The Fate of the PVs.

Reproduced here with the kind permission of the Editor of An Cosantóir, this is my article which featured in Special Commemorative Edition on the occasion of the Naval Service 75th Anniversary. They were the ships onboard which a generation of sailors came of age, and they lead the way for others to follow. Built in... Continue Reading →

75 Years of Service.

Reproduced here with the kind permission of the Editor of An Cosantóir, this is my article which featured in Special Commemorative Edition on the occasion of the Naval Service 75th Anniversary. The celebration of the 75th anniversary of the Naval Service is a milestone in the long and rich history of service. No celebration could... Continue Reading →

The Curvature of Cork

Curvature of Cork,breaking free of static lines,blending ancient bridges,with sharp edged blocks,scraggly trees,and pavement gazing pedestrians. Rushing head long,into the event horizon,when distant melts,will raise the waters,wash out the swamp,for a final time. Pleas will be hurled,prayers incanted,as the great and good,are carried downstream,like petrified timber,ripped from the Gearagh. Concrete and brick crumbles,high tide lines... Continue Reading →

Cobh Readers and Writers Daily Prompt Day II

Cobh R&W Daily Prompt II So here is this mornings effort, another #micropoem. Guard of Nature.Quack, spake the Mandarin,And the kindhearted rustled,The paper bag to pull scraps,And crumbs of poppyseeded bread,To share on the tended bank,Of the shapely pond,A guard of nature,Adding each gentle act,As they pause and ponder,To the universes store of karmic credit.... Continue Reading →

The Time of the Tans.

There has been huge amounts of commentary about the recent ill fated decision to formally commemorate the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) and the Dublin Metropolitan Police. It descended very quickly into a massive argument, with the vast majority of the public quickly coming to a consensus that can be summed up as 'who in the... Continue Reading →

Cork City Missing Persons Search and Recovery Unit.

The loss of loved one is one of the most tragic experiences which can befall a family. If that loved one is not recovered, then the grieving process can be made all the more difficult on those left behind. There is in Cork, a dedicated team of volunteers who have since their foundation provided hundreds of families with the solace of having their loved one returned to them.

Something in the Water.

Something in the Water.
There must be something in the water that nourishes writers on this Great Island of ours, as it has such an abundance of them. Perhaps, as the Lee flows along, it gathers stories from its many tributaries and courses, tumbling them in its stream as it flows ever onward on its journey to the Atlantic. Or maybe it’s the nature of living on the harbour, where for centuries ships have sailed and sheltered as the flow of commerce from across the nation has funnelled goods and people to its quaysides; then onward to new horizons waiting out past Roches point.
Something draws them to come to rest, like so many grains of sand, onto the shores of Cobh. This never-resting, ever-changing harbour has borne witness to the heartache of the emigrant and the excitement of unknown adventures for those drawn to a life on the ocean. Cobh’s every corner is etched with history and the endless search for fresh possibilities seems to stimulate the creativity of the local writers. They wait like Heaney at his desk, ‘Between my finger and my thumb, The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.’, and what a range of stories our local writers unearth in their digging.

Mother Jones

Mother Jones.
She was 93 years old,grandmother of all agitators,immigrant teacher's words stirred men to action,she wrote her story down,passing labours flame from Pennsylvania,from coal mining heartlands built on the bones of union,tales of the silk children's knight crusader,charging the power of the mill.

The call of the woman of the north side,fell into the ear of the ragged trousered wretch,growing straight in the regimented pines,arrayed through the ruins of famine homesteads,hemmed in by the meandering dry stone walls,built from their shells,pray for the dead,fight like hell for the living,in mines and bogs or dockyard slips,the boot seeks a neck,the company scales the pocket picked,join a union

The Island

The Island.
Angels voices soaring to roll off the ceilings curves,numb hands pressed against grieving ones,roaring winds pulling at the aged stones,no threat to peace or pain inside the vault,sharing the seeping warmth of love departed.

The lintels still carry chisel strikes,left by rough hands that toiled,a hundred years of rain have yet,to find their way inside,each stone as tight together as the families,who sit in hushed mourning rows beneath,

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