Drama Queen’s last stand

It is with great regret that the family of Joan “the drama Queen” announce that the voice has been silenced but the spirit released!

Drama Queen’s last stand was a mighty battle worthy of songs and stories. We live in her love and ask that you remember her in the way that you knew her. Let her life inspire you as it has inspired her family. Rejoice in the little things and the young people in your life  as she did. Listen to others and tell your stories with strength and pride.

We hope that in touching you she will live with you as she has lived with us, as a beacon of love.

Exploration

Little Liam

He’s very much a person, little Liam.

He toddles round the room

exploring things,

examining,

testing,

will it open?

What’s inside? Dare I look?

I’ll close the door then try again.

Hurray, it works!

When little Liam looks happy

a smile lights up his face

that is infectious.

Two bright eyes meet yours

and suddenly

the day is filled with happiness.

Monday Poem

Wait for me.

River winding to the sea, wait for me.

Rippling gently, rushing slowly,

Take me with you, keep me buoyant,

Pushing ever onwards, make me free.

 

Whisk me in your steady current

Bobbing briskly with its force,

Undeterred by sudden torrent

Keeping ever a clear course.

 

No time to wait, to hesitate,

Stagnate in boggy marsh;

Drawn by undertow and flow

Through terrain however harsh.

 

Immerse me in the endless sea.

Winding river, wait, oh wait for me.

Sunday Morning at Tulferris

 

Sun shines, leaves aquiver

Trees of red and brown surround

Dappled paving, windows glitter,

In the woodland not a sound.

Golf course basks in light supreme

Sun reflects on shiny clubs

Chipping to the nearest green

Muffled clunk of ball on steel.

People move and voices chatter

Under sky of cloudless blue

Overlooking ruffled water

Breakfasts nourish life anew.

Cleaners clean and Hoovers hum

Last night’s debris all has vanished

Bags are loaded into cars

To our homes again we’re banished.

Frank Poem 4TFE

He flew me to the moon and sprinkled my life with stardust.

He lulled me to a comfort zone when I was feeling most alone.

No lover ever swung to the sound his songs more than me

And he raised my game in pursuit of fame,

Massaged the frown from my brow when I was down

As if he knew what I was going through when, in the wee small hours, I was tempted to  have one more for the road.

He taught me to reinvent myself, to do it my way, time after time and saved me from getting eternally caught in the tender trap.

And now, although it’s over; its over, he’s gone, the melody lingers in my heart every time I listen to him sing.

A Maze Zing

I’ve had an amazing time! 

I even learned to rhyme a sonnet here and there;

to sup soup in the sun, sat  in a garden chair;

bring kids to the zoo with an elephant in tow;

light a fire with words (in my gifted way, don’t you know);

I was watered, fed and minded in the most delightful way

by some people who, each one of whom, had loads and loads to say

about history and and memory and stag-nighters and the like,

One even, in the morning, round a lake did have a hike.

Others lay and gobbled ‘Irish’ from the comfort of the bed.

(The sour ‘ould wan’ was given a plate of prunes instead!)

Then we listened to the radio to some outrageous chap

who claimed that he liked rivers (full of water, like a tap).

We appreciated grandeur and sat in a gracious room

until refreshments were delivered. Then to the cars Voom Voom!

Electric Shocks

Niamh should have the tent up by now, wellies not needed, but by the look of the sky here at 12.30, I wouldn’t put them far out of reach.  Even thinking about the delights in store down there leaves me exhausted (from envy).  I’m never in the right place at the right time.  I even missed Glastonbury, for God’s sake.

Colm is ready to strut his stuff on the big stage, should be fairly petrified this minute, but once he sees the audience out front, he’ll be fine.  He’ll produce his shy, charming smile - then blast them out of it.

David is basking in the glory of being short-listed for Sean O Faolain – such an international list, isn’t it?  Why am I not surprised?  Bravo Dave. We’ll all be rooting for  you for the major award (the cream buns will be on you if  you win actual cash.)

