Category Archives: Intuition

The Rushing Man

The Rushing man was always in a hurry.
His time was tightly packed into each hour.
He worked hard, ate at his desk. He ran instead of walking.
The face he looked upon most was that of the clock. He wished he could hold her arms still to slow life down, but she kept on moving forward.

The Rushing Man had not time for friends.
He had not time to kiss his wife goodbye or tell his children he loved them.
A busy man has not time for himself.
He would try make time tomorrow, or the day after. Tomorrow never came.

The Rushing Man grew weary and grey.
He wanted to learn how to make some time.
Coming home from work one evening, he told his wife ‘ I want to invest my time in us again. I missed so much, but now I have the time to see that, I want to make amends.’

His wife smiled sadly at him ‘ you were so busy, we never had time to say goodbye. While you were rushing, I went and died. You were too busy to cry. You can come visit me, now you have time.’

He woke up the next morning with tears in his eyes. He rolled over and jumped with shock, when he seen his wife smile. He kissed her and held her with relief and delight.

The Rushing Man’s nightmare helped him see the light. He now has no time for rushing. He only has time for life.

An Peann

Reclaim Ownership

You began in a watery cave of dreams.
A place where you paid no rent.
You were given shelter, nourishment and protection.
As all these gifts were given, you grew from a cell.

Out you came, unknowing.
Without debt, you credited the world with your presence.
You drank the milk of your creator.
You ate when your body was ready.

You wriggled, rolled, crawled then walked.
You ran when your legs gathered speed.
Learning was first mimicked, then taught.
Thinking became realised, then censored.

Rules became laws. Right was not wrong.
You stepped into line, there was a queue.
You followed the crowd, became a pawn.
You believed you were contributing.

You woke up one day, disillusioned.
With all the years of sculpting
YOU REALISE
Society had repossessed your hopes.

You take your awareness to the court.
The Court of Moral Awareness.
You present your case, success is promised.
You tell counsel this:

I began in a watery cave of dreams.
A place where I paid no rent.
I was given shelter, nourishment and protection.
As all these gifts were given, I grew from a cell.

The Judge who presides over Court asks you
‘What are you arguing for?’
You reply, ‘I have come to reclaim ownership.
I have the right to own my thinking.’

On returning from The Chamber of Conscience
The judge straightens his thinking stating
‘I wish more people would come to my court.
The mind is the property of oneself.’

You look the Judge straight in the eye.
The resemblance between you both is uncanny.
You resolve to take full responsibility going forward.
You will never pay dues on your own thinking again.

An Peann

 

The Three Voices

Little Voice, Big Voice and Real Voice lived together inside their human.

Little Voice spoke in faint whispers. She was very wise but her wisdom was shrouded by low self esteem.

Big Voice had no trouble being heard. He mostly talked utter nonsense, yet no body had ever pointed this out. So he just kept talking.

Real Voice prided himself on his sense of accuracy. He said things as they were. He saw things in black and white. This was unfortunate as he missed out on many colourful opportunities.

One day their human began practising the art of silence. Someone told her there was a way she could control her thinking. This concerned the three voices.

Real Voice decided to talk with Big Voice and Little Voice.
They all gave each other a moment to say their piece.

This had never been done before.

Big Voice said ‘you know this is just a passing phase. Another New year, she thinks she can have a new mind. She will never stick it out.’

Real Voice smirked at Big Voice ‘this is not some new diet or passing phase, I sense she actually wants to gain some perspective. Some humans happily drift through life and allow their voices to take over. She’s not like the rest of them. Something has changed.’

Little Voice, brushed her hair away from her mouth and said, ‘maybe she wants to think for herself? Does she not deserve to hear her own true voice in the silence?
We speak over each other, well you two do. I rarely get a chance to be heard.
I’m a cheer leader with Pom Pom’s and a whispering voice. I want to scream at her to just do it. Become a tightrope walker in stilettos if you want. She doesn’t want to join the circus but you get my drift.’

Real Voice smiled at Little Voice and spoke in a forgiving tone. ‘Dreams are for the sleeping Little Voice.’
Big Voice interrupted, ‘well now I’d have to disagree with you there. Not everything is black and white. Dreams are not just for bedtime, they are the foundations of new beginnings, the building blocks on which new lives are made.’
Little voice clapped in delight. ‘That’s the most positive thing I have ever heard you think Big Voice.’
Real Voice sensed an air of difference, he never witnessed Little Voice and Big Voice compliment one another.
Big Voice sounded quieter and Little Voice grew almost taller.

‘I can hear you all’, said their Human. The three voices looked up in the air as though a god had spoken from the heavens.
‘Rumbled I tell you’, said Real Voice
‘We have been rumbled.’
The three voices held hands in fear.

There has been less noise recently, the voices try not speak over each other. Little Voice doesn’t whisper anymore. Big Voice is a better listener and Real Voice is taking a colour therapy class. He wants to brighten his horizons.

An Peann

Happy New Year Readers.
This year listen to your own voice. The one that’s trying to find you. X

 

Your Double Decker Bus

There’s a double decker bus with your number on it, you cannot read the digit, you just know it’s your bus.
There are many stages, the first passengers to embark are your parents. The bus just cannot start without them.

They get on with your brothers and your sisters. Along with them they bring your Grandparents, even their deceased parents. Everyone has a seat on the bus.

Your Aunts and Uncles follow with their children.
The bus begins to move.

The next stage your first friend climbs on board. Their presence makes you warm, bringing back memories of that first connection with someone out side your own family.
Behind that first friend comes all your little school friends, your first teacher and every teacher that taught you in your primary years.

A special seat that seems to glow is reserved for those childhood friends who never leave your bus.
Their seat never changes, you always know where to find them and they always can find you.

