I’ll save a life this morning The value that of mine Your suit, my rags Blend into one Arrival just in time The fate that it’s my doorway That you pass by each day Sip from your cup Don’t look down Just look the other way So here we are, you’re ninety-nine. But I’m infinity. This CPR. Through rotten teeth. You’ll live because of me....... From the 'Lunatics & Space Age Watches' collection

Let me introduce Alex......Twelve-years-old......Trauma has just come and found him Grandad never let the barn door stay shut. Not even the time when the snow was that bad Dad said to close everything up tight. “A closed barn is no use to man nor beast,” Grandad said, doing that thing with his hands when he learns me important farming stuff. This morning the door is closed. Proper closed. Padlocked closed. My wellies make sucking noises in the mud. They’re my new ones, but I’

A little Wednesday wordplay poem. - The Juggernaut. Taken from my 'Lunatics & Space Age Watches' series

September 10th 1845. Newmarket, County Cork, Ireland. Brigid Moynahan picks up a pen. She is educated, bilingual, married with two children. A woman of quiet capability in a world that is about to collapse around her. The Great Famine has arrived at her door and she does what comes naturally — she writes everything down. Every detail. Every loss. Every day that passes without enough food and without enough hope. She keeps writing until she can no longer hold the pen. She dies

It took one hundred and eighty years to heal the source. September 10th 1845. A woman in County Cork picks up a pen. September 10th 2025. A woman in Illinois opens her back door. Between them — one hundred and eighty years. Seven women. One thread. And a sentence that has been travelling through time for longer than anyone knew. Clonfert — Coming 2027. Currently seeking traditional publication. Brigid Moynahan is a woman in Newmarket, County Cork. Educated, bilingual, married

So here I am I’m Eighty-two I’ve just sat down Next to you A quiet old man Past his prime Should I even be here I look just fine A name is called But it’s not mine I’m Albert Albert William Lodger An old codger A coffin dodger When my name is called I’ll ask if you will help me To door number two Behind sits Dr Cochrane Thumbing through My notes My medical history Which remains a mystery To him As it’s not mine I acquired it Sometime Reinvented myself Pulled a n

Perhaps these should never see the light of day..... But sod it. Sometime between then and now, I started writing poems. I didn't tell many people. Seemed safer that way. They've been sitting in a drawer ever since — or a digital equivalent, a folder you never open because you're not entirely sure what's in it and you're not entirely sure you want to know. Well. I've opened the folder. What I found was a watch thief called Harold, a child splitting atoms in a bog, a homeless