I am Here are my poems.  I hope you like them. 

Becoming a Soldier 

Epigraph: Private Hugh Dowds enlisted in Glasgow on the 22 August 1914

You stood in a queue at the civic centre
to show solidarity, and become
a soldier in an army of pals; you’re sent
to a camp to sleep in a tent,

to learn how to fight, to fix your bayonet,
to stab a straw man on a string;
to march to the beat of the drum, to sing
about your old kit bag and Tipperary.

The Ghost of Suvla Bay

Epigraph: Hugh’s Battalion landed in Suvla Bay in August 1915 to relieve the Anzac troops trapped in Anzac Bay.

With shoes shinning bright, puttees wrapped tight
you board a boat on a hot August day
bound for Gallipoli and Suvla Bay; where
with a mighty roar of Faugh-A-Ballagh
you attacked the Turks on their hills,

but you are too late, and have to retreat
to a trench for weeks with your dead pals and
plagues of flies bringing disease and dysentery
leaving you beaten, looking like a ghost
but it’s the silence that hurts you most.

A Soldier’s Grave

Epigraph: Hugh was killed in action on the 7th November 1917 at Beersheba.

I travelled to Beersheba
to see the world through your eyes;
standing under a burning sun
reading the last letter you wrote

longing for home and days
in Glencloy and Carnlough Bay. I stood
on the spot where you listened as the
padre prayed, seeking the moral right,

for the strength to face another fight.
Weary after so many battles fought,
Gallipoli, Serbia, and Macedonia.
I heard a whistle blow, and imagined

you charging across the sand
to where you stumbled and fell
your body blown apart
by a Turkish artillery shell

losing the future you’d planned,
spilling your blood into Abraham’s well,
flowing into history,
consecrating the sand

beneath which you lie,
in a soldier’s grave.

Price to Pay

For generations people in my family
have shared stories about our kinfolk,
how they emigrated to a distant colony
seeking a better life than the old folk.
At twenty-two I left my home to become
a Ten Pound Pom, and migrated to Australia,
looking for sun, and to raise my income,
but, I soon discovered this was not Utopia.
I missed the closeness of family,
their easy visits, just calling round.
The caring hugs, given so freely
by the ones I loved and left so far behind.
Take care of the price you have to pay
when your dreams take you far away.

Islandmagee

We walked down the slope of the jetty,
to join a queue, waiting to board
a ferry to cross to Islandmagee,
everyone with the same accord.

I found a space on a wooden seat,
and sat with my friends in a happy mood.
As the boat rocked to a gentle beat
I gave our money to Captain Hood.

When all were aboard, and fares collected;
with water foaming around the propeller
and mooring ropes cast from the dock,
gulls wheeled above, as the Captain took the tiller.

We reversed away from the empty jetty,
and turned to face a choppy sea,
as we were steered across the lough,
heading towards the distant quay.

Soon we docked in Islandmagee
with our picnic ready to last the day.
I passed the bags to willing hands
as we made our way to Brown’s Bay.

Under a warm summer sun, we spread our
blankets upon the sand, stripped to swim
in the sea, the cold, salt water
bringing relief, and soothing tired limbs.

With all food eaten, and weary after games,
we started on the long journey home,
with sand in our shoes, and everyone
wishing for more days like this to come.

Back and Sides

The Barber shop was a five minute walk
from our house, on the sunny side of a
quiet street, where I, as a child went for

a ‘short back and sides.’ The barber wore
a red waistcoat, smoked Capstan full strength,
as I sat on a bench to wait my turn,

I watched him perform one of his tricks,
turning water and cream into a lather,
swirling it on the customer’s chin, raising

the stubble with a badger-bristle-brush.
Sharpening his cut-throat on a leather strop,
shaving the stubble with slow gentle swipes,

cleaning the blade on a paper tissue.
Splashing eau-de-cologne onto his hands,
gently patting the freshly shaved chin.

Beckoning me forward to sit in the
chair, pumping it up to his level and
draping me in a large black cape.

Keeping my head up straight, he began
to trim the back and sides of my hair
with his clippers going click, click, click,

orchestrating the cut with his left hand
pushing my head into position; then
sweeping my hair with his fingers, trapping,

some between his index and middle fingers,
trimming the ends with razor sharp scissors,
shaving my neckline with a cut-throat-razor.

A final comb; unwrapping of the cape,
loose hairs join clusters, lying on the floor,
the illusion of change accomplished.

