Author Archives: Bill Fitzsimons

I sometimes walk at sunset through the long woods up beyond my house where the mournful owl swoops among the darkening trees. I pause and listen to the rustle and scurry of unseen feet, the various mutterings of the forest. … Continue reading →

With passion and with bardic fire you shaped a golden past; weaving from the threads of Time ancient stories, ancient rhyme, you massaged the nation’s ego with visions which would last. Yeats, your poet’s words awoke the slumbering nation’s heart: … Continue reading →

There’s no accounting for taste, as the man said when he kissed the cow, was a favourite saying of my mother. I counted it highly among my many memories of childhood. But there’s no accounting for my mother’s quirky sayings. … Continue reading →

Someday I will go on a journey to the mythical isle of Ithaca, across Homer’s wine-dark sea. I will be seduced by the singing of the Sirens, sailing close to the rocks and finding the key to the realm of … Continue reading →

“A PASSAGE TO INDIA…” …or some other far-flung destination is what my disillusioned spirit craves. To escape the humdrum of the quotidian, the stress of everyday monotony is, I believe, the duty – nay, the imperative – of the questing … Continue reading →

Tonight, she weeps in sorrow for all her lost dead boys; all those who blindly follow and believe their leader’s lies. She’s the universal mother and she’s black or white or brown; but her sorrow knows no colour when she … Continue reading →

Young, fresh-faced and Swedish, she is the undisputed heavy-weight in the fight for the soul of this planet. A pint-sized activist, she began her giant-sized journey into the realm of green politics at the age of fifteen and has never … Continue reading →

Half-written on the sprawling page of Time, my epitaph’s a process underway. The pessimist would argue for decline and say that all is tainted with decay. Such people see the worst in all mankind; no chink of light, no joy—indeed, … Continue reading →

Although I try to write my love for you, the page, I fear, stays resolutely blank; no message from my muse is getting through, nor is it likely to, I must be frank. Yes, writer’s block has been with me … Continue reading →

In Ulster, once ruled by sword and might, the legacy of history burns less bright. Here, where bigotry long held sway and human hopes were mangled in the fray, a tiny spark of reason has ignited and kindled hope in … Continue reading →