Beaufort Scale 8

Beaufort Scale 8

Who knows what gales

Around the headland blow

When all seems calm

Skies are clear

Fair weather set to hold

Breathe in that still air

Cherish the warm

Breeze which blows

Gently across your face

Savour each scented

Wild flower

You pass by

After all

Who knows what gales

Around the headland blow

Published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme



While attempting


 at my desk one day,

fighting off the usual

bears, wolves

and other dangerous beasts

of the internet

between the Muse and Me;

from the teeth of Twitter,

a ferociously distracting


there leapt out

Billy Collins, Poet

talking of Poetry.

Losing myself

in his


flow of words

I ended

Poetically satisfied,


Poetically wishing

I had not been


by dingoes of distraction

and had instead




Published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme

Flash Fiction One

Click on the icon.

“Click on the icon.”

“Icon!  What icon?  There’s too many!”

“There!  Look!  I only showed you yesterday!”

“That was different.”

“Different?  What do you mean different?”

“That was yesterday, Anyway I have it now, look, see!”  With quiet pride in her voice she continued, “now we’re set.”  Then she groaned softly, “Oh dear, I’ve forgotten what I do next.”

This time her daughter intervened, having silenced her brother with a withering glance and a barely murmured, “shush!”

If their mother noticed she gave no sign.  Instead she peered intently at the spot on the screen her daughter indicated, reading aloud, “address book.”  She double clicked and leaned back, satisfied, when a list of names, locations, numbers, e-mails magically appeared.  As her son went to move the mouse she gently slapped his hand away saying, “no Tom, let me do it, you showed me yesterday, I have to learn.”

He shrugged his shoulders and like his sister watched their mother hesitantly scroll down through the list.  Their patience over a few days home tutoring was well rewarded when she cried out in almost girlish excitement, “look, look there they are!  That’s them, look!”  Her daughter Mary gently pulled her hands down from her mouth, drawing them back to the keyboard.

“No good there, Mam, come on!  What next?”

She frowned in intense concentration, “Let me see, I’ll double click anyway.”

They didn’t need the glow from the screen to see the light in her eyes when Jim in Australia and Kate in Alberta came on the screen.  The three way family chat filled the house with noise, with laughter

None of the children, home or abroad, heard her crying on the phone that night to her friend of many years, “this Skype thing makes it easier.”


Published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board scheme

They always lie to us

They always lie to us

They always lie to us.

When they proclaim they are

telling the truth

they act as if this were

virtue on their part,

rather than a sacred duty.

They always lie to us,

the wars never end

by Christmas,

there were no weapons of

mass destruction

and which is it,

that more of theirs die

than the fewer of ours,

or that fewer of ours die

than the more of theirs?

They always lie to us,

the failing fail safes

are never going to hold,

situations are always

worse than they proclaim.

They always lie to us.

Drip feeding us morsels,


tit bits of truth

is also a form of lying.

They always lie to us,

so much so

that it is no longer

a source of sadness,


the sadness lies

in how often we


how seldom we


in our ever and always


not realising that

they always lie to us.

This was published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board scheme for January 2012

I am rock

I am rock

I am rock,

I am stone,

I am old but I am here.

I was once something else

Now I am stone.

My surface is worn, scratched, chipped

I am still me, I am stone.

Look closely at me,

There are colours where it seems

There is only one colour,

There are marks where it seems smooth,

And all the time, I am what I am,

I am stone.

The shape I am now

Is not the shape I always had,

But I am still stone.

Dun Laoghaire

March 2004

This was published as part of the Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme

At the Arts Festival, Galway

There are swans on the Corrib,

Along Quay Street the pubs are

Filled to overflowing.

They play Edith Piaf in cafes

While patrons patiently wait.

Outside, buskers ply their trade.

Behind the old Spanish Arch

We find the new Museum.

There, Johnny Faulkner and friends

Transport us with old sea-songs

Beyond the river’s open mouth

To Greenland whale fisheries.

Voices tell the shanties rhythms.

Eyes closed, to listen close,

I follow the music’s rise and fall.

Singers’ voices in harmony

Take us until we return

To the museum’s sunlit room.

Outside, the swans glide by, mute.

This was published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme

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