Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
A BOY MADE OF LEAVES ( for Paul Kearney ) The Curragh 5,000 acres of fun where a boy could roam through all the realms of a 1960's childhood. Our house is gone now only two pillars still stand leading into an empty nothingness. I shoo a sheep out of the bedroom once ours our voices carved in the air. Here a sheep pees furiously in what had been the bathroom. The house has become a ghost haunting itself.. I still the little boy hiding in the Marian Shrine invisible to one and all under an ocean of leaves startling the passerbys with a quick "Booo!" Or a "Poo to you!" The ****** Mary blushes upon her pedestal frowning upon our antics. Our shame telling it in confession. The wind scatters my childhood. I walk into the mist erasing me bit by ...bit.
0
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
A BOY MADE OF LEAVES ( for Paul Kearney )
A BOY MADE OF LEAVES ( for Paul Kearney ) The Curragh 5,000 acres of fun where a boy could roam through all the realms of a 1960's childhood. Our house is gone now only two pillars still stand leading into an empty nothingness. I shoo a sheep out of the bedroom once ours our voices carved in the air. Here a sheep pees furiously in what had been the bathroom. The house has become a ghost haunting itself.. I still the little boy hiding in the Marian Shrine invisible to one and all under an ocean of leaves startling the passerbys with a quick "Booo!" Or a "Poo to you!" The ****** Mary blushes upon her pedestal frowning upon our antics. Our shame telling it in confession. The wind scatters my childhood. I walk into the mist erasing me bit by ...bit.
Chatting to Paul Kearney on facebook and tripping down memory lane...he remembering me from a time I couldn't even remember myself! The Marian Shrine beside the church somehow came up and we both had memories of playing amongst a myriad of leaves. I used to hide under them...so many...so many and call out things to make a statue of the ****** say: "Oh sweet Jaysus!"It was great fun to see people startled out of themselves trying to figure out where on earth( not even thinking of an invisible boy drowning under lots of leaves)the voice was coming from. My Godmother Breda Ryan passed by and was given the treatment only to say: "Those leaves have the voice of a boy I know...how strange! I hope those leaves go to confession!" So it was I was given 10 Holy Marys and advised not to startle the good folk of the Curragh with my leafy voice. I never did it again or since...though now I am sorely tempted!
donall-dempsey
Written by
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem