When I was 7 years old, I wrote and illustrated my first book (folded paper, stapled in the centre). It was about the adventures of a bouncing ball and proved to be a huge success with my readers (family!) I loved writing stories at school and I wrote, directed and acted in plays and variety shows at home. They often featured singing, dance routines and poetry - very much influenced by my love of old Hollywood films and musicals - and I somehow managed to persuade my younger brothers to take part!
When I was 12 years old, I wrote and illustrated a children's book called 'I Hate My Hair!' which was both semi-autobiographical and a cautionary moral tale! I loved English and Drama lessons, and played the leading female role in the school play, Alan Ayckbourn's 'Ernie's Incredible Illucinations', I had fantastic English teachers, Mrs Cooper and Mr Hardman, who organised school trips to see productions of the novels/plays we were studying, and my lifelong love of theatre began.
As an adult, my obsession with stories - books, plays, musicals, operas - continued but I didn't write again until about 13 years ago. I have since written five novels/part-novels, one of which was written in a month for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but they all need a huge amount of editing! I have also written lots of poems, many of which have been published in the UK, Ireland and USA. A selection of them are featured below.
When I was 12 years old, I wrote and illustrated a children's book called 'I Hate My Hair!' which was both semi-autobiographical and a cautionary moral tale! I loved English and Drama lessons, and played the leading female role in the school play, Alan Ayckbourn's 'Ernie's Incredible Illucinations', I had fantastic English teachers, Mrs Cooper and Mr Hardman, who organised school trips to see productions of the novels/plays we were studying, and my lifelong love of theatre began.
As an adult, my obsession with stories - books, plays, musicals, operas - continued but I didn't write again until about 13 years ago. I have since written five novels/part-novels, one of which was written in a month for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but they all need a huge amount of editing! I have also written lots of poems, many of which have been published in the UK, Ireland and USA. A selection of them are featured below.
***Content warning: some of these poems deal with sensitive issues such as bereavement, chronic illness and mental health***
📝
The Prodigal Son
A man filled with pride comes home
Puts his overnight bag on the coffee table
In the ‘good front room’
Puts down the keys to his electric car
That his Dad says is new-fangled rubbish
Would he not have got a fiesta from Car Dealz Colin instead
Puts down the artisan cupcakes just so
That his Mum says are just fairy cakes with notions
Sure she could have whipped up some for a tenth of the price
And the man puts there the sigh of dust motes scurrying
And the sofa groaning, disturbed after such a long time
In the ‘good front room’, only for visitors
Blinking, remembering, settling
And the man puts there the scratchy, too-small school uniform
With scuffed, squeaking shoes
Leaking rain and tears of shame
And the free school meals, cabbage
With something nondescript
The smell of stigma clinging to his clothes
And the bitter taste of poverty
Heard in a hundred rows
Hidden behind closed doors
And the man puts there a wish to be somewhere else
To be himself plus something, anything other
One plus x equals endless possibilities
Add carefully, bit by bit
For fear of rejection; love, love me do
And he puts there, “University’s for posh people, not the likes of us;
Not good enough for you now are we?”
But he’s gone too far and he no longer fits
Remember you can always add more but you can’t take it away
And the man puts there the pride in himself
That he wanted from them
And the man puts there the graduation photo
That they didn’t want
And the man puts there the longing
For acceptance
On the coffee table in the ‘good front room’
But one angry arm could sweep all these things to the floor
And he would be eighteen again, trying to explain
Here was always enough but there is where his dreams live
Inspired by Table - Edip Cansever
📝
Fibromyalgia vs You
Think they’ll still call you when you keep saying no
To parties and dinners, in fact everywhere they go
And might they not think that it’s all in your head
Since you’ve never looked better, or so they said
Think they’ll still love you when their you has gone
Mangled by illness that goes on, and on
And will their disappointment become one more blow
To add to pain and misery, it’s another new low
Think you’ll still be you when all of you is lost
You may still be here but at what cost
It’s easier to hide away than be a ghost of you
And staying home, all alone, shrinks your world view
The need for explanation leads to chronic isolation
And since you’re no fun, the battle has been won
Fibromyalgia one, you nil
📝
Student 131
Your tatty red rucksack abandoned in the hall,
spilling notes for an exam
you will never sit.