Father

My father worked as a docker; with his
flat cap and easy smile I followed him

everywhere. On Sunday trips to church to
meet his friends and pray for peace in the world.

One day we rowed a boat out onto the Lough
fishing all day for mackerel and herring,

he carried me home, seasick from it all.
Going to the pictures to see a film,

patiently telling me to sit still. Going
to Inver Park to watch our team play,

passing the bookies to put on a bet.
Belfast for boxing in the Ulster Hall,

football internationals at Windsor Park.
My best friend until he slipped away.

None Were Rich

My early childhood was spent growing up
on a council estate where none were rich
and we used the streets as a football pitch.
We played as one in our little group,
turning the estate into a playground
for marbles, conkers, hopscotch, baseball,
skipping, and throwing two balls against a wall,
our laughter always in the foreground.
We slung ropes from lamp posts to swing around,
and made go-carts with wheels from disused prams,
our inventiveness for fun, knew no bounds.
I was given, for my eleventh birthday,
a bicycle that opened up a wider world,
lifting my sights to horizons, far away.

Inking Memories

Epigraph: ‘When I was a child …
I reasoned like a child.’ (1. Corinthians, 13:11).

The flame curled round my wishful note,
‘Santa will know won’t he?’ I said.
Granda nodded his head in assent,
for it was true in my imagination.

While staying with Granda that summer,
we strolled to his old workplace, where
I rode on the footplate of a steam engine
as it carried red-ore on the narrow-gauge line,

from the sloblands, to a ship waiting below.
On our way back I watched him hone
his knife on a coping stone,
before carving slices of flake

from a plug of tobacco, rolling the shag
into a ball before tamping it into the bowl.
Strike a match, cup his hands like a cape
and suck the flame through the Condor

breathing out clouds of haunting smoke,
inking the link in my mind.
That night we went to bed in the crow’s nest,
listening to stories about ships with sails

that carried his brothers to America.
One day his body lay in a different pose.
As I touched his cold, marble face
I told his friends who came to the wake,

my Granda is asleep now,
for it was true in my imagination.

Living Room

Family hopes and dreams were formed on Fleet Street
in a small room in a two up two down.
The radio by the range the place to meet
for dockers living in this harbour town.

The radio or the racing pages
when passed over for work that day.
One up on the foreman makes up for wages
a winning bet easier than loading bay.

Life would be empty as the parlour grate
without family gathered in this room.
With Ink Spots on the air waves worries wait,
songs, laughter and hope to lift the gloom.

It was a small room where lives intertwined
leaving memories to slowly unwind.

Letting go

Holding tightly to my grief I join
distant relatives and familiar friends at my

father’s wake, bowing my head as the
minister read words I needed to hear.

I step up to take the first lift, feeling
his weight on my shoulders, our heads only inches

apart, we would never be this close again.
Six strong dockers, his closest friends took over

as I follow behind to the wrought iron gates
where I joined the last lift, letting go only

as he is lowered to his final resting place.

Silence

The house is quiet,
With walls, cold and dead.
Oh, how I miss you.
Your smile, your laughter,
The way you tilted your head,
When I was being silly.
The hugs you gave me, when I was feeling down.
I weep so much for you, that I
Sometimes wonder if you ever really existed.
The thought, that I will never see you again,
Simply destroys me.
How could I have been so happy, without realising it.
In the silence, I sit alone,
Missing you.

Cranny Falls

When you are feeling weary with this world,
Come-a-walk with me to Cranny Falls.
Stroll along hawthorn and blackberry covered lanes,
Wander around grass-clad limestone mounds,
Torn from the quarry many decades ago.
Sit a while, amongst yellow, dusted gorse,
And, look out over Carnlough Bay,
Whilst listening to the sounds of nature
As they drift up from far below.
Then rise and walk into the misty glen,
And, look in wonder at the falls, where
Peat stained white water,
Thunders down on moss covered stones.
Standing on the bridge before this scene,
Be at one with nature’s bounty,
And, know that if we would but listen,
Mother nature will help us all.

Quarry Men

Leaving the family cottage ruins in Glencloy Bay,
I trace their footsteps up the pot holed lane,
past banks of yellow primrose, scattered
amongst green, heart-shaped leaves of wood sorrel

slowly spilling over mossy, stone walls,
topped with windblown hawthorn, heavy with sweet
smelling blossom. On up the gentle slope
I reach a sea of yellow whin bushes.

I climb a five bar gate to the disused
limestone quarry, where my ancestors
once toiled. Sea breezes coming up from the bay
swirl round the manager’s derelict house

from where order was once observed.
Scars, from dynamite blasts that
gouged out this vast crater,
forever visible on the white cliff face.

