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About the Book:
Journeys is a collection of short stories, poetry and memoirs from a diverse group of writers from all over the midlands. It is a tribute to the journeys the members have been on in their writing and personal lives since the groups formation.
About the authors:
Wordsmiths Tullamore is a creative writing group formed in 2017.
It is made up of wonderfully diverse selection of writers in different genres from all over the midlands.
Parcel from America By William Burns
Like a Rhode Island Red rooster, the postman crows,
“Half of Fort Knox’s gold is here, Missus.”
We rush to the table with kitchen knives
slashing shaggy twine like trainee butchers.
Mind the stamps.
Wax-sealed knots pop up and across
‘til the parcel mushrooms out in crimplene clouds
the air filling with summer clothes-line smells.
These shirts must be from Hawaii Five-O!
“I’ll dye-out these mad colours,” says my mother
“Couldn’t go to mass in them.”
All you’d hear is Book ‘em, Danno.
“Won’t wear that dress, the length of it” says my sister
“Shush, I’ll shorten it up, not too much,” says my mother
“You’re not going on Top of the Pops, are you?”
“A cowboy book for you, a mhic.”
Riders of the Purple Sage!
“Zane Who, never heard of him,
but with a horse like that there’d be no stopping of you.”
“I gave some to Mrs. Burke the last time,” says my mother,
“She found opening them a pure nuisance, ‘til I told her.”
“Can’t beat Barry’s loose tea.”
Diaries and fancy pens, yeah!
“Locked diaries,” says my mother
“Nobody will know what’s in there, ‘cept yourselves,
not a bad thing at all.”
Is Connecticut much different than here?
“I’ll read a bit of the cousins’ letter,” says my mother —
ah clock and time, clock and time,
the job, the job, the job,
a good bit of loneliness, but good chances too —
“The ups and downs of life are everywhere,” says my mother
“And no, you’ll not have that Blackjack gum
‘til after breakfast.”
The View (Ode to Croghan Hill) By Sophie Loren Clarke
I shall die happy knowing you
are the last thing I see
Across the five hundred year
wall full of our story
A history of our families
bottoms imprinted on it
The road once dirt, is tarmacadam’d
And filled with pot holes. Still,
I can hear Mr Flynn’s creaky wooden cart
And Alfred’s steady clip clop
Waiting for the sun to drop behind him
The boggy land, swells and
Falls like the Coast Dwellers sea
Houses scattered like ships in the distance
The low sky grey/blue. No,
teal and steely blue
Interrupted with long soft pillows
Trimmed with silver ribbons of pending rain
It is four o’clock for Mr Flanagan goes by
The rhythmic song of his barrow wheels
Sharpen as he descends and nears.
Its cacophony of shrill squeaks and
Duffs of the exhausted flattening tyre peters-out
Into the distance as he disappears over
The green patchwork hills
The white sun dims as it heads west
Its day’s work nearly over
A Polaroid blanket of pink, purple and golden amber
Develops into dark ruby ink, and velvet jet.
The endless walls, cropped land and shadows
become a handmade quilt of darkness.
They think that I cry for the embrace of a love
I never had, or felt. But they never knew, how
I love you.
This view. My view.