Writing

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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ACT 2

Scene 1

Scene: A Dream of Lionel-Land

The stage is dark. A soft spotlight appears on Alma, sitting at her dressing room mirror, looking tired. She hums softly, then drifts off to sleep. The lights shift, and the stage transforms into a whimsical, colourful dreamscape—Lionel-Land!

Lionel Bart enters, dressed in a flamboyant suit, leading a lively ensemble of dancers and musicians. They perform “I  WISH I WAS IN LIONEL-[LAND” with Alma joining in, her spirits lifted by the fantasy.

Alma: (singing) 

I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray! Where the nights are bright and the skies are gay! Hooray!

“I Wish I Was in Lionel-Land”

(In the style of Lionel Bart – to the air of I Wish I Was In Dixie- Land)

(Verse 1)
Oh, I’ve seen the lights of London town,
Where the rain falls down and the world spins ‘round.
But I dream of a place, oh, so grand,
Where the streets are paved with melody, in Lionel-Land!

(Chorus)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!
Where the trumpets play and the dancers sway.
With a song in my heart and a skip in my hand,
I’d be oh so happy in Lionel-Land!

(Verse 2)
There’s a pub on the corner, the tunes never end,
With a piano man and a jolly old friend.
We’ll sing “Consider Yourself” with the band,
And the whole world’s a stage in Lionel-Land!

(Chorus)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!
Where the nights are bright and the skies are gay.
With a wink and a nod, and a jolly good band,
I’d be oh so merry in Lionel-Land!

(Bridge)
Oh, the rivers would flow with a musical stream,
And the stars would all dance to a ragtime dream.
Every cobblestone hums, every lamppost can sing,
In the land where the melodies ring!

(Verse 3)
So I’ll pack up my troubles, my hat, and my cane,
And I’ll hop on a train to that sweet refrain.
For the world’s full of wonder, but I understand,
That my heart belongs in Lionel-Land!

(Final Chorus)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!
Where the music’s grand and the laughs never end.
With a song in my soul and a smile so grand,
I’ll be oh so happy in Lionel-Land!

(Outro)
Oh, Lionel-Land, my sweet, sweet home,
Where the melodies wander and the stories roam.
With a tune in my pocket and a dream in my hand,
I’ll be forever in Lionel-Land!

The song ends with a flourish, and the dream fades. Alma wakes up, back in her dressing room, smiling wistfully.

Later, in Lionel’s flat. Lionel at the piano trying to compose. Alma helps.

ALMA:                                                                                                                            I had a dream last night. Well, in my dressing room. I nodded off for a little while, and I remember you were singing a song you had just written. It was called ‘I wish I was in Lionel-Land’  or something like that. It sounded like the air to ‘I wish I was in Dixie’, but the words were different. Then I woke up.

Lionel laughs then plays a few notes and sings.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                           I know that tune. It’s an old American Civil War song. I think someone recorded it recently. (sings a few bars). ‘I wish I was in Dixie/ Look away, look away/ In dixie land I will make my stand. Look away…                                                                                                    something like that. Do you remember the words from last night?

John enters with some drinks etc

ALMA:

Ha! I was dreaming! (pause/sings) I think the chorus went something like this;            I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!/ Where the nights are bright and the skies are gay! Hooray!

LIONEL:                                                                                                                       Hmmm. It might have possibilities. Maybe I will work on something later on. (to John, taking a drink) I wrote a new song last night – apparently

JOHN:                                                                                                                            In your dreams!

ALMA:                                                                                                                                      No. In my dreams. (smiles) Oh, don’t ask, John (to Lionel) I think it has your whimsical style Li; full of charm…with a touch of nostalgia.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                              Oh, I’m  nostalgic now , am I! All my songs are merry, I’ll have you know.

AMMA:                                                                                                                             You sound like Sean Kenny now. I remember him saying once ‘All our wars are merry, and all our songs are sad’. Or was it the other way round?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                          Yeah, well, Sean’s Irish, so he should know. ‘for the great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad/ all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad’. Chesterton.

JOHN:                                                                                                                             Hark at him! A poet and we don’t know it!

LIONEL:                                                                                                                        As Sean himself might say, ‘If I didn’t go to school itself, I met the scholars’ on the way home’

JOHN:                                                                                                                          Yeah that sounds like Sean. Full of Blarney! A bit like yourself, come to think of it! You’ll be telling me next you read Chesterton at school!