Abandoned piles of limestone rocks,
monuments to a time long gone.
Tenacious grass and wild flowers reclaim the land
where proud quarry men once earned their livelihood.

Herring-a-live

Sitting by the open fire with my mother
me reading a book, her reading me, when
‘Herring-a-live. Herring-a-live.’

like a seagull squall came echoing inside
announcing the arrival of the fresh fish van.
The fisherman’s coat was smeared with blood

his red scaly hands select our fish
staring up at him from a cold metal dish.
‘Herring-a-live. Herring-a-live.’

Since Time Began

The tide in the bay is on the wane,
As I watch the little stream renew its task,
Started when time began,
To weave a river in the sand,
Forming valleys with long gentle curves,
And sheer mountain faces,
Ending where fresh, and salt water, mix
In a multitude of diverse tiny streams.
And as this creation reaches its ultimate goal,
The sea, as of right, changes direction, sending
Wave upon wave, destroying all before,
In a relentless, cleansing tide.
But, the little stream, is not deterred and,
Waits until the tide turns, and once again,
With uncompromising vigour, begins
To weave a river in the sand.

The Artist

With canvas blank, she begins,
Drawing outlines in light pencil marks,
Followed by paint filled brush strokes,
Some in short stuttered caresses,
Others in long bold curves,
Giving shape to objects from within.
Working, until she sees no more,
Leaving a legacy to admire.

Derelict Dreams

Wild ivy hangs over an empty wooden frame,
Where once a stout timber door swung,
Keeping the inhabitants safe and warm.
Glassless windows, no longer stop icy winds,
That blow around roofless barren walls, while a rigid
Chimney stack, guards a crumbling gable wall.

Somewhere inside the whitewashed exterior,
Reside memories of happier times,
When children ran from room to room.
As warm cinders glowed in the fire,
Gently boiling potatoes in the pot, and
Laughter filled the air.

Gradually her family departed,
Until one day she sat alone.
Thoughts of the past,
Filling her time with sadness,
Until she could take no more,
Closing the door as she left.

Her home is rotting away, as
Wild Ryegrass, cover her dreams,
Bricks and mortar crumble to dust,
While inside empty fallen walls
The silence of ancestors,
 is disturbed by the wind,
As it shuffles memories around.

Growing Old

An old, brown tinted photograph,
Of someone I knew so well,
Lies curling in a disused suitcase,
As time, slowly takes its heavy toll.

The moment, captured forever,
Is always in her present,
As she watches all before her,
Never aware, of we who stare.

Her clothes are neatly arranged,
Hair is elegant, in the fashion of the day,
As she rests against a smooth pale wall,
Relaxed in an easy dignified way.

Her lips are set in a gentle smile,
As she gazes into the camera lens,
Life so full of hope,
Unaware of the sorrows yet to come.

As I watch over time,
Her face grows younger,
While I reluctantly age.
So much of my life in her photograph,
Yet sadly, none at all.

Come gentle breeze

Come gentle breeze, blow on me.
Warm sun, shine on me.
Misty rain, fall on me.
For I am in love,
And full of life.

 Dream

My love came to me in a warm tender dream,
weaving, gracefully before me.
Misty-eyed with a soft tender smile,
beckoning me to come closer.
But, I awoke into a cold lonely night.

Oh sleep don’t forsake me,
Don’t leave me here awake,
my body tossing impatiently,
my mind wandering trying to find you,
as my bed slowly cools down.

Oh sleep, please come and take me,
to your deepest depths.
Wrap your arms around me and carry me,
to  your world, where
my love patiently waits.

Beautiful Sleeper

I awoke into the blackness of the night,
Unable to see in the dark.
I lay, relaxed and sleepy,
The sheets on the bed still warm.
I listened to your gentle breathing,
So reassuringly peaceful.
And imagined your beautiful face,
Your body so still next to mine.
You stirred, moving closer to me,
Your hand touching mine,
As you gently pulled me to you,
Comforting me even in sleep.
I silently folded myself around your sleeping body,
Holding you close, feeling your warmth,
As I slowly drift back to sleep.
Love is such a wondrous thing.

Leaving Me

The sun, dazzling of a calm sea,
A beauty to inspire,
Now only adds to my sorrow.
A smile masks tears,
From a broken heart.
As I watch you walk away.
I want to call out, but it is too late,
For you have already left me.

