Author Archives: Bill Fitzsimons

She is gone. No longer will her sleepy smile greet me in the morning, her warm arms embrace me. She is gone, yet her aura lingers in the night breeze from an open window; a soft whisper in my ear, … Continue reading →

I look in the mirror and what do I see? The image of an aging chimpanzee. Black-button eyes and grizzled face, a simian angel fallen from grace. My body hair is fading fast (how much longer can it last?) My … Continue reading →

…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 mind, the hungry imagination. … Continue reading →

Away with the mental acrobatics of Modernism – post or otherwise – and all such elitist dross. Clarity is what I crave, along with the beauty of the singing line. I do not read poetry to be puzzled: give me … Continue reading →

In the mind’s geography, there are no maps to guide you, no star to steer you home. No one has been there before you and there are no signposts. You are your own cartographer in this uncharted terrain. It is … Continue reading →

Let those who are in favour with their stars set out upon a journey round the moon; cast aside restraint, break through the bars of brittle caution. Life must end too soon and choices disappear like Autumn mist. So gird … Continue reading →

guilty as charged – kissing the gunner’s daughter without priming her the gunner’s daughter matched me salvo for salvo till our rounds were spent combined fire-power ensured this was more than just a shot in the dark! Bill Fitzsimons

Blowing in the wind, but there are no answers here: here, where the birds are silent and the forest keeps its secrets. A young woman’s body turning gently in a winter breeze; the creaking branch from which she hangs; the … Continue reading →

For days the ocean has unleashed its ire, a frenzy born of elemental spite – winds have raged that will not cease or tire till all’s consumed in endless, blackest night. The waves break fiercely on the rocks, and spray … Continue reading →

Child bending over flowers: a perfect picture of Pre-Lapsarian innocence; the product of a painter’s palette and a yearning for the simplicities of life before the long fall from grace. Oh, child—you do not know, nor should you, that you, … Continue reading →