Writing

Licorice legs and a walnut shell. You could be a crab, tired of the grainy shore, the glucose whirl of a gluey sea.

Sky Spirit is a piece of micropoetry about the ghostly, magical effect dew can have on dandelion clocks and grass.  It aims to capture...

The ShoreA shot of sea spills its gut, deep music.

Fantasy’s stamp is upon this sky From the cloud dust remains of a quartet of ghosts, they grow, gather pace on the carousel,

The aunts never shaved their legs. They rolled up their trousers and ran into the sea.

The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.

I'm still buzzing from all the excitement of Waterford Writers' Weekend. For those that didn't make it to my reading, here is a video clip from the day. It features a poem called 'Waterford Waits', written in 2007 and inspired by Waterford Hurlers.

As we lie in the swan neck of spent love, my hands play the ivory rush of your skin, summer smooth, petal keys sound out the first chord.

I watched 'Elf'' over the weekend and it got me thinking about the limits society places on us. Deep stuff huh? Who would have...