Article, Music, Poetry


On-going debate about the distraction of social media and television has much merit. But, it is our weakness if such takes too much of our time up. I wonder, having watched a favourite programme, will we ever glow from the satisfaction of having ourselves created something of enduring pleasure.

I spend too much time on Facebook; I enjoy the cut and thrust of social activity that crosses the world’s frontiers.

However, I must admit to being torn as to how I spend my leisure time. Like many others I have been given a gift; mine is creative writing, which I enjoy immensely.

A Latvian friend would spend hour after happy hour crocheting the most beautiful garments. I know of at least one church where her work performs its task as a sacred altar cloth. Her crocheting provides lasting pleasure and earns her high praise.

Many people hide their gifts as if they are ashamed or perhaps consider it vain to mention them. My profession meant my making home visits. Often, my attention would be caught by a photograph or artwork, a figurine or an item of clothing.

My expression asked the questions. Often, the shy reply would be, “it’s one of mine.”

I recall a 2 x 1 metre bevelled mirror that depicted an etched image of the RMS Titanic lunging out of the Atlantic as it collided with the iceberg. The etching was so breath-taking in its drama and beauty that I never forgot it. Yet, it was the work of a young glass engraver.

An acquaintance created an exact replica from sculptor’s clay of the church one was married in. I met a lady who applied her skills by turning enamelled dolls into imitations of one’s daughter. A young pianist composed her own melodies.

A was awestruck by personally created wedding dresses, hand-crafted furniture, carved figurines, paintings, photographic art, and replicas of everything from model ships to busts. Without question, each artefact was up to art gallery or museum standard. However, those with the greatest gifts tend to be the most quietly spoken.

Impressed by the skills and patience of their creators I was even more impressed by their creators’ blasé response to praise.

I am sorry I never pursued the idea. It occurred to me that if I were to book a local hall there would be an opportunity to showcase works of art created by the town’s most gifted citizens. I am sure the hall’s booking fee would be modest. Imagine the thrill of sharing one’s gifts with those you rub shoulders with every day.

Article, Music, Poetry


He took the book down from its shelf,
The page was one-o-three,
The barrel organ in the street,
Its air was ‘What’s to be?’
The poet turned a page or two,
His eye fell on the scene,
Such mourning brought the land to grieve,
The cortège brought their Queen.
The poet turned another leaf,
He wept at what he saw;
The page was 1914,
And the story told of war.
Europe’s youth like wheat they fell,
Scythed and reaped for what,
That blood be turned to rich man’s gold,
And I’ll forget-them-not.
The poet thought to close the book,
He trembled then he sighed,
Perhaps he knew that times had changed,
That truth had also died.
Sad the bard resumed to read,
Where now his world would go;
He turned the page but knew at heart,
He’d see more tears flow.
The poet turned to time and place,
The barrel organ played,
Again the air, ‘What is to be?’
And once more mothers prayed;
The sheep are shorn, the wolves set free,
How soon the bullet flies,
Boys will sleep in homes of clay,
They’re buried under lies.

Michael Walsh Poetry


Article, Poetry

It Was Christmas Eve in the Casa

Without inspiration, there can be no communication. Every line we read be it a news report, biography or poem, is inspired by someone or something. Such was my inspiration when from my rooftop garden situated on the highest home in Mijas Pueblo I watched a sunset to die for. Yes, it was indeed Christmas Eve 2011. Inspired, I then scrawled my thoughts down.



It was Christmas Eve in the casa,

On that charming Spanish hill;

And high in the star-filled dome above,

Was mirrored an earth so still.


It slept through the noise and tinsel,

For it cared not when nor why,

That man will fight among themselves,

And some are prepared to die.


The chapel bells were tolling,

They talked from vale to vale,

High up in my hillside casa,

I felt that God prevailed.


A melody of eventide,

Each tower sang its song,

In Andalucía hillsides,

I was where I belonged.


In vales below the twinkle lights,

A bed of stars it seemed,

I felt as one with God above,

I dreamed, I dreamed, I dreamed.


Let others do their worship,

At altars of their choice;

But let me be where I would be,

Where God will have His voice.


The chapel bells are singing;

His hills are filled with hope;

From eventide, be by my side –

My small heart filled with hope.


Happy Christmas from Michael Walsh


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Everyone has a book inside them and sadly this is where it usually stays. As Richard Bach says, ‘a professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.’

Writing a book is a challenge but by way of letters and emails, most people have already written enough to complete several paperbacks.

As with learning any new skill, there’s a formula for success. Using the advice given or learned I added my name to over 40 book titles and I have ghosted as many more. Your typing finger is simply a spare tongue so let your finger do the talking.

Most wannabe authors are deterred by their inability to write to retail standards. But, poor writing never discouraged successful authors like Jeffrey Archer or Stephen King. Their storyline inspirations are simply handed to a ghostwriter who writes their book.

Most books are brought to publishing standards by a ghost-writer rather than the person named on the book’s cover. Many well-known authors lend their names to the works of lesser-known authors. These include Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, and Clive Cussler.

Clancy’s publishers say: “Tom Clancy creates the ideas for these series and the writers execute Clancy’s ideas. All are subject to his supervision.”

It helps if the writer has experience of the subject. It is not unknown for hoteliers, social workers, those employed in the sex industry, policemen and entertainers to make more money selling their life story than living it.