Louise will be reading her wonderful story to the group.  I bet there’s a prize lurking there too.

And Matt is probably terrified about his radio performance in the morning on Liffey Sound fm 96.4 at 11 o’clock.  We’ll all be listening to your Home Show.

Is this the end of the summer season, or is there more to come?  Well, in radio land there is a whole feast prepared to keep us going for the cold(er) months of autumn and winter.

Group Work

There are groups, and there are groups.  I’ve visited quite a few in my time and I happen to think that ours is pretty good any way you look at it.

We have a constant number of about a dozen.  We worry that we will be overwhelmed by new people – we are a Library Group so have a commitment to being open to the community; but somehow we stay at that number without any culling, as people come and go, new members join, some take a break to do a course, or write a novel.  We have been lucky that no Prima Dona's emerged – nobody monopolising the session, no cliques, no power grabbers – and no shrinking violets either.  Even more unusual I'd say is the quality of the writing, the generous and relevant robust comment on work read, the balance between prose and poetry.  Strangely, no jealousy either when a member collars a prize that we all feel we could nearly have won – with a bit of luck!

The cream buns and coffee available on-site afterwards are a nice bonus!).

The Teen Group run by Niamh is another plus, because now and then others of us get involved and the young voices and attitudes increase our store of knowledge and keep us on our toes.  Sometimes I learn much more there than at our own two hours – their humour is so instant, so un-moulded and free from inhibition.

The Speed Writing exercise we use at the beginning of each session not only wakens us up, but challenges the brain to snap into life.  The amazing variety of contributions that emerge never fails to delight – from objects as diverse as Wire Brushes and Feathery Fans -  and more often than not these ten-minute-to-create masterpieces re-emerge weeks later, as short stories winging their way to competitions.

Some of our group have spread their wings into Poetry Slams and Electric Picnics and that enervating sort of thing.  Our new Radio  Star has recharged the batteries of those who may have been slouching or a bit jaded as they are prodded into putting together pieces suitable for broadcasting, and gives a vehicle for showing work, selecting themes and music to match and generally letting the listener discover something about the kind of people who have an urgency to put words on paper.

But, of course, Blogging has practically taken over the lives of most of us………

Teddy

My claim to fame today is in remembering a meal I shared with the late Senator Teddy Kennedy in March of 62 or 63.

Working with Aer Lingus at the time, a gang of us were sent to the USA for the St Patrick’s Day celebrations. I opted for Boston rather than New York, because I am a lazy slouch. The walk down 5th Ave is rather long; in civilised Boston they used a motorcade.

First night there we were at a function which was attended by the Senator and his wife Joan. He was handsome, she was pretty, I had no interest in politics and had other fish to fry. I hardly noticed them. Especially when recovering from the humiliation of dancing my way through the first several bars of the US National Anthem, not recognising it.

Boston Parade was super. Next day (Sunday) there was another one in a place called Holyoke. There was a major dinner-party afterwards. My friend and myself were late and all the places at the top table with all the dignitaries were full and we had to sit together in splendid isolation at a table set for 4 in the middle of the room. We bitched for a while before devoting ourselves to stuffing our faces. We hardly noticed the cheers and applause when another guest arrived, a handsome brute, obviously popular, who shook a few hands here and there then joined us at our humble setting. My friend paled and began to chatter while kicking me under the table and introducing both of us to the man who since became so famous. Needless to say the local lasses were green with envy, which in retrospect was most appropriate.

The Senator was a charming man who entertained us royally (if a Democrat can do that) and it is indeed an honour to have met him. May he rest in peace.

Two Crows

 

Silent sentinels sitting on the apex of a pitched roof

In the half-light before the sun is up

Black-uniformed facing to the east,

Then shifting imperceptibly to the north,

Like the backward hands of a compass clock.

 

I wonder do they chat about the tortoishell cat skulking in the shrubbery

Seeking a stray mouse, an earthbound fledgling?

