Succumbed to scent of a travelling kind,
Wafting patience envelopes the sky,
A noble pursuit dressed up in a suit,
Boxer like treasures to try.
Inhaling the peace, dragging the release,
Sifting through snippets gone by,
A passerby, preoccupied with clouds,
Nostalgic pleasured replies.
Gratifying smiles greet outsiders pride,
When boxes crumple to trash,
A philosophers aide – smoking is hailed,
All beings and things turn to ash.
A lot of stories are told in the barbershop. Some true and some just unbelievably false. Imagine being able to pay for your haircut or hairdo by just reading a good story to the barber/stylist. Continue reading “Barber accepts reading as payment for haircuts | 93.1 WZAK”
Fuzzy swirling swathes of colourful visions funnel burrows in the ground beneath his feet, as he sways to the mini-earthquake like tremors in the soil. He squints at the mounds before him, which seem to be a monstrosity in comparison to his nimble frame; too big to climb and too small to be concerned about. Yet, he tiptoes around the roaming bright colours to approach his darkened shimmering familiar destination, which seems like an achievement today. Basking in sun rays, he vaguely makes out his familiar resting-place and the object of his desire in the distance. Glistening and reflecting sun beams, he steadies his feet to begin the tiresome slow journey towards the beacon of a reflective shining light source; his goal amidst a haze of light forms – it’s all a blur to him.
What feels like a hundred withering paces later, his shakes scoop up his glasses from the garden dark chestnut table as his colourfully attired young grand-children clamour around his feet.
By Richard Ankers
A persons ability to judge something and act upon it never ceases to amaze me.
~~ Passing by construction work on dusty, damaged and hollowed pedestrian roads, I always find myself gazing at the hard-hatted labour, which intrigues me ~~
Beneath the tarmac surface lies layers upon layers of gravel, bedrock and foundations of ancestral manual labour. Modernity forages pavements with machines which plow trenches of pebbles, boulders, dirt and dust into broken fabrics of generations laid bare before us; exposing the furnished historical simplicity if stumbled upon; for the most part – red coned obstacles in our pedestrian bustling way. The dust of manual labour – a timeless tradition, we scuffle the path carelessly beneath us daily. We walk the tarmac polished road paved ahead of us, as the mortal dust settles – knowingly susceptible to the elements.
More than a pub name, Seanchai storytelling is an art form and a way of life.
When I ‘made a face’ (a scowl or was talking tripe) as a kid, which unfortunately adults had to put up with (apologies in advance), I, and many others were spun the old Irish saying; ‘If the wind changed, your face will stay like that.’
So, the years preceding youthful innocent wisdom, (which beset my young mind at the tender age of ten years or so, can’t be sure) I believed naively that very Gaelic tale. Yes, I actually believed that my face, when infused by sin and riddled with Catholic guilt, would remain fixed in place like a statue, forever unchanged, until a time, should the Heavenly Father (God forbid) decide to pardon my petulance and arrogance and allow my face to move a muscle to grimace, let alone, asking too much of Him and perchance to smile. Continue reading “A Grand Tale of Seanchai Folklore: A Tribute to Little Gran”
A scarpering Light, the bird took fright,
Too glaring of a sound,
The heartbeat of a leaf, a welcome relief,
To rise above the crowd. Continue reading “A Swallow’s Flight”
To Wander at Sea,
Where the heart should be,
Lest devils forget the score,
To know thy place,
Where oft mind nor race,
Grow silent at the shore. Continue reading “To Wander At Sea”
