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Mike Crowley



Wild Thoughts trapped in verse


A book to remember



Price: €15.00








About the Book:


This little volume is a labyrinth of thoughts, reflections, fantasies, madness.  Ever present is the author’s devilish companionship with the Muses.  Thoughts, fly around like satellites speeding through space, are harnessed to complete the jigsaw puzzle.  Chaos becomes woven into verse.






About the Author:


Mike Crowley was born in Cork City, he lived most of his life abroad, and now lives in Frankfurt.  Writing fiction he finds is an ideal form of brain jogging.  While scribbling poetry ensures him a devilish companionship with the Muses.  “and I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me…”  (Lord Tennyson)




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Sample Excerpt:






At Dead of Night


I woke up in a foreign land

at dead of night precise,

the time of night when ghosts

they say come out to take the air.

I tiptoed to the window and

looked out on a lawn and

there I saw no ghosts at all,

but strange shadows moving about.

So I returned to my bed and

fell asleep again.


The sun was high when I awoke

long past the dawn of day.

The clock told me time to get up,

so I instantly obeyed.

I looked out of my window and

there to my surprise, no lawn,

no ghosts, no shadows but

people, cars and bikes.


Strange fantasies our dreams

concoct when

we sleep at dead of night.














Autumn (sonnet)


The harvest in, the fields around lie bare,

the days get shorter, the nights get long,

the leafless trees stand naked in the air,

and birds it seems have lost their song.

the shepherd o’er the stubble fields now leads,

high in the sky the birds of passage fly,

with staff and dogs his woolly flock precedes,

all southwards bound their sustenance to ply,

and mother nature day by day grows old,

in shady nooks we greet the fading sun,

days and nights now steadily grow cold,

the hunter prowls about with dog and gun.

while Bacchus helpers tarry at the vines,

let’s sing in praise of autumn’s god of wine.