LIONEL:                                                                                                                        All I read at school was the Dandy. Desperate Dan and Korky the Cat were my introduction to literature. As for Chesterton, I sometimes found that the poets of the past were often good for tuning up my own lyrics.

JOHN:                                                                                                                        You mean you nicked some of their words!

LIONEL:                                                                                                                      Why not? Everyone does it, in my view. There’s nothing new under the sun. I bet even Shakespeare did it!

JOHN:                                                                                                                      Comparing yourself to Shakespeare now eh! (to Alma) What do you think Alma           

LIONEL:                                                                                                                    Hah! I’m more popular than Shakespeare ever was in his day. I bet he didn’t have two plays running at the same time in the West End. Both playing to full houses every  night!

ALMA:                                                                                                                      Don’t get too cocky Li. You know the old saying? The bigger they are, the harder they fall. What’s  next on your agenda?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                                 Oh, I have got big plans for the next three or four years. First will be Blitz, then Maggie May, and then my piece de resistance – Twang.

JOHN:                                                                                                                       And what’s going to pay for all this extravagance?

LIONEL:                                                                                                                       Well, Oliver’s doing well isn’t it? And it’s only got started. They say it will run for years.

JOHN:                                                                                                                         Do you remember what Noel Coward said to you a little while ago. ‘Dear boy, never put your own money in any of your own plays’

LIONEL:                                                                                                                       Ah! Coward. What does he know? He’s a has-been – and has been for the last twenty years or more. Come on, Let’s celebrate.

Drinking, laughing, singing, dancing etc (Lionel slyly swallow s couple of tablets on the qt) They sing/play a couple of songs from Blitz & Maggie May

CONSIDER YOURSELF

(From Oliver!, music and lyrics by Lionel Bart)

Consider yourself at home,
Consider yourself one of the family.
We’ve taken to you so strong,
It’s clear we’re going to get along.

Consider yourself well in,
Consider yourself part of the furniture.
There isn’t a lot to spare,
Who cares? Whatever we’ve got, we share!

Chorus:
If it should chance to be
We should see some harder days,
Empty larder days,
Why grouse?                                                                                                              Always a-chance we’ll meet
Somebody to foot the bill,
Then the drinks are on the house!

Chorus:
Consider yourself our mate,
We don’t want to have no fuss,
For after some consideration,
We can consider…
Yourself one of us!

Consider yourself at home,
Consider yourself one of the family.
We’ve taken to you so strong,
It’s clear we’re going to get along.

Consider yourself our friend,
Consider this a ’and up, if you please, sir!
We’re very ’appy to give
You our ’umble company.


We’re ’appy to ’ave with us
Cheerfulness, charm and innocence,
All the ingredients
For ’appiness.

We now hear the sounds of guns and bombs, people screaming etc And the voice of Winston Churchill on radio;

WC: (voice)

I would say to the House… that I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. You ask, what is our policy? I will say: it is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: it is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.

Lights change and they sing the song MAGGIE MAY, from the musical of the same name.

MAGGIE MAE

 ow gather round you sailor boys, and listen to my plea                                               And when you’ve heard my tale you’ll pity me                                                                 For I was a real damned fool in the port of Liverpool                                                    The first time that I came home from the sea I was paid off at the Home,              from a voyage to Sierra Leone                                                                                           Two pounds ten and sixpence was my pay                                                                When I drew the tin I grinned,                                                                                                     but I very soon got skinned By a girl by the name of Maggie May

Oh, Maggie, Maggie May, they’ve taken you away                                                      They’ve sent you to Van Diemen’s cruel shore For you robbed so many a sailor, and skinned so many a whaler                                                                                          And you’ll never shine in Paradise Street no more                                                                                                                                          

I shan’t forget the day when I first met Maggie May                                                            She was cruising up and down on Canning Place With a figure so divine,                     like a frigate of the line So, being a sailor, I gave chase                                                          Oh, Maggie, Maggie May, they’ve taken you away                                                             They’ve sent you to Van Diemen’s cruel shore                                                                            For you robbed so many a sailor, and skinned so many a whaler

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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Scene 7

Lionel’s grubby flat.

