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JOHNJO – an extract

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MY NEW PLAY – JOHNJO – IS NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK ON AMAZON

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JOHNJO EXTRACT

 scene one

A darkened stage. We hear the sounds of a busy building site.  Then a voice…

VOICE:     Jaysus, Blondie…that’s a…a…

Then another sound – an explosion.

Silence.

The light’s come up, to reveal JOHNJO sitting on a rock on a hill.  The hill looks down on some windswept, craggy fields, and, in the distance, faint outlines of farm buildings (unseen).  Johnjo is in his fifties, weather-beaten, but well-dressed…(suit, polished shoes etc) He is singing softly at lights-up.

         

JOHNJO:                               (THE ROCKS OF BAWN)

Come all ye loyal heroes and listen on to me.

Don’t hire with any farmer till you know

what your work will be

You will rise up in the morning

from the clear daylight till dawn

And you never will be able

For to plough the rocks of  bawn

My father was always singing bits of that song.

I don’t know, maybe he didn’t know any more of it,

but those are the only words that stick in my mind…

(pause)

I suppose, though, they had a certain ring…

Plough…Rocks…Bawn….

(he gets up and looks around)

I mean, look at it…

More rocks than bawn…

By God, if I had a penny for every stone we picked…

For every furze bush we cut down…

(imitates his father)

Fifty acres, boy…and five of them is a hill.

What good is a lump of limestone to a farmer?

You can’t feed beasts on rocks. By God, if I

had my way, I’d blast the whole lot to kingdom

come…

(laughs, sings  I AM A LITTLE BEGGARMAN)

I am a little beggerman

and begging I have been

For three score and more

In this little isle of green

With me sikidder-e-idle- di

And me skidder-e-idle-do

Everybody knows me

By the name of Johnny Dhu.

That was his favourite song

He would sometimes sit me on his knee…

Johnjo ‘hears’ a woman’s voice calling.

‘VOICE’:   Johhny, Johnny where are you?

Out there in the cold with the child!

Come on in now and milk the cows… Continue reading →

DOWN SCRUBS LANE

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WORMWOOD

Wormwood isn’t here

The sign said, rather waspishly.

It wasn’t the Wormwood I remembered;

Scrubs Lane on a wet Sunday

The outback in West London

No buses, no cars, no people

Just limp grass, acres of the stuff

And, oh yes, the finest redbrick edifice

Victoria’s henchmen could construct.

No rotting bodies in here, my friend.

Not Newgate, not by a long shot

Though debts must still be paid

And some may still get laid

Lord Alfred Douglas lay here,

As did Charles Bronson,

Keith Richards, Leslie Grantham.

And  George Blake

Scurrying along in his traitor’s gait

Till the day he pole-vaulted to freedom

More or less

Before waving goodbye

To his English life,

His liberty and his wife

And all those Wormwood scrubbers

 

NEUROPLASTICITY

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NEUROPLASTICITY

You can teach an old brain new tricks

Neuroplasticity is its name

The mind is what the brains does – they say

But the reverse may be true, just the same

There are no lights, sounds, colours

Or smells inside the brain

Only patterns of electrical information

And our sense receptors

That help the brain to sculpt itself

To rewire itself, as it were, and keep you sane,

By conscious habits of thought and action.

They say machines can’t fix themselves

But what of the power of mind over matter?

I think, therefore I am isn’t just idle chatter.

THERE WAS A TIME… my unfinished symphony is now finished

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stand1

A couple of days ago I invited contributions to complete this poem.  I guess is was an experiment really to see if several different poets could find the same emotions to make sense in a joint effort.  I am delighted to say that Michaelnjohns did just that, and he finished my poem  better than I could have done myself. Thanks michael

THERE WAS A TIME…

There was a time which was                                                                                                                                                        Much better lived than told                                                                                                                                                         There was a time we were much younger then                                                                                                                        And growing up held  more sway than growing old                                                                                                                  Then one day all that growing was done                                                                                                                                   And the long slide down that                                                                                                                                          Imaginary hill had begun…

I’ve slid, lost my hat, what’s worse, I’ve gotten fat,                                                                                                                     But if, at the end of it all, I could choose,
I’d say it’s been a good slide; I’d go again-
Through every bump and cut and bruise.
And I still reminisce now, of life back then

unfinished symphony. THERE WAS A TIME…

/ gorgeousgael / 2 Comments

THERE WAS A TIME…

There was a time which was

Much better lived than told

There was a time we were much younger

And growing up held  more sway than growing old

And then one day all that growing was done

And the long slide down that

Imaginary hill had begun…

I have,as you can see, not yet finished this poem. Anybody who feels like contributing some lines to finish it please feel free!

PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV

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FOR_ST~1

PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV

Talking gets harder each day:

Smokeless zones and telephones

Have killed the conversation

Now our lies, laughs, truth and tears

Have all been swallowed whole

By another monster

In another shiny console

Rocking-horse to rocking-chair

And somewhere in between

The fireplace has become a flickering screen

Glowering at the world

Insisting on silence as it reward

Granddad spat in the fire;

I spit in your face;

Old lies die hard.

THE CAFETIERS

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THE CAFETIERS

Oh yes, the cafetiers;

They sit here day after day

Sipping their lives away

Out in the open air

In historic Hastings town square

Good sides to the sun

Contemplating another sticky bun

Watching the girls parade past

Leaning like mannequins at half-mast

SOME DUBLIN CHARACTERS

/ gorgeousgael / 3 Comments

SOME DUBLIN CHARACTERS

Not necessarily born in Dublin but lived a significant part of their lives in the city.

THE BIRD FLANAGAN

BRENDAN BEHAN

PATRICK KAVANAGH

JIMMY O’DEA

MYLES NA gCOPALEEN

SEAN O’SULLIVAN

ENDYMION

JONATHAN SWIFT

DENIS GUINEY

SEAN O’CASEY

W B YEATS

JACK B YEATS

ALFIE BYRNE

THE TOUCHER BYRNE

MARGARET BURKE SHERIDAN

JACK DOYLE

JOE MCGRATH

etc  etc  

TICK TOCK…TICK TOCK

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PRISONER

The ticking clock is silent

Articulating emptiness

Mainspring not busted

Just not required.

Time gulling it over the horizon

Speckled in the distance

The residue left behind

Not worth a light

Over some visionary hill

Virtual reality is real enough

More and more scream the worms

Turning every which way but one

More length, more depth

More leisure, more pleasure

More love, more life

Bur mostly more coin

Nothing prepares us for this

The hand that held the answers

Trembling now before new idols

Knowledge bootless as experience

New waves have old beginnings

But tired dogs own no snap

It’s the rut we’re stuck in, see?

Slow going forward but no going back

Sitting by time’s window

Waiting for the daily rebuff

To come winging by

Sifting little crumbs of comfort

From the embers

Screaming all the way……

 

THE STARGAZER

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FLASH FICTION

My stars had  predicted it. ‘Go for maximum growth and opportunity, late in the afternoon’, said the Sun’s Stargazer. Well, it was late afternoon and here I was in firm’s stationary cupboard. The maximum growth had already taken place, and the opportunity was about to present itself. Just as soon as Jackie managed to free the stubborn zip on her skirt!