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Geraldine Walsh  (email)


About the Poet:

Geraldine Walsh is from Dublin in Ireland, where she still lives and believes she'll never leave. She writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry during the quiet times in the medical library where she works. When she's not working she rigorously edits the poetry or stories she wrote when she was supposed to be working.




Cold castle shadows


Stretch over the strength of the candle standing on the mantelpiece,

Falling assiduously to drop low, to hide beneath the dark.


Shadows blending together whispering their tale of torture undone,

Knowing the story is hidden beneath, feeling the inclination of


Cold castle shadows.


They are scared, isolated in dark, as they are those feared,

As we shield our eyes from shadows, burning brightly in dark dungeons,


They try to catch our lighted match, to feel the heat and see the light

To tell their tale of torture undone and whisper to us the life of


Cold castle shadows.





Ignore the ache that has malformed you

and relish once again your child of inner wealth.

Forget this pain before it burns your health

and deliver your soul to the spirit of the new.

I cancelled any recognition that I saw

and prayed to God that I would be over,

the person he gave to the world of worlds

and dance once more in this state so raw,

to be so fragile against the winds on Dover,

but today it is the wolf, not God, who snarls.


I have never lived in a romantic hollow

but have dreamt continuously of its humble abode.

It is not a place that one would come to loathe

nor is it a place where one could fall so low.

I saw them clamour for this resting land.

Yet quicker than an eye can see ahead,

they lay against this resting place alone.

My vision had deceived what lay before my hand,

for what I thought could breathe had always been dead.

But this reflection was merely a poem,


of sorts, that stirred ideas within our mind.

Ideas we conjured into being but listened

to the words of wisdom that glistened

on the page where one would always find

their own meandering thoughts of gold.

And even if you disagree with all that I've said,

perhaps a piano piece could contemplate this also,

without any contradictions or mould

played by my part. But no longer will I shed

my scrutiny on this audience, who should know


that even if the world should fall today

the simple things in life should reign through

beyond tomorrow. It is this childlike view,

to turn around their state of courtesy,

that will attempt to seal the cry of

the swords, there at the battle of evermore

and ease the burden of our times of justice.

Yet to hear the distinct cries of war and those of

life, is to verify the greater values of diversity to soar

and shrivel away this gravestone of bitterness.





This old woman sagged before her time.


Her eyes became old and tired

Before her life was rented and hired.


She knew of little but thought of much,

Of sex and God and life and such.


But this old woman, young at heart,

Wondered when if ever life would start.


She counted chimes, too young to die,

She waited and watched for life to come by.


Waited and watched, waited and watched,

But this old woman, life never touched.





I lie beside your sleeping body,

My eyes adjust to the darkness of our room,

I watch you suck new air

Deep into your lungs,

Your eyes closed tightly

Shutting all waking life out,


Shutting me out,

I think your dreaming

Your eyes rapidly move beneath the heavy lids

I hope you dream of me,

Your chest pushing up and out

With every heavy slumber induced breath


Begging me to run my fingers along you,

Too hot for sheets tonight

Your naked body teasing me

Needing to feel the heat rise from you

As you sleep, unknown, I watch.

Your body lies heavily, almost


Touching my side of the bed,

Almost wanting me.