LIONEL:

I had become enchanted with the story Well, the film version anyway. The first song I wrote was WHERE IS LOVE. 1 was in my car, returning from somewhere, and I had to pull over and write it down while it was still fresh in my mind.

You know somethin’? I have never spent more than an hour on any tune. A song should be like a sneeze – spontaneous.

Anyway, 1fled with a mate to a little fishing village near Torremolinos in Spain and rented a little place there, with a maid, for two pounds a week and wrote OLIVER! there.

That little fishing village near Torremolinos… it was like another world. The sun, the sea, the quiet… it all came together, and the songs just poured out of me.

When I came back I hawked it around about a dozen managements and they all turned it down. They said, with it full of orphans and set in a workhouse, it sounded too depressing.

Eventually, Donald Albery, owner of four West End theatres, took a chance on it. The rest is history…

Lighting changes and we see Lionel, John, Alma, and a few musicians sing/play a medley of  songs: WHERE IS LOVE…GOT TO PICK A POCKET OR TWO…REVIEWING THE SITUATION

(add a verse or two of each song)

ALMA:
(singing along)
You’ve outdone yourself this time, Lionel. This is magic.

JOHN:
(grinning)
I told you it would be a hit.

End of scene

Scene 8

Lionel sitting at a table drinking from a glass of whiskey. He looks at the almost empty whiskey bottle. John and Alma are close by.

LIONEL:

(to John)  You drinkin’ all my whiskey?

JOHN:

Your whiskey! Who bought and paid for it? Come on, Lionel, you’ve had enough for  now.

ALMA:

Yes Lionel. You’ve got a premiere in a few hours. You need to sober up.

LIONEL: Who’s drunk? It would take more than this gnats piss (waves his glass) to get me high (waves about) You got anything stronger? (this to John) You know…the old wacky baccky…or somethin’ stronger…

JOHN:

I don’t do any of that stuff. You know that. Why don’t you ask your other so-called mates.

ALMA:

Lionel! You’re supposed to be escorting me to the show. You need to pull yourself together.

JOHN:

Something’s bothering you. I can see it In your eyes. What is it?

LIONEL:

I’ll tell you what it is, mate. If anything goes wrong on that stage tonight I am going to walk out of the theatre and wander round Trafalgar Square until it’s all over.  That’s how wound up I feel.

ALMA:

What can go wrong? That last rehearsal was flawless. Everybody said so.

LIONEL:

I’m a believer that if something can go wrong it will.

JOHN:

A pessimist!

LIONEL:

Yeah. A glass half-empty kinda’ guy…(looks  at his empty glass) which reminds me…

Lights dim. Lionel on his own.

 LIONEL:

Something did go wrong. (pause) I’m sitting in the stalls in my ‘escape hatch’ when it  does. At the start of scene two, one of the scenery bits is supposed to move away a bit to reveal a domestic scene but it doesn’t move far enough, and in my state  I saw doom and disaster. I don’t suppose anybody noticed except my self and Sean Kenny the set designer. But I panicked and took off for Trafalgar Square and walked around in a daze until I guessed the show was over. As I got back I could hear this rumbling noise and all this activity outside the theatre. My first thought was ‘my God, they think it was awful’. Then Donald Albery, the owner, spotted me, and grabbed my arm, shouting ‘you have got to go in. They are shouting for you in there. They won’t leave until you go in. There have already been something like twenty five curtain calls. We have a hit. A big hit’

And we had. The biggest hit in the history of the West End musical.  It was to run for 2618 performances,  more than seven years. And during that time it had also run for more than three years on Broadway….

Many people run on stage shouting ‘it’s a hit…we have a hit’ etc. Lionel is laughing and dancing with everybody. We hear a version of FOOD. GLORIOUS FOOD… ETC,

Lights dim, end of scene

END OF ACT 1

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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scene 2

 A single spotlight on Lionel, now in his 50s, standing centre stage. The rest of the stage is dark, creating a sense of isolation. As Lionel speaks, faint projections or shadows of key moments from his life appear in the background (e.g., Joan Littlewood, Alma Cogan, the premiere of Oliver.

LIONEL:
(to the audience)
Twenty -five years. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But when you look back… (pauses) It’s like staring at a different person. That young bloke, full of fire, thinking he could take on the world. And for a while, he did.

(He steps forward, the spotlight following him.)