First Love

I laughed at love, when I was young.
Until I met you and fell in love.
You were my life, my being, and my existence.
But you loved another and
Broke my heart, completely.

Now I’m alone in a crowd,
I try to smile, to hide the pain,
I listen to their laughter,
while I all the time,
I’m breaking up inside.

Pace for my Life

I love soft music playing,
the smell of bacon cooking,
drinking coffee from a mug,
and being one with all.

I love hot summer days, watching
weary cows as they dawdle in the field.
I love walking country lanes,
Filled with radiant fuchsia bushes.

I love the slowness of summer
With its long clear evenings,
And the day slowly dimming into
a dark blue silent sky.

I love the feeling of misty fog,
As it gently dampens my face.
And sitting in the evenings,
With friends around glowing fireplace.

I love the quickness of your smile,
And laughing at someone’s joke,
Whilst a clock on the wall,
Sets the pace for my life and it all.

If I could say Goodbye

If I could say goodbye,
I would tell you how much I loved you,
How you filled my days with joy.
How your laughter sparkled when I heard it,
Your smile, sweet tender when I saw it,
Your wisdom, helpful when I needed it,
But most of all, it was being with you
I will be content forever
For having you in my life.

Shamrock Wept

Last night, I recalled sweet memories,
of when we explored new worlds,
in a time, that would last forever,
with laughter, in our hearts.

But this idyll was not to be,
powerful forces determined we had to part.
And as you left,
The shamrock gently wept.

 Lost Love

She lost her first love when she became pregnant,
She was to lose her second,
Through the cruelty of a society,
That would not allow anyone to,
Step outside moral codes,
Set they say by the gracious creator.

But, it was no God who denied her love,
Nor understanding in her hour of need,
It was man, in all his self-importance,
That deemed to be speaking for his maker,
When all the time, it was his own,
Selfish narrow views that prevailed.

When her child was born, she was
Torn from her arms to someone
Else she was sent, a punishment for a
Crime of love outside the rule,
But, the love between child and mother,
Is stronger than anything man can design.

When her daughter was old enough she went in search
Of the person she felt closest to,
No bureaucracy placed in the way
Can stop the march of love,
To find that which a child yearns for most,
A mother’s love

A knock at a door,
Now it was to be,
It gently opened inwards, and an old yet
Familiar face appeared with a faint nervous smile,
Recognition was immediate, whilst holding tears on edge
Forgiveness in an instant,
A family at last.

Love in Silence

I am always with you,
Within the silence.
I will never leave you,
I will always be with you,
For I am in the silence,
Where my love, waits for you.

I love you

I give you my life,
the breath I breathe,
my beating heart,
I give to you.
I live to be with you,
to see your smile,
to hear your laughter,
to feel your body
lying next to mine.
You are my life,
I give you my love

To my love

If I should ever drift into your mind,
Think only this of me,
That, when I thought of you,
I smiled.

I am Here

I am here,
I shouted at the moon,
And the moon replied,
I cannot see you,
It is too dark.
I am here,
I said to the sun,
And the sun replied,
I cannot see you,
It is too bright.
I am here,
I whispered to my God.
I know, came the reply.

 Gentle Love

The night grows dim,
As warm embers glow,
Peace fills the mind,
Eyes relax, contentment.
Bodies touch,
We make soft gentle love.

Death of a Red Car

An old red car, abandoned by a busy road,
Its wheels quickly recycled,
Sustains a habit started years ago.
From under a gaping bonnet,
Rubber pipes ripped from their housing,
Bleed life giving oil onto the grassy turf.
Unseen hands rip out dead engine parts,
As glistening gems from shattered glass,
Cover soft leather seats.
And in the dead of night, malicious
Ignited petrol creates a raging inferno,
Leaving a burnt carcass to,
Oxidise a dull ruddy brown,
Until a final lift, onto a flat backed lorry,
Leaves but a pool of oily sludge.

Forever and Ever

Her grief weighs heavily,
As she wanders the no-man land,
Between love and despair,
Searching for peace in her heart.
She seeks out familiar places they used to visit,
And listens to their favourite songs,
While all the time, growing deep inside,
A dread that love has gone,
Leaving only pain and loneliness,
That will consume her all of her life
And a heart that is breaking,
Forever and ever

Memories

Life is full of memories.
Of beauty and,
Things that I did right.
Mistakes I made,
Hurt, I never meant to cause,
Apologies I should have given.
Love I willingly gave,
Love I never received.
Some have left a quiet pain,
All of them I cherish,
For they, have made me, what I am.