LGBTQStories
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The hum of lines
I wrote a poem this week called The Hum of Lines. It is not a bright poem. It sits in the quiet room. It listens to the machine. It hears the slow, steady movement of blood through borrowed pathways. Dialysis has a soundscape. The hum of the pump. The soft alarms. The rhythm that is… Continue reading
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A Quiet House, A Returning Train
Today I found myself writing two small Common Metre poems—companions to one another. Andrew was in Dublin for a course, and the house felt different in his absence. Not lonely exactly. Just altered. Softer around the edges. The Sunday light lay still. The cats took up their posts. The kettle hummed. Pancakes became a small,… Continue reading
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A Thaw is Coming: More from the Icicle Lounge this Spring
A Word from North ‘The wind was after rising something fierce that evening, howling across the valley like a creature that had lost its way. I stood by the hearth, watching the sparks fly up the chimney, and I thought to myself: No one should be out in that. I looked at the others—Frost with… Continue reading
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The Icicle Lounge: Come in from the cold
Inspired by the Birth of The Icicle Lounge, a series of short stories is now taking shape. While each piece stands on its own, they are quietly connected by the Lounge itself — a shared setting where different lives unfold. I hope you enjoy this second story. The Icicle Lounge was not supposed to exist in… Continue reading
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The Icicle Lounge: The Night the Hand was Offered
Inspired by the Birth of The Icicle Lounge, a series of short stories is now taking shape. While each piece stands on its own, they are quietly connected by the Lounge itself — a shared setting where different lives unfold. I hope you enjoy this first story. The newcomer had walked past the frosted windows… Continue reading
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The rainbow on my wrist.
From Monasterevin’s quiet stopThe morning train rolls west;Past cattle grazing by the line,And rooks that guard each nest.We cross the Barrow’s silver span,The viaduct below;A hare breaks cover in the reedsAnd watches as we go.In Port Laoise-bound and drifting thoughtsI catch a sudden grin—A stranger nods as though they knowSome secret held within.In town, the… Continue reading
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Andrew, this is you.
Some love stories are written in grand gestures. Ours has been written in endurance. This Valentine’s Day, I honour fifteen years of partnership with Andrew—and ten years of civil marriage later this year—not because the dates fall now, but because love that has lived this much deserves to be named whenever the heart nudges. Our… Continue reading
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