LIONEL:
Fings Ain’t Wot They Used to Be. What a title, eh? Joan came up with that. Joan Littlewood. She always had a way with words. Me? I just wrote the tunes. But together… (smiling) We made magic. (pauses as he remembers)

 Frank Norman was the geezer who wrote the story.  It was his first play. A straight play; no music or nothin’; Frank sent it to Joan and she liked it, but told him it was a musical. She dragged me in to write the songs. ‘A cockney musical, Joan’, I said, ‘you’re ‘avin’ a laugh’. But she wasn’t. ‘Those days are long departed, dear, she said to me, ‘when every actress has roses round her vowels, and every actor wears a butler’s suit and speaks a mouthful of mockney. Oh no, this is the real Mccoy’.

And so Joan and her Theatre Workshop group began rehearsals at the Theatre Royal, Stratford East early in 1959. Some of those who took part are household names today; Yootha Joyce, Barbara Windsor, James Booth, George Sewell….

(He looks off into the distance, as if recalling a memory. A faint projection of Joan Littlewood appears in the background, directing a rehearsal. Then we see her for real at back of the stage ‘encouraging’ Rosey (Barbara Windsor) to sing a more upbeat rendition of WHERE DO LITTLE BIRDS GO)

JOAN:

Come on Barbara, it’s not a funeral march! Put some oomph into it

ROSEY:

Where do little birds go…in the wintertime? / There will be blizzards and snow too…in the wintertime.                                                                                               And the thought of it horrifies me so / where do…where do…where do little birds go?

JOAN:

No…no Barbara! Get those arms and legs moving. Imagine you are going to fly away…

LIONEL:
(calling out)
Easy, Joan. They’re doing their best.

JOAN:
(turning to him)
Their best isn’t good enough, Lionel. Not for this. You wrote something extraordinary—now let’s make it real.

LIONEL:
(smiling)
You’re a tyrant, you know that?

JOAN:
(grinning)
And you’re a genius. Now stop flattering me and get to work.

(They share a laugh, then Joan turns back to the cast, while Lionel watches with admiration.)

Scene 3

Lional’s flat, papers everywhere. drinks and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Lionel is at the piano, playing a few notes, while ALMA COGAN sits on the couch, scribbling lyrics on a notepad.

LIONEL:
(playing a melody)
What about this? (sings) 

We got love, we got laughter,
We got dreams to chase.
No matter what comes after,
We’ll always have this place.

.ALMA:
(thinking)
Hmm. It’s close, (pause)   It reminds me a bit of ‘Dreamboat’

LIONEL:

I didn’t write that one, did I?

ALMA:

You’ve written so many you can’t remember! But no, you didn’t. (pause) I think this one needs …more sparkle

LIONEL:
(grinning)
Sparkle? You’re the one with the laugh in your voice, love. Maybe you should sing it.

ALMA:
(playfully hitting his arm)
Cheeky. But seriously, Lionel, this could be huge. It’s got that magic—like Oliver!, but for the pop charts.

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re my magic, Alma.

(There’s a pause. Alma looks at him, surprised by his sincerity.)

ALMA:
(smiling)
Careful, Lionel. You’ll make me blush.

LIONEL:
(laughing)
Impossible. You’re the queen of cool.

(They share a moment of quiet connection before diving back into the song.)

ALMA:
(scribbling)
What if we change this line? (sings) “We got love, we got laughter, we got nights that last forever…”

LIONEL:
(playing along)
Yes! That’s it. You’ve got it.

(They work together, refining the melody and lyrics. The tension between them is palpable, but they channel it into their creativity.)

ALMA:
(singing)
“We got love, we got laughter, we got dreams to chase. No matter what comes after, we’ll always have this place.”

LIONEL:
(softly)
That’s beautiful, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
It’s ours.

(They share a quiet moment, then Alma stands and takes the notepad.)

ALMA:
Let me try it from the top.

(She begins singing the full song, her voice filling the room. Lionel watches, captivated, as the lights dim slightly, focusing on Alma.)

ALMA:
(singing)

Verse 1:
We got love, we got laughter,
We got dreams to chase.
No matter what comes after,
We’ll always have this place.

Chorus:
Through the highs and the lows,
Wherever we go,
We got love, we got love.
In the stars up above,
In the songs that we sing,
We got love, we got love.

Verse 2:
We got nights that last forever,
We got mornings wrapped in gold.
Even if we’re not together,
We’ll have stories to be told.

