Hailing from Clare (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/County_Clare), Big Ben Honan is one of the premier basketball talents in Southwest Ireland. Measured at a height of 6 foot 7 inches many are intimidated by his goliath stature and the way he smashes dunks down like a thunder cloud. Some even call him the Irish Rain Main in honor of the way Shawn Kemp used to play before his drug and gluttony escapades. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aO107NG8NZY)
The Clare natives, hum di dum goofy off court nature often brings him comparisons to Greg Oden minus the bad knees. However what many don’t know of Mr. Honan is of his poetic fortitude. Below is a poem he belted out from his heart and is soon to be published by the Hippo Press. All in all, the friendly giant’s future seems bright both on and off the basketball court. If you like his aesthetics take a closer look and support him as a friend on Facebook. ( http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1296641901&ref=mf) Friendship is in the air:
"For Noah" Love, Ben
He rolls, resignedly, out of his bed at noon,
The bowl is cracked but porridge tastes okay.
Twinkling eyes meet his from across the room,
Winking, Smiling, off to start the day.
He knows when life’s like this he cannot moan,
When destitution strikes he’ll find a loan.
A friendly can of Tennants adorns their dreamy field,
Our heroes class seen in each flick and spin.
Defending strangers, cars and dogs must yield,
Unbending heart and passion seal the win.
It only takes an empty can, a stone,
He loves life like a kid though fully grown.
Alighting on their place of work, they both roll up their sleeves,
Some tools (a paintbrush, flute and pen) are drawn.
Splayed out ‘til whispers through their canopy of leaves,
Drained from their day of toil, but spirits strong.
Torn and dirty clothes can’t kill the tonem
There’s more to life, as he’s now been shown.
Making their way home now, two shadows flit through pools of sodium,
A sudden downpour can’t dampen their soul.
Displaying sodden socks and sore; poverty put on a podium,
Delaying the snares of age is worth this toll.
He goes to bed, the day has flown,
Inside his head, he’s not alone.
by Ben Honan