Or spot the sunflowers ease yellow fingers to full length,

Stretching supple necks, rousing sap for strength to raise their heads

to worship once again their fiery god?

 

Do they see the silent jet steaming high above,

white ribbons trailing, on its way to London, Paris or perhaps Peru,

Somnolent souls cocooned within

heading for holidays, making mercy missions,

or facing home for another year of post-recession recriminations?

 

Do they hear the pink dangling bells of sweet, fairy-filled fuchsia;

Gossip about Gretchen, our plaster goose, broad bill upraised to the trumpets of white mallow moving gently on the whisper of a morning breeze?

Do they revel in the reddening creeper?

Do their noses get the whiff of fading roses hanging limply?

 

Do they see me behind my window pane,

Watching them watching me,

Wondering at their ability to stand immobile,

While I sit restless, passing wakeful hours

poisoning an already over-loaded system with caffeine and tobacco?

 

No signal, but one hops atop a chimney cowl,

Ruffles feathers, pecks at some discomfort then resumes her place, facing her mate.

He stretches on his talon tips and sidles towards the west,

Eyes darting left and right, blinkered shutters

Clicking pictures of essential information.

 

Stretched wings and well-plumed tails,

As one they check their feathered under-carriages,

Then bounce down dull grey tiles inspecting moss,

Breakfasting on unsuspecting spiders and things

That nestle there, unaware they are the prey of predators.

 

Then with a nod and a wink, or the blink of an eye

They take to the air and glide to their next vantage point.

It’s time for me to put away my thoughts

And seek an hour of sleep before the day.

Hospitals

Hospitals are funny places, or at least they can be if you keep your sense of humour.  I’ve seen more than my fair share in the past few years, but they still never fail to entertain me.

Every three months or so I have an appointment at 11.15 to see a consultant.  Sometimes there’s a huge queue, today there wasn’t.  Still I never get seen before 1pm – and then only for about five minutes.  They don’t do anything, just ask how I am and check bloods (which I will have had taken a week before).  I’m sure they could as easily just send me an ‘OK – See you in 3 months’ message by phone or mail.  

To keep this appointment I have to get somebody to drive me, – not nice when you know this is going to be a fairly regular thing and people have their own lives to live and jobs to do - because I couldn’t walk the distance from the car park to the lobby which is where one gets a wheel-chair.  I leave home at around 10.15 to be in time – not early, just in time. They won’t give you a wheel-chair without a porter, but will let your ‘minder’ take charge for the return trip, so it can’t be for safety reasons.   They park the wheel-chair slap bang in the middle of the narrow corridor where everyone else has to step over it or negotiate their way around you. 

Today I felt quite ill while I was waiting.  I overheard a passing nurse saying ‘that person looks tired’.  Stupidly, thinking she cared, I said I wasn’t tired but felt quite ill.  In my innocence I had said to daughter-in-law who was my transporter, what better place to get sick.  I was wrong.  There was no response of any kind from any of the four uniformed women standing roughly two feet from me who carried on their conversation.

Himself, the King, getting jealous of my relationship with this hospital had taken his turn there and booked in for the past week and a half.  Today I met him for the first time since he went in – but he was going in the opposite direction, being ferried home by another friend.  He had to be out before 11, whereas I had to be in by 11.15.  (All these arrangements had to be made by guess who?  Right, first time!)  Luckily grandson had volunteered to be at home when he got there in case he needed help – hubby had had surgery.  Needless to day both hubby and grandson were starving and waiting for lunch by the time I returned.

In case you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, I’m not.  I met a woman outside, older than me by about 10 years, who had been there since 5am.  Her husband has some as yet undiagnosed illness and they had sent for her to sit with him because he was restless and needed someone to be with him.  She had also spent Saturday  from 7am until 10.30pm on the same errand.  She lives much further away than I do, afraid to drive on the motorway, and has to get her son to get up and bring her there and collect her each time.