Chorus:
Through the highs and the lows,
Wherever we go,
We got love, we got love.
In the stars up above,
In the songs that we sing,
We got love, we got love.

(As she finishes, the room falls silent. Lionel looks at her, a mix of admiration and longing in his eyes.)

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re incredible, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
We’re incredible, Lionel.

(They share a smile, but there’s a hint of sadness, as if they both know their time together is fleeting. The lights fade.)

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE

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opening scene of my new play

LIFE AINT WOT ITUSED TO BE

By

Tom O’Brien

Scene1

Lionel Bart’s flat, late at night. He’s sitting at a piano, scribbling notes. A friend, JOHN GORMAN enters. The flat is cluttered with sheet music and memorabilia, There here is a photo of Lional and John in National  Service uniforms on the wall.

JOHN looks at the photo then sings

JOHN:

Stand by your beds, here comes the Vice Marshall,

He’s got lots of rings, but he’s only got one arsehole

Do you remember that?

LIONEL:

How could I forget? (pauses) If we hadn’t been in that same carriage on that train to Padgate to do our National Service, we’d probably never have become friends

JOHN:

Some co-incidence eh!

LIONEL:

Co-incidence my arse! It was fate

JOHN:

(laughing) Remember that bloody Corporal on our first parade? Irish he was, by the name of Buckley. He stood in front of you, eyes burning, the peak of his cap almost touching your face. (dons an army cap and becomes the Corporal)

Where do you come from? (shouting)

LIONEL:

London, Corporal (he stands to attention)

JOHN:

I thought so. You’re a fucking spiv. I can tell by your tie. (He grabs Lionel by his tie and almost chokes him) You’re a fucking spiv. What are you?

LIONAL:

Leave it out, John. Jesus! (he frees himself) I had twelve weeks of that Irish bastard. That was enough. Still, one good thing came out of it; I met you – and we’re still friends after all this time.

They drink some beer and mess around, singing ‘stand by your beds’ again

Lional plays a few notes on the piano.

JOHN:
Jesus , Lionel, it’s almost two in the morning. You must’a been at this for hours.

LIONEL:
(without looking up)
It’s almost there, John. I can feel it. The melody, the words—it’s like they’re just out of reach.

JOHN:
(sitting down)
You’ve been saying that for weeks. What’s so special about this one?

LIONEL:
(smiling faintly)
This one’s different. It’s not just a song. It’s… a story. A boy, alone in the world, searching for something. For family. For home.

JOHN:
(raising an eyebrow)
Sounds heavy.

LIONEL:
(grinning)
Wait till you hear this one…

Lionel claps his hand in a rhythmic beat. He sings a couple of lines:

They changed our local Palais into a bowling alley and

Fings ain’t wot they used to be

The stage lights up. Singers & Dancers appear. Lionel plays the piano

All sing FINGS AINT WOT THEY USED TO BE.

They’ve changed our local palais into a bowling alley and
Fings ain’t wot they used to be
There’s teds wiv drainpipe trousers and debs in coffee houses
And fings ain’t wot they used to be
There used to be trams
Not very quick got you from place to place
But now there’s just jams, half a mile thick
Stay in the human race, I’m walking
They’ve stuck parking meters outside our door to greet us

No, fings ain’t wot they used to be
Monkeys flying around the moon
We’ll be up there wiv ’em soon
Fings ain’t wot they used to be
Once our beer was froffy, but now its froffy coffee
No fings ain’t wot they used to be
It used to be fun

Dad and old Mum paddling down Southend
But now it ain’t done
Never mind chum
Paris is where we spend our outings
Grandma tries to shock us all
Doing knees-up rock ‘n’ roll
Fings ain’t wot they used to be

We used to have stars
Singers who sung A Dixie Melody
They’re buying guitars
Plinkety plunk, backing themselves with three chords only
Once we danced from 12 to three
I’ve got news for Elvis P

Fings ain’t wot they used to be
Did the lot we us to
Fings ain’t wot they used to be

Spotlight back on Lionel and John

LIONEL:

That’s the start of it, John. My meteoric rise, they’re callin’ it. (laughs) They’re ‘avin’ a laff. I’ve been writin’ for fifteen years. Tunes and other stuff. Lots of hits too. What about Tommy Steele…how many have I written for him?…

They both sing a verse of ROCK WITH THE CAVE MEN

Or Cliff Richard….

