Nukiller turns Mothers Day on it’s head

Source: Nukiller turns Mothers Day on it’s head


A Sunday Poem

another writing for the revolution



neo-modern plastic oil pollution
grease designer gangrene pockets
leaving cavernous empty craters
human remains swirl to a draining
hollow earth quakes swallows deep
poor lives shaken for fortunes sake
boardroom doormats become lumpy
the full sucking sharks regurgitation

First Kiss – Robert Filos

Source: First Kiss – Robert Filos

Poetry Workshop at the Cape Ann Museum

Source: Poetry Workshop at the Cape Ann Museum


Good Morning Gloucester

Irish Examiner

March 21, 2017

By Patrick Flynn

A tag from a fishing boat that famously survived the Perfect Storm off the US coast in 1991, has washed up on a beach in Co Clare.

The tragedy, which resulted in the loss of the fishing vessel Andrea Gail and her crew, was later featured in a film starring George Clooney.

The last vessel to communicate with the Andrea Gail was her sister ship the Hannah Boden which at the time was skippered by Linda Greenlaw. Both boats had been fishing off Massachusetts when they encountered a raging storm which eventually sank the Andrea Gail.

The Hannah Boden remains in active service to this day and it was a tag from one of her lobster pots that was discovered on Fanore beach by beachcomber Liam McNamara last Tuesday.

Liam made contact with a crew member from the Hannah Boden who confirmed that…

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An Evening Poem


That Granted Slumber

choked cold breath settles
sharp implosion in dry dust
barking at a bruised soft belly
strangling the inner compass
directions lose perspective
grey flannel lids blink weakly
muting the former brightness

blinded a flame of oily dark drops
slip within to stop the loud beating
birthed to dam the crimson stream tight
to block that constant lightning vessel
electric messages green and yellow
bumping a slap at the pinball stuck
a dirty beggar playing coins to tilt

shot when losses mask the wins
in deafness lies cool silent relief
or mirrors that only smoke
rising to expose their fall
as animation ceases into
that granted slumber, or
the final lie bought

Neil Slevin, My Ball


It was Uncle Ronnie whose kick sent it into the Donegal sea. But I’m not sure he was even there.

I watched my ball land in the water, drift away from me. The spring current sucking it into the horizon. Bobbing there, it treaded water like a forlorn swimmer before it sank beneath the waves.

My ball’s flight had been so brilliant and so beautiful. Its landing and what followed knifed me.

I was sure I’d never see it again.


We left the seaside, me without my ball. And I didn’t play during that time. Aged 5, I just knew I had lost something.

Ronnie was the one who had played football, who had always played. I was the one who kicked and chased, always hoping for a soft landing.

The one who always got caught in the hedge, the brambles, the drain, hoping his ball wouldn’t fall too…

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