Ah well.  I suppose if there were no hospitals it would be even worse.  But it’s a much better idea to stay healthy and not get sick at all!

Sunshine

There are two golden balls of light sitting where I step into the garden.  Their black faces grin impishly at me as I join them in their worship of the sun, feathery orange hair reminding me of the gollywog, (so non p.c. these days) that used grace the label of the marmalade jar on my mother’s breakfast table. 

But these are blossoms of light, not darkness.  Grown from seed by a neighbour who last year found a similar, but of a long-stemmed variety, dropped no doubt by a truly feathered friend as he feasted on her bird table in her carefully tended flower bed.  I could see it from my window during a period of convalescence, and praised it in poetry in our local journal.  She never commented on this – if indeed she saw it – but out of the blue left these two new babes-in-the-sun on my doorstep with a little card three weeks ago.

Nice things like this have happened a lot in the past few months.  Unexpected words of appreciation, tokens of friendship;  a phone call just to say Hello!;  a flower-pot carefully painted with a much loved line, “When I am old I will wear purple, with a red hat”; a totally out-of-the-“blue pressie from town” which kept me company last night as I viewed a light romantic film on tv.

Like the balls of light in my garden, these gestures lift my spirits, fill me with respect for people who take the trouble to show their friendship and love, and make me want to go on living forever.  They smile into the bleaker hours and dissipate the short spells of gloom.  Their feathery touch is  complementary, not invasive; and they reflect the warmth that showers down.

Copycat

Inspired by Beedlemama’s Ode to a Sugar Lump (sorry, Sugarloaf) I travelled east to get a closer look and see if I could hear the wind.  Not from the level I was at, I fear, but the mountain looked  impressive and inviting - I almost wished I was fit enough to start climbing.  Naturally, being me, I missed a photograph from a perfect spot.  But what else is new?

Then on to the Waterfall at Powerscourt where (for €4.50 per OAP) I advanced up the closely-planted tree-lined driveway. Beneath the trees the ground was dappled with sunshine.  Fairies & goblins live there, I’m sure of it.  Haven of peace or source of terror. Careful how you approach or you could be drawn into another world.

Round a bend and a magical sight of water tumbling gracefully from the sky, like finest silk, in drops and streams and torrents tumbling effortlessly over hidden boulders.  Tea shop and climbing frames close by where genteel children entertained themselves while parents relaxed.  Some strolled closer for a better view, others were setting off on the walking trail through what must have been delightful terrain.

Me, I licked my large creamy ice-cream which slid along the side of its golden cone (missing a bit here and there I am unashamed to admit) and praised God for the joys of nature.  Then on through leafy roads to Dalkey for a more substantial repast in Ouzo’s main street restaurant – which I also recommend!

News

I achieved a life long ambition this evening when I read the news on the local radio station.

Not much of an ambition, you may well say, but since I was a kid I just loved the voices on the radio and there is something so, well serious, about reading the news.  This evening when there was nobody else available to do the job, I jumped at it (with almost indecent haste).  I was sorry that there wasn’t anything earth-shattering to report – just bank interest rates, and murderers being sentenced.  Mind you I was able to reassure listeners that Stephen Gerrard was found not guilty of assaulting a man in a pub.

What a shame that this particular prize eluded me until my voice has gone fairly weak, and my breath practically non-existent.  Still, between you and me, I was terrific!   Nobody told me that, of course.  Probably nobody even heard me.  But I got through it with barely a stumble even without a rehearsal, because I was on in another show for the previous hour and only had the script put up on the screen in front of me when we finished.

Move over Ann Doyle!  I’ll be after your job next!

Light & Darkness

Where were you when the lights went out?

I was fast asleep in bed having refrained from alcohol and treated myself instead to a sleeping pill to make up for several lost hours from the arms of Morpheus.  Woke around 1.30 – when lights came on again, I suspect – and was awake for the rest of the night, n=knowing nothing about the ‘outrage’ (whatever that means, not the opposite of in peace, I think).