Both sing a verse of LIVIN’ DOLL

Or  Shirley Bassey…

Both sing a verse of AS LONG AS HE NEEDS ME

LIONEL:

Hey! I didn’t know you could sing!

JOHN:

Oh, I can warble a bit. You’re not the only one who can do that.

Lights fade

Scene 2

Russian roulette as a cure for depression

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RUSSIAN ROULETTE AS A CURE FOR DEPRESSION

 

‘The first time I pressed the trigger

I knew I was immortal’

‘I wished the feeling could last forever,

My jubilation was total’

 

‘I’m a five-timer’, he told the newcomer

Extending his gun-finger and closing it slow

Every lost life seemed etched on his forehead

Five down, one more to go

 

‘Boredom mostly’ and ‘it passes the time’

Were his excuses for such dramatic play.

‘And it turns the girls on too

In some extraordinary way’

 

‘The best cure for depression I know’

Handing the game to the next in line

Where the muzzle blew a hole between his eye and his ear

Death, too, passes the time

MIRACLES

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MIRACLES

The road from Lourdes

Is littered with crutches

But not a single wooden leg;

Miracles, it seems,

Don’t ‘come off the peg’.

ODE TO GONZO MOMMA

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background-51

GONZO MOMMA
Too weird to live, too rare to die
I guess that’s a creed
Old Hunter would swear by
Though he would have a drink first
Or maybe three
Then try to figure out where
The action might be
Before smoking some ‘stuff’
‘Cos he knew plain whiskey and gin
Would never be enough.
Then, perhaps like you, he would
Upheave everything and pack
Screaming all the while;
You can kiss my ass
I ain’t never coming back

LOVE POEM FROM BONMAHON

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LOVE POEM FROM BONMAHON

 God in his heaven never bettered this;

Never hit perfection more square-on.

Rugged cliffs lip the strand,

Opening to fields behind,

The Atlantic, white-layered,

Sweeping into the bay,

Its hurry washed-out

By the tug of sand, gently rising,

Before it.

 

A tangle of marram crowns the dunes,

Tousled, like windswept hair;

Whilst, on the slopes nearby,

A line of white cottages

Vie for prominence with the old church

 

Yet, it is the call of the waves

That steals most of the aces;

Those riderless white horses

Sweeping relentlessly in,

With their whispering lisps;

‘I love you, please don’t go,

I love you please don’t go’

 

And I, watching the ebb-tide dragging them back,

Silently mouthing in their wake;

‘She loves me, she loves me not,

She loves me, she loves me not…’

 

 

 

THE UNIVERSE AS A HOLOGRAM PART TWO

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THE UNIVERSE AS A HOLOGRAM PART TWO
According to Einstein
Energy created the Universe.
I seem to have little of that these days
So my powers of creation are limited.
Should I try Vibrational Medicine?
Quantum Mechanics has the answers
Apparently.
Every cell, organ, arm and leg
Has an emergency frequency signature
Broadcasting whatever it needs
Moment by moment.
Now science is imitating nature
Creating a Holographic Universe
Where I can seemingly be in different locations
At the same time.
(a bit Doctor Who-ish, I know)
World-wide authentic native wisdom
Shares the sacred secret
In our understanding of the Quantum Hologram.
If it is not on the Quantum Hologram
It cannot manifest in the ‘real’ world
Quantum Hologram equals reality
And reality means
I am…
Something

A CHRISTMAS CHILDHOOD by Patrick Kavanagh

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Anthony Cronin, John Ryan, Patrick Kavanagh

 

 A Christmas Childhood
A water-hen screeched in the bog,
Mass-going feet
Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,
Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel.
My child poet picked out the letters
On the grey stone,
In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,
The winking glitter of a frosty dawn.
Cassiopeia was over
Cassidy’s hanging hill,
I looked and three whin bushes rode across
The horizon — the Three Wise Kings.
And old man passing said:
‘Can’t he make it talk –
The melodion.’ I hid in the doorway
And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat.
I nicked six nicks on the door-post
With my penknife’s big blade –
there was a little one for cutting tobacco.
And I was six Christmases of age.
My father played the melodion,
My mother milked the cows,
And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned
On the Virgin Mary’s blouse.

Patrick Kavanagh