The next stop more passengers alight. Each passenger wears a small red heart on their sleeve. These are the people you have shared a first with. A first crush, a first kiss, all the firsts you can imagine to remember. They take their seats dispersed amongst the now busy bus.
Few make it to the top of the bus, but they all find a place.

As the bus moves along, time moves with it, sometimes slowly, sometimes it flies along. Occasionally it to comes to a halt. Some of the earlier passengers begin to leave.
Certain passengers you do not notice leave, while others you miss instantly.
The bus keeps moving forward.

When you feel like you have already spent a small lifetime on the route, the pace moves faster.
New faces join your bus.
These faces are the holders of the lifetime tickets.
You know this because the inspector begins to ask for ‘tickets please’.
Your family and lifetime friends are exempt. They don’t need a ticket, they have what you would call a lifetime pass.
There is always someone on your bus who shouldn’t be there, they take up a seat, that they don’t deserve, or squeeze themselves in without reason.
They don’t really want to be on your bus. They distract the driver, upset the other passengers and are generally unwelcome.

Sometimes the inspector spots them straight away, showing them the exit before they cause too much havoc.
Other undesirables may just get off before they are found out.
This makes for a less bumpy drive.

The bell rings and the bus grinds to a halt, there is a mass exodus.

Many faces change bus, some stay. New passengers get on with speed, the bus moves faster, voices grow more familiar.
Those closest to you sit at the top of the bus.

Downstairs the seating changes, some give up their seats to the passengers standing, this continuously changes.
Your children and chosen love shadows now fill the designated seats that somehow always remained empty.

Your bus now feels full.

Along the way you will lose passengers, you will find yourself standing and unseated on your own bus.
The wheels may wear down, the windows may sometimes crack, the bus may get stuck in life’s traffic, but it will always move along again.
The bus can take you anywhere and you just never know when it may finally stop.

There’s a double decker bus with your number on it, you cannot read the digit, you just know it’s your bus.

An Peann

Søren Kierkegaard

“Where am I? Who am I?
How did I come to be here?
What is this thing called the world?
How did I come into the world?
Why was I not consulted?
And If I am compelled to take part in it, where is the director?
I want to see him.”

 

 

Where Cold Ghosts Meet

On Grafton Street she was putting the finishing touches to her chalked coloured masterpiece.
She drew love hearts over all the i’s, pretty they were in their painful disguise.

I had seen her work before, on the ground of Henry Street, her colours then washed away by the man in the truck that sweeps.

I never made time to read them, you know how we are sometimes in a rush?

Last night, I stopped.
I stopped, instead of glancing at the wares inside the windows of the Brown Thomas shop.

I stopped, became moved without moving.
Together we read her chalked words.
Her message reminded us how we should never look down on others.
I asked her could I sit down?
Together we shared a space on the cold October ground.

Her Mother gifted her to the State when she was 12.
Pragmatically she explained, it was for her own safety’s sake.

I asked her was she not fostered?
Shaking her head she told me how her Mam still had rights at the time.
Voluntarily she entrusted her into the arms of the state,
with a promise and a hope to take back home some day.

‘Where did you grow up?’ I asked her.
It turned out we we both grew up in Tallaght.
Looking at her face, I felt I could have known her Mother.
She explained that she grew up in Jobstown, I said ‘so did I’.
She looked back at me with shock in her eyes.

She calls herself April.
She is 18 and a half years old.
She grew up running away from various Care Homes, she didn’t like the hostels, she said ‘it’s not safe to sleep on the street.’

‘I have a tent, another couple stay there too, no one comes near us.’ She assured me it was somewhere safe to rest her pretty red head.

She has somewhere to have a shower every day at nine.
She goes to Art classes in a homeless project, to pass away the time.

More than anything she just wants a real home, so she can go back to school.
This young girl has had it hard, but she is nobody’s fool.
She is waiting for aftercare, the social worker closed her case.
Eighteen years old, no longer a care for the State.

April wants to go to Trinity, she reads a lot.
To study history, even be an archaeologist some day.

I told her she was too beautiful for the streets, she said ‘ah, thanks, thanks a lot.’ She really was ever so sweet.

April grew up across the river from where I lived.
The river being a trickle that divides a multitude of lives.

I am sorry for you, I said.
I don’t feel sorry for you.
I am just sorry you have to live this life.

We hugged, longer than we needed to.

April being no fool, is burdened by circumstances.

She is just a young girl who deserves the right to go back to school.

An Peann

I asked April was it okay to write about her, she said it was okay. If you are reading this, stay safe.
You will go to Trinity some day.
Big Hug.xxx

When I was a Child

I sometimes saw a young girl walk across my parents bedroom.
She was about ten. She wore a dress that looked at least one hundred years old. She never spoke or changed over the years

It would happen when I passed their room. It happened many times.
Once my Mother sent me to fetch her hairbrush, when I turned the small corridor into their room the girl was sitting at my Mothers dresser, combing her own hair.

She looked up and grinned.
Frightened the living daylights out of me.
There was always things happening in the house.

Another time, I seen a man’s legs walk up the stairs.
Dad had been at a council meeting that night, arriving home just seconds after the legs made their way upstairs. Dad thought it was a burglar.
Himself and his friend Gus ran up the stairs, searching for the owner of the legs.
All they found was my hiding place, behind the wardrobe. Where I would throw everything when I pretended to tidy my room.
The owner of the legs was never found.
My parents were mortified, my Mother nearly killed me, made a show of her she said.

No one sleeps in that room now. It’s cold in there.

I wonder does the girl still brush her hair?
I don’t believe in banshees, but I believe in that girl.

As for the man’s legs, I’m not certain.. He was wearing jeans, maybe he was a trendy spirit.

An Peann