Hubby, God Bless him, had imbibed usual tincture and dozed off in front of the TV.  When he woke up he had no idea where (or, I suspect, even who) he was.  Couldn’t get light to find his bearings, and whatever else he was missing.  Being resourceful person, he found a torch and made his way to bed eventually, having inadvertently switched on every light in the house and failing to find ‘off’ button for TV.  House was like a noisy Christmas Tree at 2am but Santa failed to turn up.

Daughter, who had partied over the weekend was exhausted.  Partner being away for a few days, she retired with youngest child at around 10pm.  Woke to find house in darkness and two older children screaming downstairs in pitch darkness and with beloved TV gone black.  Having rescued them from this terrible situation (!), they had all just settled down when up-to-then defunct house alarm went off.  So did the alarms of all the neighbours.  It was after 3am before they got settled (except for youngest child who slept through the whole thing).  All were like hung-over demons the next morning.

What have I learnt from all of this? 

a. There’s a time and a place for everything.  Dark is good for sleep.  Light is good for awake.  But if we put all the lights on at night when we go to bed; and shutter our windows and go round in the dark all day, maybe this would seem the best way to live.  I don’t think so, but it’s possible.

b. Sometimes ignorance is bliss – maybe it’s best to be ‘in the dark’ when one can’t influence the events to follow.

c. Having an early night doesn’t guarantee a good night’s sleep. (Mind you, ‘having an early night’ used to promise something else entirely, but that was a long time ago….I’ve forgotten what!

d. If one kept a candle and matches beside the bed (as my mother always did to prevent having to get out of bed to put out the lights after reading for hours – that was before the advent of bed-side lamps) would one be prepared for all eventualities, or would one be likely to either burn the house down, or have that done for one by investigative sleepless child?

Happy 18th

Eldest Grandson is 18 today.  He came as a big surprise when his Dad was 19 and his Mum barely 18.  It was a traumatic time.  For any of you who may face a similar event, I have to tell you that he brought so much love with him (for all of us).

I brought him everywhere with me when he was small, and he was a delightful, undemanding companion.  He’s still the same.  Did his leaving cert this year but no great expectation of wonderful results. I just hope he gets into somewhere to do with radio or journalism for 3rd level or his parents will be disappointed.  He joined the radio station with me about a year ago and does 2 shows a week.  He’s coming on at it and on Monday had the first of his own shows (the others are with two other guys).

I was very bold and gave him his pressies tonight because although he usually stays here on Fridays, tonight his Dad was collecting him.  Then I listened to his radio show for 2 hours – I have to admit, I did a bit of painting and had a G & T to save me from his choice of music!

I love him to bits!

Tenuous Threads

One of the kiddies in the family is ‘special’ – he was born 10 years ago with what the doctors thought one year later was Cerebral Palsy.  The news was devastating.  They put him on a waiting list for speech therapy.  A year later they took him off because they changed their diagnosis to ‘brain damaged’ and there are very few support groups for that.

Last month Ethan had botox injected into his legs to help him walk without falling over.  He can talk, but his conversation is limited.  He heard about a car crash last year, for instance, and he asks about it every day.  His favourite book is the Argus catalogue which he ‘reads’ for hours, turning the pages in fascination.  He goes to a special school and made his 1st Communion in May this year.  His daddy and mammy love him very much and bring him everywhere.  (He is the second-eldest of four kids).

Yesterday Ethan had a ‘grand mal’ seizure and was taken to hospital.  They don’t know for sure what the cause was and are keeping him in for observation before having an MRI scan done.

It makes me realise what a tenuous thread holds us in life.  How quickly a little soul could be snuffed out, almost without any warning.  How terrifying it must be for his parents, knowing how lucky they were to be with their little boy when this seizure happened, and quick witted enough to call an ambulance even before the terrible shaking began.  They will be so afraid it might happen again, maybe when he is alone.

