A moment shared

It rained like swallows’ tears
the day I caught your
final breath.

Wisdom of a lifetime brushed my cheek
as I whispered ‘I love you’,
a thousand unspoken words
trapped like canker in my throat.

Fifteen years have crossed my path
and still I cry for moments lost,
searching for that unseen crack in space
where I could slip inside and make up
for all that should have been.

Each breath reminds me
of our moment shared,
when you held on for me to wake,
to race through corridors of fear;

I did not need technology to know.

You left me with your final breath.
I whispered in your ear,
and know you heard me.

Writing is...rewriting.

Books aren't written- they're rewritten.  Including your own.  It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn't quite done it.

- Michael Crichton

Her sun-bleached touch

Her sun-bleached touch

Morning sweeps her sun-bleached fingers

through my waking dreams.

She tempts me from my night-spun depths,

surreal into the now,

and sings her sweet aria,

heard only by my grasping child within,

then plants her jewels; sparkling, budding,

there to suckle and ferment,

to grow, to be discovered,

as if forever mine.

I am unaware, of course,

but she, my constant muse,

her kneading touch, so deep and knowing,

keeps close, as one,

and leaves her diamond crumbs,

without request.

Her flaming heart,

her rising sun,

shines strong and bright

against the shadows of my night.

She finds me in the mire and lifts me free,

where I awake, refreshed,

ready for the day.

The empty page awaits,

resplendent in the early morning light.

I’m driven, pulled, tormented,

embroiled so deep within

that need to make a mark;

a life,

to ease my pain.

To shine.

My pen pumps hot within my grasp,

and I feel,

deep down where Morpheus lurks,

the tantalising burn of her

sun-bleached touch.

The richness of the moment

After eight years living in Sligo, I can honestly say that one spot from all the beaches, mountains, forests and glades that fills my heart and soul with inspiration and genuine awe is this constant frame of Lough Gill from what I call 'Sector 13' deep in the Hazelwood domain. I might only pause for a minute during my walk through the woods, or some days I'll sit and relish the astounding magic of Nature's womb, where the richness of the moment smothers me in a heartfelt cocoon of belonging, akin to being held by one's mother, when the deepest pain is soothed and banished by the one love you will only appreciate when it is gone.

If I die tomorrow, because there will come such a tomorrow, spread my ashes around this sublime spot and let me forever be a part of its glory.

If you can get this...

All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that it all happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer.

- Ernest Hemingway

The Centre of Attention

The Centre of Attention

When I was a boy, my sister and her friends got a great laugh at my misfortune as they’d pin dress patterns and material to my varied limbs and other parts of my submissive body.  They would busy themselves in deep, animated debate as to what was working and what was causing their designs to go wrong.  If I moved without instruction, I would be snapped or snarled at and, once again, my cowered reaction would be the target of their collective mirth.

If I had a penny for every time my delicate skin was punctured by their over-enthusiastic machinations, I’d be able to, well, I’d be able to have a couple of well-deserved pints.

I was begrudging; always complaining, maybe by the way I stood in protest, or the turn of my mouth, or the way I wouldn’t look at them; the quintessential victim.

How I’d love to be there again, even for the few pin-pricks, or the ribbing from my sister’s friends.  I see none of them now; hear no laughter or furious debating.  They are gone from my circle of existence.  I thought that included my memory too, but now I know it only takes something simple, like a magazine photo, to bring it all back.  I loved being the centre of attention.  Still do.  Though now, I tend to wear my own clothes.

I am the writer, aren't I?

I want to write a short story. What’s the theme going to be?  Will it be an adventure, full of danger and conflict?  Or will it take me down the road of lost love and regret?  By its nature it has to be relatively short – less than 2,500 words. If I could manage that I’d be well content, though it would need to be ‘complete’.  So what will it be about? What will it be about?  Who will the characters be?  Where will I take them? Where will they take me? I am the writer, aren’t I? I'm in control, yes?  I am. Yes, indeed I am. Now, to write that story...