I have always enjoyed writing, but coping with dyslexia has
made this difficult.
What dyslexia has meant to
This was something that I did not discover until I was 27 years of age.
I wrote a letter to a new friend with little confidence as I had always
found words hard in any form especially the written word [the
dictionary was referred to constantly not always much help if you
cannot spell the word in the first place] he phoned me and before the
end of our conversation he quietly slipped in the phrase you know you
do very well considering your dyslexia.
This explained a lot to me as even with all the extra effort at school
with teachers’ help [Miss Jones tried very hard but to no avail] I
never seemed to get any better at reading or writing. Many a time I
have hidden my glasses as not be laughed at in class for getting
stumped on the easiest of words [ having the black board rubber thrown
at me on occasions by Mr Burton] English was a nightmare all the career
hopes thwarted as the only thing I was remotely interested in was to be
a journalist ! other than singing that is but one is told to be
realistic about what can be achieved and earning a wage and paying your
way as soon as you can was all that mattered back then.
I have always loved writing. Poetry has been almost a life long hobby
or maybe need as to try to keep a grip on life in general when I was a
teenager. When I married my husband I binned all the writing of those
early years as starting a new life with him was all that I wanted and
to be quite honest most of it was not worth keeping. One day I hope to
find the time to transfer hand written scribbled poetry [hardly
readable even by me] to the computer. My interest now has moved to
writing my own songs as I love to sing and this was the only thing I
remember being good at whilst growing up.
In my mid thirties I decided that I was not going
to be beaten by dyslexia’ and after seeing the film “Dorian Grey” I got
the book out of the Library a 1940 or so edition very complicated text.
It took me over a year to get through it not turning the page until I
truly understood what I had read.
The computer has transformed my ability with words what with spell
check also it certainly seems to be true as I have seen on the
television the brain recognises the whole word even when the letters
are misplaced [I had no trouble at all with understanding the sentence
in a flash!] seeing the words in the typed form for me appears to
prompt my capacity to often being able correct the mistakes without the
use of spell check.
The memory of seeing “The actress Susan
Hampshire” at the Ideal Home Exhibition many years ago talking about
dyslexia and what it had meant to her [at that time not knowing that
this was my problem with words] Gave me hope to keep trying to achieve
the seemingly simple task for so many of reading and writing when in my
thirties I finally found the concentration it needed.
The most important thing I have discovered was to slow my thinking
down, not easy this is something that I am constantly being reminded
about by my husband.
Speech has also been quite a problem at times, having to write a
message down in case you get the dreaded answer-phone and pronouncing
words sort of backwards is the only way I can describe it plus getting
the spoken words in the wrong order! On many occasions I have avoided
conversation as not to embarrass myself but it still happens from time
to time, the an eyebrow raises before you [ Oh no not again you say to
Writing is still a challenge and I know mistakes
slip through on occasions but that’s just something I have to live
Lost At Sea
Written September 2009 final edit March 2014
Lost at sea in a crowd
All sound no words
Yet peace strangely is
Amid the cacophony of
In a melee of chat
On this and that
Thoughts of years gone
Fill the memory
Yet no sigh,
Too many reasons why
Where do the years go?
They just slip by.
As I wander and wonder
Have I just tagged
Or have I lived my life
A loving wife.
Final edit March
box sits soaking in the rain
friendly, cardboard, soggy chicken stuffing.
Two euro fifty
and the purchaser so thrifty, saving the effort of disposing
friendly just one of many!
daily routine not seen, as the electric windows glides up and down.
Not hardly a
sound as it hits the ground.
February cold frosty morning winter sun just up, dawning.
Road Listowel, carvery dinner tin foil, crinkled.
the early morning sun , another one.
Spoiler, Rubbishing person, on their way home.
The working day
done, remaining faceless unknown, perhaps it's the same face
over the years, they'll not be caught, no fear!
in various states of decay, line the verges hanging in bushes and
along the way in the turbulent breeze.
paper, all that is left of a dozen or more smokers packets thrown.
either coming from or going home.
spent the night before, can't take them home, that's for sure!
sit resting empty the cost of someone's “high”
cooker hob half covered in the yellowing grass, fell off the trailer,
planted, dotted here and there curtailing the views that once
load already lightened arrives at the land fill.
The sun bed
frame, the shuttering for a ramp, fridges freezers and a mattress or two
the old bog road, no conscience of the awful sight.
unwanted clothes, carpets and chairs, lampshades and a tray of rotting
has to go somewhere.
As far as
the eye could see.Now hides the
unwanted clutter, from faceless individuals
From all walks of life.Used
pampers, workman's gloves, sliced bread still wrapped,
The van driver
that once a week on Friday afternoon wherever he happens to be,
his rubbish along the lane, for all to see, no shame!
Written July 2014
I am an old dog, that I know, but for my
morning walk I am ready to go
I know that I am getting very slow and I huff and puff, every step an
Please put on my lead, don’t leave without me, it’s the best part of my
The walks are getting shorter though the time walking remains the same
Sniffing all the scented trails left by whatever, the fox, the badger,
the rabbit and the rat, and of course the smell of the old tomcat
I have walked this lane for so many years, I feel this morning's summer
and listen to the birds flying high and singing in the trees
I see the goat on the tether there, looking at me with that curious
The warmth of the sun makes me hot and I pant, we stop for a while
standing still, when we turn around to go home that is up to me, you see
The question is asked and I look into the distance nose in the air
A little further along the way for me today, not ready for home just now
It won’t be long though, as my bones are telling me, the lump on my
I eat well and I sleep well, almost all day, and then I grab a teddy
I might be old but I am not giving up, I have to fight on for my master
He needs me to give him strength for his day, we “soldier” on
The question is asked, we turn and face home, my eyes say “enough
Written June 2000.
