..like an errant toddler wanting to be chased it runs away from us. Time can crawl, drag, fly or even stop.

We can save time or spend it, wisely or foolishly depending on our day.

We can become lost in a moment only to be found in the nick of time.

And all the while, time passes.

Time can be killed but its slow march can never be stopped permanently.

Time is the greatest healer but in the end we die when we run out of time.

We can give time to others- a moment, a second, a minute, an hour- or we can refuse to give it- "I haven't a second to spare". 

You can be in time, on time or if you run late...over time.

And all the while, time passes. 

When a decision needs to be made it can be down to a matter of time or perhaps you'll have time on your side.

However..my alarm has just sounded..my 6 minutes is up..I would love to write more but I seem to have run out of space!!

Ellenfield with Oisín

Shadows softly sway

Sun shines on skin 

relieving breezy chills

Trees are a-twitter with tiny tits,

butterbeaked blackbirds 

and fluttery finches 

as steely-eyed magpies vie for position 

on the ornithological pecking order.

The whir of distant wheels 

bubble wraps us in.

Church bells add to the symphony

or din - depending 

on the mood you're in

Dogs chase balls and tails,

Couples chat inaudibly

A man planks under an evergreen

Another in shorts against a treetrunk 

stretches a calf

Old ladies fillet the order of the day,

Roast the men in power 

for suggesting shorter showers

and letting the turf die unfulfilled in the ground.

The sounds of pucks and clacks and whacks -leather and ash, 

Thumps of O'Neill's balls,

launch and land with thuds.

Hoverflies stop and start 

from the canopy hood 

under which you lie

Missing all of this bliss -

(All of this bliss I would miss

were it not for you) 

Oblivious in your own snugged up sleepiness

 Ashling Murphy was a 23-year-old Irish primary school teacher and traditional Irish musician. On the afternoon of 12 January 2022, she was attacked and killed while jogging along the Grand Canal just outside Tullamore, County Offaly.

I wrote this piece on Jan 14th -

Don't tell women to do the right thing

In order to protect themselves

From attack

From death.

Tell men

To behave as humane

Sentient beings

To act with decency and respect.

Tell men

To refrain from lewd remarks

Coarse comments

Unwanted looks and leers

Unwanted commentary and appraisal

Of physical attributes

Unwanted touching and handling.

Unwanted. Unwelcome. Uncalled for.

Stop attacking.

Stop maiming.

Stop killing.

Stop men.

Stop.

Change the record

"Boys will be boys."

Fine.

If.

If they're respectful boys

Manners boys

Boys aware of the dignity and rights

Of all others.

Be those boys, those men.

Don't tell women to do the right thing.

Tell men.

 On learning about Alanna Quinn Idris (17) who needed emergency eye surgery following a savage attack which occurred outside the Ballyfermot Civic Centre on the evening of December 30th 2021.

I wrote this on Jan 4th 2022 :

Who goes armed

With metal and wood

Intent on harm,

Up to no good?

Who sees human other

Like sister, daughter, mother

And lacks compassion,

Intent on smashing,

Breaking,

Fracturing,

Shattering?

Who are these people?

Are they still people?

What are the source wells

That broil up

Such

Fountains of vicious savagery

That erupts and flood

Into our streets

And homes

And rush into crush crunch of bones?

Can a tide be stemmed?

A torrent staunched?

Who are they?

Why do they do?

Who are we?

The who, what, why?

Is it their fun and games

That someone loses an eye?

       Zeugma prompt.   31/3/22 Quickwrite - 8 mins. Mary Finnegan.

The shop had been in the family since 1912 with the name, Finnegan,  going above the door in 1922. It  was a feature of the neighbourhood. Generations of customers, who were known and valued, had come for newspapers, comics, magazines, cigarettes, stationery and religious goods. In later years other items became part of the stock - chocolate, sweets, milk, cream, minerals, crisps, silver chains, toilet paper, tissues - a cornucopia of necessities in the small corner shop.