Biographies don’t sell but romance and erotica; dubbed mummy porn clears the shelves. The soft porn market generates $1.44 billion each year; most buyers are women. Hot on the heels of erotica are crime novels but with sales at $728 million crime is unlikely to close the thigh gap.

Mills and Boon shrugged off its maiden aunt image by adding Cherish and Dare Romance books which are much more sexually explicit. These are described by the publishers as erotically charged and irresistibly passionate.

Size is important: The word count for romantic novels is 50,000 whilst the average paperback is likely to consist of 70 to 80k words. A sticking point for many new authors is an embarrassment but if a pen name is used who knows?

Will you make the Rich List? It’s a lottery but ‘if you’re not in you can’t win’. Certainly, being a published author is financially viable; a 10-day cruise would cost more than the ghost-writing and publishing fees but royalties recover some or all of one’s outlay. These tend to be 10 to 15 per cent of the cover price, which is paid direct into one’s bank account.



Michael Walsh Reads Some of His Favorite Poems

You can listen to the audio as you read along.


Hello, wherever you are. I am the Irish poet, Michael Walsh. I was 26-years old when I first discovered that my mother was right; I have a gift for composing heartfelt poetry. That was a long time ago; in fact, it was nearly 600 poems ago, which is a long time.

I composed poetry as self-indulgence, just as a painter or sculptor may paint or create for their own pleasure. With the passage of time, I realized that others wanted to read my poetry. Mainstream publishers are disinterested in poetry so I self-published. How pleasing that despite being advised by the Writer’s and Artist’s Yearbook not to consider publishing more than 500 books, my print-run of 3,000 copies of two collections sold out in weeks in just the city of Liverpool alone. I supposed that in the year 2000 I was likely Britain’s most popular poet. It was very gratifying.

I don’t have a favorite but I do have favored poems. These very much include Ma Vourneen, which is Gaelic for, ‘My Darling’, ‘The Girl I met in May’ and ‘Where the Skylarks Sing’.



When time and distance separate us,
Then you will find the spirit of our togetherness,
In a glass of wine.
My darling; Make it a long stemmed glass,
To remind you that even the minute apart is the longest one.

Fill it to its very brim to symbolize,
The fullness that you bring to my heart;
Sip it gently, and often, that you may know,
That each slight touch or glance is a kiss from you.
And most of all; let its spirit warm you as yours has warmed me.
Raise the glass and salute both the past and the future that link us;
But most of all, toast the emptiness that lies between,
Without which there could be no anticipation.
And if the spirit of the glass brings,
Warmth, peace and joy to the inner you,
Then you will understand what you have brought to me.

Let the shimmer of the wine’s sparkle on your lips,
Hint at desire;
The coolness of the chilled bottle the long ago.
The chuckle of its pour, the future.
But most of all may it, as it becomes part of you,
Remind you that you are a part of me.



The gladness of my heart is wakened,
By the speckled cream of wavelets,
Wash to gold the sands of morning,
By the colours of the day;
Rolling up the tide-washed bay,
Blending with the distant corn;
How the forests rise in splendour
Paying homage to the dawn.

The gladness of my heart is wakened,
Willow poise her grace had beauty,
Wash to gold my heart of mourning,
By the girl I met in May;
In her lime green décolleté.
For a past so far away;
Colours of the spring will waken,
To the girl I met in May.



The summer air so balmy brought the fleet of clouds to rest,
They drifted aimless; some were caught upon the mountain crest.
The maid was plucking flowers though her shoulder turned aside,
To hide the blush upon her cheek, perhaps a flush of pride.

That I should speak of poetry and sonnets for her heart,
Create a word-spun spider web that brings romance to art.
So while she stepped through flowers she beguiled and won my soul;
I chased until she caught me and to both of us our goal.

She sat her chin within her hands and smiled a thought unknown;
I closed my eyes and dreamed that she might one day be my own.
We felt the heather in the air and heard the skylark sing,
The curlew’s call to higher realm where seagulls rest the wing.

And in her hands the harvest of the pastures summer filled,
Across the vale, the dingle, dale; where all the flowers spilled.
To ripple, dance to summer’s tune, the ocean’s breathing sigh;
Where skylarks sing and flowers grow and maiden lovers lie.


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Immortal Beloved: Sublime Poetry for Romantic Souls

Each year, Michael Walsh, the people’s poet, receives thousands of tributes from romantics and he has thousands of social media admirers.  You feel as though Michael through her verse embraces you. When you finally place your book down on the bedside table you glow from the effect of his sentiments being in perfect harmony with yours.

Purchase on Amazon

Thousands of people, not usually inclined towards poetry, are now firm Michael Walsh followers. Michael has a gift for expressing the whimsical thoughts, romantic leanings and experiences of ordinary people. So often he hears the words; “this is my experience but I could never express myself as eloquently and with such feeling as you can.”

Perhaps his greatest success is that like music, Michael’s poetry crosses frontiers and brings peoples together.  His poetry is the language of the human soul, its yearning for peace, love, hope, charity, and romance.

Over the decades, tributes to his gifts as a poet poured in from every class, rich and poor, regardless of ethnicity. “You articulate my sentiments perfectly,” is an expression he hears often.  You, or those you gift your Michael Walsh book to, will cherish Michael’s verse forever. He will be your constant bedside or fireside companion.

Immortal Beloved: Sublime Poetry for Romantic Souls by Michael Walsh.

“For me, how you see yourself is irrelevant. All that matters is how I see you. As Aphrodite you were, as Aphrodite you are.” ~ Michael Walsh.