On my travels I’ve met many people, millionaires and bankrupts, junkies and dealers, the confusingly normal and the awe inspiringly odd. And all along, the one resounding trait, the one uniting human factor amongst them all? They didn’t write bloody poetry…

We’re not the icebergs we want to be
We’re cliffs in denial
Seen by all but ourselves
Ready to break
And only as hard as we are fragile


There’s a reason why I don’t tend to write poetry but like drinking, smoking, leaving bills unread, forgetting to take the bins out, eating shitey food and never excercising I just can’t help myself no matter how bad the outcome.

The cracks are the wall
the bricks aren’t.
Prison or castle the weather aged joints are what we mould to.
Then when it falls the pattern stays
and so do we.

I shot a man yesterday…

I rarely like poetry. Too much of it, even among the pieces held up as worthy by those supposedly in the know, is far too self indulgent. Writing might have therapeutic side effects, but it still isn’t therapy. Anyway, here’s one of the exceptions…

I shot a man yesterday
And much to my surprise,
The strangest thing happened to me
I began to cry.

He was so young, so very young
And Fear was in his eyes,
He had left his home in Germany
And came to Holland to die.

And what about his Family
were they not praying for him?
Thank God they couldn’t see their son
And the man that had murdered him.

I knelt beside him
And held his hand–
I begged his forgiveness
Did he understand?

It was the War
And he was the enemy
If I hadn’t shot him
He would have shot me.

I saw he was dying
And I called him “Brother”
But he gasped out one word
And that word was “Mother.”
I shot a man yesterday
And much to surprise
A part of me died with Him
When Death came to close
His eyes.

By James Lenihan