Then it came to 2007 and the last man standing behind the counter decided to call it a day at the age of 75 and retire. There was so much to sort, to clear, to pack. Delicately taking down the old gas lamp that was no longer in use. The things found - boxes of pen nibs from the 1920s. A few boxes of drawing pins from the 1930s. Hairpins. Shoelaces. Lost envelopes. It was a time consuming and emotional ordeal dismantling nearly a century of trade. At last, with many hands having helped, with many memories swirling in the dusty air, it was done. 

He took a last look round. 

Then, he closed the door and that chapter of his life.

                   The Street   by Mary Finnegan. March 31st, 2022. Quickwrite -7mins 15 sec.

Since 1912, the family shop was on Selskar Street, taking its name from Selskar Abbey, just around the corner, at the top of the Avenue - Selskar Avenue. Selskar Abbey where Henry II did penance for the death of that "turbulent priest" Thomas à Beckett/Thomas of Canterbury. [Should have been careful with what you said in front of the staff, Henry me lad, if you didn't really MEAN murder when you said "will no-one rid me of . . . " Anyway, I digress.]

Selskar - a corruption of Sepulchre meaning tomb. There are people buried within the small church tower of Selskar Abbey. One of them is named Mrs. Hatchhall. [Tricky name to say. I wonder did people make her repeat it often? Or spell it?]

Anyway, Selskar Street. The very start of Wexford's North Main Street that goes through The Bullring, past the Pikeman statue, winding uphill and onto South Main Street. [Pause for my father's joke - "Yes - that's the Main Street . . and the further you go the "mainer"/meaner it gets." Write it down. Everyone a gem.]

The family just call it Selskar. The shop in Selskar. It was on the corner of Selkar Street and Skeffington Street. Skeffington Street that used to be Ram Street - as in Ramsgrange - or - my grandfather's joke this time - Lamb's Papa Street.

The Smell of Fresh Cut Grass by Gaye Gannon

The Smell of Fresh Cut Grass

By

Gaye Gannon

Wherever I am, whatever I do,

There’s one sharp smell that will always break through.

Fresh cut grass

As a child it could mean something lovely or tough.

From a meadow picnic with dolls or the feel of the rough

Meadow just mown which meant only one thing,

Which was days of a ‘meitheal’, a struggle to bring

Home………. Fresh cut grass.

There were endless supplies of fresh beer and cooked fries,

To keep the men happy while fresh cut grass dries,

To be moved into piles and then made into hay cocks,

That were pitched by strong men with muscles like rocks.

That were stored in a shed with precision and skill,

To keep cattle fed and well nourished until,

The following year when the forecast was right,

And the message went out on that very same night,

That a ‘meitheal’ was needed and men came in their droves,

Having me again knee deep in rashers and loaves.

They were times of hard work and good honest toil,

Being rewarded with food and with beer on the boil.

But whatever the year there was one common mark.

The small of fresh cut grass and a fridge full of pork.

[4 x 4] x4 x Jean

Slip free from them
Snip head from stem
Down that vast well
Down that deep hell

Wrap scar like veil
Worn like aged tale
Life made from hurt 
Life born from dirt

Tear down that name 
Lips ripe with pain
Pull hate from fear 
Burn salt from tear

Heed your deep call
Plan each last pall 
Girl made from mire
Hold fear with fire

Escape - Annette Brown

Poetic piece on a place that's important to you using your senses. 

The rushing, vigorous river straddles the outer perimeter of the estate,
While the silent Castletown House towers over the parklands,
Tall majestic herons perch on slippery rocks patrolling the river,
Ducks bolt down the seedless grapes
scattered by children from the lake side. 
Paddling, gliding while webbed feet hide below,
Dogs on leashes bound and leap with their smiling owners.

This place is special to me, the feeling of space, nature flourishing,
Inside the cocoon of wildlife, outside developers devour green spaces, 
Builders hoardings sprout up, planning permission notices multiply.

While the tree lined avenue invites us inside to saunter and relax. 
To refresh, renew, restore.