We don’t own our shadows
– at least not in the way we own our reflections.
We don’t control everything.
I love reading his poetry.
I promise
I will always act in what I consider to be your best interest
I will keep my promises to you
I will respect confidences you place in me
I will speak positively about you to others
I will strive not to embarrass you in public
I will alert you or seek your permission before publishing something about you
I’ll go on promising until the day after I die.
I promise I’ll be without promise from that day on.
You see I was once promising:
I had a promising future my mother said
This is where I’ll put a short personal introduction

What should I say?
On Periscope (bio):
I scope very often. Engage with humans. Playful, Poet, Storyteller, Friendly, Foodie, Gentle, Generous – Podcaster – Copywriter – http://www.paulhomahony.com
On Twitter (bio)
Business storytelling consultant – Podcaster – Poet – Servant – On @Periscopeco – Foodie – naturally ambitious + love to share my contacts.
This is a “Guest Post”. I simply found it & decided to share it here because I found the controversy educating me. (That doesn’t mean I agree with views expressed by the author.)
I didn’t seek permission to re-publish. Trust “song of the lark” owner won’t object.
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Lots of people have hobbies like knitting, jogging, or stamp collecting. Because I am the nerdiest nerd to ever nerd, the closest thing I have to a hobby is learning about the history of women in music. It’s a topic that doesn’t get as much press as the old chestnuts like “classical music is dying” or “Stradivari’s secret […]
http://songofthelarkblog.com/2015/09/16/in-which-i-learn-why-there-are-no-great-women-composers/
Originally,
we met thanks to people on Periscope – the live streaming App.
Scott was sitting on Dublin grass in the Phoenix Park. Drawing the obelix from Egypt that celebrates the military victories of Wellington.
I kept my eye on him. Every mark he made on paper – every single line. He was too good to ignore, too attractive.
Scott shuffled himself comfortable under the shade of a tree that might have been planted specially for him.
I heard him offer his drawing to anyone who wanted it. Anyone tuned in live to his “scope”.
The polite thing would have been to wait.
I said to myself in Cork:
“Me me me – I want that drawing – it’ll never happen again, boy”
So I whispered – in my loudest internet voice
“I’ll have it please. May I have it?”
The rest is history…
(Buy the authorised biography of Scott from Scotland, when it’s published. 45% reduction on published price – only through this site)
I found it in the Notes App on my iPhone – from 2013. Doubt I wrote it – I like it too much.
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There once was the classic mother-in-law
Who considered she hadn’t a flaw
She knew all the answers
Crosswords and chancers
Until she found she had snot in her jaw
I’ve always been found
wanting more than a woodpecker carves
into the last tree
in the last forest,
wanting more
than my mother’s ever offered,
– even more than father bestowed
on one of his good days.
I was born wanting more time for love.
I’ve grown hungrier by the day,
thirstier by night,
always grasping for clean air.
There’s never been a father more loved,
ever since letters of infinity
were strung together
on a necklace
that shines with promise
and gradually shrinks
until it chokes
the living daylight out of me.
I’ve always wanted to beg.
Like most beggers,
my voice has been feeble
– barely enough courage
to pay the price father demanded.
I’ve always been found
wanting to trust more.
I’m used to starving.
Bless me Father,
for I have sinned
on a daily basis.
let me do penance
– only let me have time to pay.
I stand
against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
I am an individual
Odd
Different
Singular
Misfit
Awkward in my comfort
Edgy in my skin
Alive in my own little way
I live my say
I give the best shot I can
Every day.
I stand against the crowd
of wasters who fritter
their life away their way.
I waste my life my way
I fritter my days into
the oblivion I fashion
every step I say.
Because I am who am
Me
Condemned to be myself
I stand out from the crowd
comfortable in my discomforting way
that comes from every pore
every sore
every score of my expressions.
It’s my art
The heart of my song
The liver that cleans my spleen
seen in all my glory every time
I stand against the crowd
Each and every difference
Friction
Grating
Unconforming
Uncomplying
Understandable me.
See that fella
hovering on the edge
the one who isn’t fitting in
the one with the shifty eyes
the glint of his own
You can smell that he’s
An outsider
A weirdo
An awkward one
An individual
Heart
A body of imagining
Power
Wealth
Stealth
Scheming to survive
The crowd
The collective view
The “what we all think”
Thinkers.
I stand against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
Away from the crowd
Proud of my own way
Fiddling the melody
Composed of notes
I’ve assembled from the crowd
Playing the game I’ve invented
The rules I’ve annunciated
Predicated on the shoulders
of giants who have fallen
in battle
Against the crowd
Castigated on shoulders
Of heroes that have died
For the cause of being
Themselves.
I reject the way of the crowd
Every time my heart pumps
Blood from the flat of my soul
To the peak of my imagination.
Consternation
I will cause
Conflagration to
instigation of the self
Opinionated
Author of my fate
Creator of my faith
Born to be wild
Not filed away in a box
I defy
I stand against the crowd
That would
Categorise me
Classify me
Entomb me in place
where they could ignore me
where they could make me safe
from causing a splash
from making a difference
from changing
The course of history
The dreams of others
The Universe.
For such a cause
I stand against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
to welcome you
Fellow traveller
Fellow awkward person
Follower battler
For your way.
For your way is my way too
Your way is yours
My way is mine
Our way stands out from the crowd
We stand against the crowd.
We stand up for ourselves
We stand who stand.
Against the crowd
Unto death.
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Notes:
it was a year that asked to be
buried
or burned on a pyre
constructed from the shyte
that held my year together.
Or was it …?
Surely there was more to it than that?
Surely there was a before and an after?
Before was wintertime.
Before was the joy of the city of big shoulders,
the invitation to excitement desired,
hope retained,
an event looked forward to.
There was a new year
full of hope
a future to celebrate with Revolution.
There was a period of time
when I prospered.
The joys of March.
Days when my lover’s offer
came to Cork
were an unmitigated blessing
– before that offer was too much.
All those early days,
all those days before the French holiday,
before the paintbrush
wiped away the smile from my face
– I sat by a stream.
I imagined the whispering flow
of water over stone.
I imagined paint on canvas
and fell down in the field
during the drama of women
confronting the god.
Oh how terrible that field,
how awful
until
months later.
Bless Netflix, bless Breaking Bad.
You were so wonderful.
Where would I have been without …
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Composed on 31 December 2014
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List compiled in February 2015 (under review)