A moment frozen in time, forever, for you.
Yet the clock continues to tick for us,
marking your absence
and the eternal curse of the living:
to always wonder if more might have been done.
Did we muddle your misery
with your smiles?
Was your desperate cry for help unheard,
the sound drowned in the cacophony of living?
And as we shuffle - uncomfortable, dazed, numb -
in our kitchen meant for five students,
not four,
your mother’s heartbreak fills the room
with stifled sobs
and a clinking teaspoon.
As part of the ‘Send Silence Packing’ campaign 131 rucksacks were placed on the lawn at Trinity College Dublin, representing the average number of university students lost to suicide each year in Ireland.
📝
The House of Shattered Dreams
Their dreams were shipwrecked on the rocks of recession,
recovery unlikely from property crash depression.
Vultures circled over ghost-estate wreckage
as people succumbed to Celtic Tiger carnage.
Emigrate, procrastinate, think it will get better?
No-one cares, you’re just another debtor.
So they left and they tried to make a new future,
away from Ireland an optimistic picture.
But reluctant landlords with no lifeline from the bank,
as time went by deeper and deeper they sank.
Emigrate, procrastinate, think it will get better?
No-one cares, you’re just another debtor.
They went back to Ireland to visit family and friends,
found their house was wrecked, tenants wouldn’t make amends.
So desperate to surrender this poisoned chalice,
they posted all the keys to the bank head office.
Emigrate, procrastinate, think it will get better?
No-one cares, you’re just another debtor.
I wish I could tell you that there was a happy ending,
that life goes on and they got their new beginning.
But the house was sold in negative equity
so they still owed the bank the ransom money.
Emigrate, procrastinate, think it will get better?
No-one cares, you’re just another debtor.
House of shattered dreams on a ghost estate,
financial ruination and it’s all too late;
crippled by the fall-out of boom bubble burst,
they never had the chance to put their new future first.
And just because they bought a house like everybody else did,
they became a part of ‘generation shafted’.
The 2008 financial crash plunged Ireland into recession. A collapse in the housing market caused some properties to drop in value by more than 50% and many newbuild properties remained unsold and uninhabited on ghost estates. In 2025 many properties have yet to return to their pre-crash value.
📝
War Child
A skein of wild geese shrieking overhead,
migrating to somewhere warmer instead.
Journey rehearsed many times already,
their route is well planned, their progress steady.
But you, war child, your eyes full of sorrow,
just five years old, no hope for tomorrow.
Torn from home in the middle of the night,
fleeing the warzone, no refuge in sight.
Wild geese and war child fighting for their lives,
migrants of necessity, just to survive.
Wild geese are determined, warm climes the prize,
the sojourn elsewhere a welcome reprise.
But for you, war child, escape does not mean,
an end to your nightmare, both lived and seen.
For all of the horrors scorched in your head,
could not be erased unless you too were dead.
📝
Ode to Dylan Thomas
You did go gentle
Into that good night
Your alcohol addled body
Could not rage nor fight
At the bottom of a whiskey bottle
Wisdom is not to be found
Though from a troubled soul
Beautiful poetry may abound
And your words are with us always
They brook no dying of the light
📝
She’s Leaving Home
Wrap up well in extra layers
Protect yourself from harm
Ravages of stormy weather
Or danger veiled in charm
Go off into the world my child
Find treasure every day
But don’t forget I’m always here
If ever you lose your way
Wrap up well in extra layers
Be safe, be happy, be kind
And rest assured I’m there with you
If only in your mind