The Middle Sea. If you drew back the ocean waves,the graveyard of the middle sea would be seen,strewn with the bodies of the poor,from a hundred nations, they lie scattered by the thousands,on the seabed, blanketed in the forever dark. The ocean has no memory or mercy,the sand will not a headstone make,there will be no names carved in Tripoli or Valetta for these nameless bones,locked or trapped inside decrepit hulks,they tried to cross the waters with pitiless men.
Merciful Sleep. Nameless and blameless,drownings not painless, Saint, sinner, soldier and thief, weeping child for their mother,father lost brother, Muslim, Christian and Sikh.
Faces. I draw faces on the nitrile* gloves with care,never more struck by my privilege,until I meet those without a home,a child alone,the laughter and delight at a simple toy,a joy,they are gathered at my feet,their little bundles stand out in stark relief,drawing in the bright sun,on expensive paper with cheap crayons.
Coaxing the Fire. The poker methodically at its task,guided by the sure and steady hand,rosy glow of the embers coaxed back to flame,nursed from deathbed to resurrection,throwing warmth out over worn tiles and a grey mottled cat.
Béal na mBláth
I often wonder how that young Private felt,when he saw the blood flow from Collins,to mingle with the dirt in Beal na mBláth,struck down by a ricochet,the echoes still reverberating,ringing through the decades.
Guard.
As the rain it fell,they stood in silent sentinel,youth whose life barely fills a page,for those, alas, who will never age,most gave their life on foreign soil,where the cedar bleeds or in Katangian dust.
Lord of Connaught.
The last Lord of Connaught is still,silent are the hills,which once quivered with the ancient sound,echoing round Belleek Castle & the Moy.
Burning Bibs.
That moment went fascination and opportunity collide,The wonderment of innocence and a terrible price extracted on a child,Copy cat,flickering flames,melted plastic and pain.
Words.
The words were sent out of the window and into the world,Spiralling nouns danced on the breeze and prose rose on light airs,Gusting gales could not the verbs shake loose from bonds of rhyme,The poets thoughts set loose upon the wind and free.
Wind.
Seek the high and lonely places,let the roar of wind push electronic chatter from your ears,and drag a tear from an eye that was dry too long.Breathe deep.
Skellig.
You say I never write for you,you say it with sad eyes.so I have tried to write for you,to help you stop awhile and smile.
Paper Never Refused Ink! 
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