"Death of an Irishwoman"

Ignorant,
 in a sense

she ate monotonous food

and thought the world was flat,

and pagan, in the sense

she knew the things that moved

at night were neither dogs nor cats

but pukas and dark-faced men.

she nevertheless had fierce Pride.

But sentenced in the end

to eat thin diminishing porridge

in a stone-cold kitchen

she clenched her brittle hands

around a world she could not understand.

I loved her from the day she died.

She was a summer dance at the crossroads.

She was a card game where a nose was broken.

She was a song that nobody sings.

She was a house ransacked by soldiers.

She was a Language seldom spoken.

She was a child's purse
 full of useless things.

Michael Hartnett

(1944-1999)

Limerick
Ireland

~ Beannaichte'
 28 May, 2020 

~ Covid-19

beannaichte@twitter.com

"Fifth Season"

This is the Fifth Season

Where did the other four go

I sit and look from my window

How time it  passes so slow

 I sit, my mind filled with memories
Feeling  I'll die with this Pain
Wondering what game Time is playing
They told me next Season is Spring

I've restlessly waited for someone

Who really could show me some gain

But it seems people are so indifferent

 Please tell me someone, if you feel the same

  Why have they been so dishonest

The rest were given a name

Spring, Summer, Fall , and Winter

This is the Fifth Season ~ Pain

You sit, looking so complacent
I really would like to know
Are you really like this
Or don't you want the Pain to show

You know it won't help much

Turn your back, it doesn't go away

Hide, while in your guts, you're crying

Seasons, not like people, have their stay

 Free yourself and look again

My eyes, if you must have a reason

What you see are the Tears of Pain

Do you also know the Fifth  Season ~

Do you also know the Fifth Season ?

~ Alicia O'Hara 
~ Copyrighted Material
~ Written and put to music, during the Winter of 1975.

@beannaichte.twitter.com

"Tiny Beautiful Things"

              

               Don't lament so much about how your career is going to turn out.  You don't have a career.  You have a life.  Do the work.  Keep the Faith.  Be true blue.  You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your complaining.  Your book has a birthday.  You don't know what it is yet.
              You cannot convince people to love you.  This is an absolute rule.  No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it.  Real Love moves freely in both directions.  Don't waste your time on anything else.
              Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be.  Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose.  Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go.  Acceptance is a small, quiet room.
              Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relationship to your naive pomposity.  Many people you believe to be rich are not rich.  Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got.  Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering.  Many people who appear to be olde and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.
              When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that the kiss doesn't "mean anything" because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back.  Your daughter will have his sense of humour.  Your son will have his eyes.
              The useless days will add up to something. The horrible waitress jobs.  The hours writing in your journal.  The long meandering walks.  The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and  dead people's diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not.  These things are your becoming.
              One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don't look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you.  Don't hold it up and say it's longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm.  Your mother will be dead by spring.  That coat will be the last gift she gave you.  You will regret the small thing you didn't say for the rest of your life.
              Say, "Thank You".

     ~ From "Tiny Beautiful Things,"

by Cheryl Strayed

~ Beannaichte'

5 May, 2020

@beannaichte.twitter.com