Such is mind games, why the words spoken
Only to be denied.
Why the lie, Why the deceit?
This is the question asked
Protection of one’s own interest
Jealous evil desire,
The truth may never be known.
But now a friendship lost forever.
No more will trust be there.
Lost in the midst of the morning dawn
Friendship such a fragile thing,
Acquaintances from now on
Imagination not the cause,
I still see the mouth move
Saying those words apparently
I never heard.
The mould on the bathroom wall you seem to say
Encroaching on the plaster concealing the pink as if the flesh.
As a face appears in the green it lingers in my
I remember all the premonitions, wondering
Perhaps it’s all superstition.
Not knowing, as the green makes me look deep
inside myself, my life, my thoughts and me in a state of deep dark
Oh where did the pretty face go?
with age it slipped away.
A beautiful rose one year and now
like a faded lily.
Two years have passed since she smiled
With innocence hiding,
now she smiles with innocence gone,
Her smiles of knowing hiding.
Pink Exercise Book.
I looked inside you again today remembering the writing
when it was done.
The list of photographs taken on our first touring around Irelands
romantic costal shores.
Twenty leaves of Club some pages filled when sitting in a bar
In a place named Crossmalina.
The drawing of the stil and the stories of the Poctine form a memory
Of Paddy Moran.
A soft spoken and very friendly retired man who was looking for a
Saxophone c melody.
We looked but never found one and never went that way again in my mind
I can still see him sitting there.
Boscastle Fair [ magic Moments ] written 4
And 400 hundred years on I leant against the
white washed walls,
I saw pirates with their sea burn ruddy complexions,
Watch the dancing.
Tankards in hand bragging of their latest escapades,
Spoils of ventures being sold, drinking and the maids.
Slowly the vision slipped gently away and
wondering, I ask
What was it really like in those bygone day’s that have passed.
The ageing walls soaked up the vibrant
Kindling the echoing memories of those forgotten years.
The sun shone down in all her glory so warm and
Enhancing all the merriment, children playing and dancing such delight.
The landlord filled the flowing bowls and many
times they ran over,
As people in their joyful state swayed to and fro far from sober.
Clapping hands humming stamping feet and
dancing in enthusiasm.
The fiddles and flutes did flutter and flirt in wonderful unison,
As the concertinas and accordions embraced the
melodies with care.
Of reels and jigs waltz and tango’s too, all did share.
With guitars some soft and gentle finger
picking, others in bold rhythm.
As whistles and bodhrans and spoons and all joined in the anthem.
Babe in arms kicked her feet to the beat
bouncing back, from off the
Such are magic moments beyond ones wildest dreams.
Then like a shadow oozing from the wall “old
pop” did take the floor,
And the Archers and the Steptoes came to call, how he made us roar.
He played his mouth organ and told us tales
too, the icing on the cake.
And Napoleon himself would have enjoyed to stand in his namesake.
The Unanswerable Question.
Written Early eighties.
The moment after that final breath has lingered,
Slowly withdrawing leaving ones’ mortal flesh and blood.
Gone forever so quickly
And yet here to stay.
In the memories and thoughts,
Of those whom we have known.
Man and beast alike,
So many things paralleled
But only two are present now,
We are all born to die
And there must be a reason but why?
Perhaps we are all part of an experiment,
In some far off super intelligence’s plan.
We call God Ala or Buddha
The creator the giver
But also the taker.
If the secret of Life’s purpose is ever known,
Then it can only be on approaching death.
That time of the final breath.
If there is a place where our souls live on,
Or is eternal life the remembrance of us in others,
And we are no more, forever gone.
Thoughts of Love
Gentle loving calm,
Like warm winds on a summers day
And yet racing
Like the tide running out to sea.
Miles between us
Like the earth and the sun
And yet touching.
Dusk and Dawn written 1979
As the darkness starts to mask the day
Shadows fall the fade
Now only shade.
The crisp edge of the November morn
Sun searing through a pin hole dawn
Another day has been spawned.
Betwixt Night and Day
Still soft quiet morn
The earth doth stretch and yawn
As whispering winds caress
Momentarily time is suppressed.
And the silver morning dew
Glistens on the flora and fauna new
Towering tranquil trees
Address the birds amidst their leaves.
Cock pheasant makes chase, decoy
To outwit mans ploy
Cunning no snare triggered
Fox has not lingered.
Perched a statue not of stone
Watchful buzzard alone
Eyes of hunting intent
His sense of purpose ever-present
Clouds of rising steam
Percolating from the hedgerows green
Rising morning golden sun
The garter of dawn undone.
Passion burning boiling
Brewing rampant breath,
Fingers on thigh
Sending rivers of shivers
Excitement of youth
Deceives the truth
Pure animal attraction
Drives you to distraction
You know the answer
would not be no.
Now knowing eyes smile
Close to heart
Secret all the while,
Never letting out
Giving no home to doubt
As all together friends