We take so much for granted.  We don’t appreciate each day as a gift to be treasured until something dreadful happens to make us realise it.

Don’t waste a single moment!

Promises

I promised myself I wouldn’t waste the day blogging when I could be getting dressed, or painting a picture, or improving my mind with a good book, or trying to make up a good story in 600 words or so.  But who ever kept a promise – especially one made to oneself?

God, I’m exhausted at that list of things I might be doing.  I think I’ll go back to bed!

Respite

At the risk of annoying all you sun-worshippers, it was a relief to wake up this morning to a sun-less sky and feeling rather more like a human being that recently.  Maybe now my legs will shrink to the size of a baby elephant and I’ll be able to take a deep breath now and again instead of lying, listless, on the couch watching sky.

Maybe a few days of good old Thunder & Lightening would electrify us.

An incessant supply of ‘Murder She Wrote, Law & Order, the bloody SCI, The Practice and that awful oily M Poirot has my brain turned to jelly.  Jim Bergerac has merged into Midsummer Bloody Murders and Have I Got News for you is from so far back that even I can’t remember the political innuendos.

Someone made a fortune from churning out all those lousy scripts you know – that’s the market we should be aiming for -maybe!  To hell with literature, let’s steep ourselves in soaps, full of (b)lather and froth.  We could do a ‘round the table’ murder story some morning.  Hammer out a plot and see who can fill in the best dialogue.  Our characters could include menacing poets, sexual perverts and pub performers.  And of course a few clever-clogs that know all the answers (I bags being one of those, age bringing wisdom and all that jazz).  I think we could do it.

No?  Just a thought.

The urbane John Bowman bowed out from Q & A (he must have a Dorian Grey-like picture in the attic – he hasn’t aged at all over the years) but Vincent Browne rants on interminably.  Ministers head to the hills for holidays leaving us afraid to make plans in case our jobs disappear, wages shrink further, the price of petrol soars  and lawns are turned into allotments to feed the starving –us!  So there’s no sun shining on our economic fortunes either.

Welcome lovely dull July 09.

Just My Luck

I slaved and slaved for hours and hours to finish my latest story and guess what?  Having completed this definite prize-winner I find there are no suitable competitions looking for entries.  The season is over.

By a ‘suitable competition’ I mean a modest little affair, not one with huge cash prizes.  Being a ‘kept woman’ of modest desires, I seek not fortune but fame.  Once again it has eluded me.

I so wanted to join my group-members in the Hall of Fame.  One after another they flourish their successful stories and poems and always I have been lazy and  just too late (or uninspired) to compete.  I raise a toast, join in the applause, and celebrate with them, but inside I bleed with humiliation.  I know how Cinderella felt when they all went off to the Ball.  I empathise with  John Gormley’s discomfort  when he realised that nobody voted for his party. I understand the pain of the Westmeath footballers when Dublin walloped them in Croke Park on Sunday last.

The last ‘prize-winning’ story I wrote seems to have gone astray somewhere because it didn’t feature in the short-list of the comp I had selected.  Maybe I didn’t put enough stamps on the envelope? I know it deserved to win but how could the judges discover that if they never saw it’s magnificence.

One offering was honoured by a short-list in Malahide, but since I can’t remember what story it was and have no way of finding out, I can neither read it over and over again with satisfaction, nor can I boast about it.

So my file of unsung stories grows and grows.

I am my only admirer.  I’ve just begun a new folder (the first, well thumbed, is bursting at the seams) which I keep on a shelf in my room so that I can read the exciting sagas over and over.  They get lonely, poor things, and languish sadly.  I know you’ll think a folder on a shelf is a sad thing anyway in these days of technology but I want to make sure that some day, long after the computer has crashed and distributed my precious words into cyber-space (I know I should have them on back-up discs, but how to file them, where to keep them, who would see them) there is still a chance that someone will find these treasures and I will, at last, be discovered.