Category Archives: Sleep

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

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Where Love Has Lived

A home is not simply a building; it is the shelter around the intimacy of a life. Coming in from the outside world and its rasp of force and usage, you relax and allow yourself to be who you are. The inner walls of a home are threaded with the textures of one’s soul, a subtle weave of presences. If you could see your home through the lens of the soul, you would be surprised at the beauty concealed in the memory your home holds. When you enter some homes, you sense how the memories have seeped to the surface, infusing the aura of the place and deepening the tone of its presence. Where love has lived, a house still holds the warmth. Even the poorest home feels like a nest if love and tenderness dwell there.

John O’Donohue
Excerpt from BEAUTY

 

The Worry Bear

They now have a Teddy Bear that children can put their little worries into.
They write down their fears and troubles place them in Teddy’s pockets and he takes them away.

Adults could do with a Bear like that too. Carrying around your worries is back breaking. They weigh down the mind and colour the heart blue.

My Worry Bear was once my Mother. She carried around all her own worries, but she always left room in her pockets for our troubles too.

Although we think people have their own concerns, we should never be afraid to share our fears.
A problem shared shrinks a problem, it’s true.

Be someone’s friend tonight, hold out your arms for a cuddle, let someone know you are listening. Worry Bears come in all shapes and sizes. They are the stuffing that family and friends are made of.

Worry Bear’s are made from the fibres of a caring society.
A Worry Bear always has room in its pockets, for a true Bear’s pockets are lined with love, time and care just for you.

Open your Bear pockets tonight. It costs nothing to help make a worry feel light.
One day you might need a Worry Bear to tell you ‘everything is going to be alright’.

An Peann
Sending Bear Hugs out to everyone in need tonight.

 

 

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

Metal Horses

In the darkness they leave, pushing wheels across crunching gravel.

They move quietly around corners, waiting for the morning air to awaken their senses.

They walk up the steep hill, like it’s Everest, smiling in relief as they reach the top.

The sunrise stretches his red arms across the sky as they reach the graveyard on the hill.

Stopping again, they dismount to give way for another weary soul.

She puts her hand upon the clasp of his young hand, thinking, it’s time for gloves again.
I love you, he said. With a smile and a tighter grip over his hand, she loves him back.

Leaving each day in the darkness they awaken with the sunrise.

Returning home each night, they see the remain of the day nod his head at the coming of the night.

We are their metal horses, their trusty steeds, we take them safely and swiftly, from their sleepy dreams. There is a lot our bicycle wheels have heard and seen.

An Peann.

Hypnos the God of Sleep

The Goddess of Night ‘Nyx’ fell for ‘Erebus’ the God of Darkness.Let’s just say they were drawn to each other. 

They had twin boys ‘Hypnos’ the God of Sleep

And ‘Thanatos’, he was the personification of death itself. They were more yin and yang than identical twins. 

Hypnos married the Deity of hallucinations. 

He could see no wrong in her.  

They had three sons – 

‘Morpheus’ who gave shape to dreams.

‘Phobetor’ he was their nightmare child, he could make dreams become living nightmares 

And ‘Phantasos’ he was their imaginative child. 

The three boys were the Gods of Dream.

There were whispers Hypnos the God of Sleep was a bit of a player, he may have fathered other little Gods but we won’t go into that now.

Hypnos lived in a cave on the River of Forgetfulness, if you are looking for directions it is said to be located where night and day meet.

Outside his cave are poppies, not sleeping tablets. 

No light or sound ever gets inside the cave, which must mean he gets a great rest. The cave is on the island of Lemnos which in fact is his very own Dream Island. 

When the lights turn out tonight I’m going to call on Hypnos sons Morpheus and Phantaso’s and tell them I’d love to meet their Dad. 
I will ask Morpheus to turn me into a Goddess for one night and Phantaso’s to convince his Mother to find herself a better God like Zeus. 

Hypnos sounds like my kind of God, we could sleep for eternity. 

His troublesome son Phobetor the God of Fear will have to entertain himself elsewhere, he lives with me most days. 
You gotta love the Greeks..
An Peann