but to them, she was a scratch of ink on put-away paper. barely weaned from mother’s milk, now another mother needs her; oh, let Ireland keep its dignity, they begged her, on dry, dry knees that never once did graze Shannon’s bed.



write me a letter, and take your time. i could not care for read-receipts beyond the concern i maintain for the intricacies of weather and wear; please, i’d take month-old ink and pen over keyboard vomit and instant regret.


please do not give up on me, i am still here. i am still writing, still thinking… time is hard to manage. i will post more, soon. i promise… thank you for being here and reading.




you wear your heart like hands,
open hands,
umbrella hands
that shaded undeserving Jonah.
one who made plans,
laid plans,
well-behaved plans
for a quiet quiet life
with home and hearth and wife
found worth
beyond a birthday’s wish
in the dark dark belly
of the fish.

‘for e. d.’ Lois Linkens

my latest piece for sudden denouement:

A Forum for Divergent Literature

the city glitters after dark,
busy busy night-owls
shuffle and scuffle
in their white-glass nests.
and we watch,
tired eyes and heavy bags
on a faraway train

we are sexless soulmates
and brotherly brides,
platonic partners pledged
in the ink of mutual need
and searching hearts

sisters in arms,
rosy-cheeks and high-school charms;
my curly-haired comic

heads full of homework,
a makeshift skyline
of yet-to-be
paints itself across the dark,
as young love
rings it’s soon-forgotten bell

confused youth;
a cloud-grey gosling
peeks its ugly head
through the bulrushes
to see the swans;

we are cast-away boats
in stormy seas,
just looking for a place to land.

[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you…

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give me wine


wine glasses, dusty.
atop the wardrobe;
the wardrobe is empty.
the book shelf is bare,
twilight is all colour.

i am tired,
i am tired of nothing.
my dearest,
it is solid substance to the man
who prescribes it
but he doesn’t take the pill.

give me water,
give me wine.
you cannot end
a life divine.


people on the wall


i once did pity
those people on the wall.
bare feet
grazing naked concrete,
muddy crimson smears
a final painted clue
to some vein
in which did flow the rivers of life,
now desert dry.

i used to pity them,
lonely ropes
and bruised necks;
yet i have come to see
that a beating heart
cannot insist
on life.

perhaps, they are not so different…

perhaps, they are not worse off;
they are free.