Catholic ethos in our schools

It’s hard to recall my last Confession
and whether I finished my penance.
I went to Mass at Xmas.

Is it still a sin to sleep
with my best friend’s husband?
I know Limbo’s dead,  is Purgatory still alive?

We are a Catholic country.

I believe in God.
I used to like the Crucifixion,
but I really love Easter Eggs.

A Catholic ethos for my child
is what I want. I send a few Christmas cards,
the price of stamps is way too high.

We are a Catholic country.

I never need a Bible,
there’s one on a shelf next to the dictionary.
How would I know it’s Old or New?

I don’t have an elephant’s memory,
but I do know an elephant’s trunk
cannot extinguish the Devil’s flames.

I believe in miracles,
I believe Jesus walked on water,
I believe in the Last Day,
in eternal salvation,
in Heaven and Hell.

We are all Christians
whether we know it or not.
It’s bad manners to talk about my faith.

This is a Catholic country.

I want my child’s First Holy Communion,
with lots of money, and a fancy party.
We both deserve new shoes.

A Catholic ethos in our schools
keeps children safe and saintly.
I’ll fight to the death to keep it alive.

What happens at home
stays at home.
It’s none of your business.

I am a writer

I am a writer
a born writer
published by a womb

Handwritten by a nib from an inkwell
between the lines
a joined-up writer

I am a copy writer
essays scribbled from memory

Minutes taken at meetings
reporter, drafter,
instructing others

Propaganda scribe
editor of text
pointed editorials

I am a writer
I want to be published
I have nothing to say
except what you want to hear.


And I am a writer
I create
thoughts I own
feelings I conceive
imaginations I imagine

I write in a vacuum I design for my muse
floating in space.


I too am a writer
a bought writer
my labour earns me food, shoes, shelter
I compose with blood, sweat and fingers fit for travel
to Atlantis and Arthritis.


I am writing my way through a stone,
as if a schizoid elephant
home from Kubla Kahn

My old school

My old school
My old school

My old school

My old classmates

My old playground

My old teachers

My old stomping ground

My old team

My old routine

You served me a dish fit for a Limerick boy, a Jesuit boy, a Roman Catholic boy, a professional boy

– doctor, dentist, auctioneer, lawyer, publican, priest, fishmonger, bookseller, architect, accountant, shopkeeper, teacher, vet, insurance broker,

Nothing on the menu for a father, lover, lorry driver, bricklayer, songwriter, carpenter, gardener, bus conductor, poet, vagrant, commercial traveller

In my day…

Guest : Lars Blichfeldt “Out of Sight”


I’m 38 years old. I live in Denmark with my wife, my 3 kids, a pig and a parrot.

Where I went to school, you had to agree with the teacher. If you didn’t agree, you knew nothing about poetry.

Every single word had its very own meaning which only the teacher knew the answer to.

After this introduction, I never did investigate poetry any further.

Then five months ago – on a social media app called Periscope – I randomly stumbled over an Irish poet called Paul O’Mahony.

In 2 months he changed my view on poetry completely. He inspired me to try writing poetry myself.

I have no experience in writing – and I know nothing about rules or grammar.
But it gives me great pleasure to write. [You can find my poems here.]

So start writing people, no matter what level you start at, I think you will love it.
And hey…we can’t all be Walt Whitman anyway.


Out of sight,

but always there.

I feel the beast,

lurking in shadows.

You were bred out of chaos.

You were nursed by feelings.

You were brought up by anger,

and strengthened by hate.

You rape my mind.

You abuse my body.

You blind me with darkness,

and tie me with fear.

How can I fight, what I cannot see.

How can I defeat, what’s created by me.


Thank you very  much Lars. It’s a honour to publish your work.

Important note:

In my imagination this blog will become a place where lots of people will be welcome to display & share their work.