Her piercing; searching eyes

Penetrate my mental fortress

Burning; prising open a hole

She sees straight through me

Right into the gaping depths

The outlines of my dusty soul

I avert my gaze from hers

So she won’t see the total mess

Inside. Until I regain control

For if she gets inside my mind

I will be forced to confess

That’s it. I’m done. I’m sold.

I’ll be hers completely

For a lifetime, more or less

My heart, she’s gone & stole













I Never Knew

I never knew what what Love was

Until the day that I met you

Cut open; excavated and lifted up

Out of your mother’s bloodied womb

Eyes wide open, sucking

your thumb, into the Theater room

Your curly hair, matted wet

With your amniotic cocoon

Not a cry out of you

It’d be safe to assume

That you had been around before

This place, it wasn’t new.

An old soul reincarnated

As a newborn baby whom

Was gifted to us

This love.

It grows deeper.

Every day

The more that you grow

The more that you play

With your fingers

And kick your feet

With a smile that lingers

And a look that keeps

Surprising & entertaining

Intriguing us too

How could we be complaining

When we’ve dreamed of you

Since conception

You’re everything we’ve hoped for

And more besides

Surpassing our expectations

With your inquisitive eyes

And your sensitive nature

Giggling at the ceiling

For no particular reason

Pushing yourself up

On your developing legs

Crying out for your bottle

Nearly holding it in your hands

Our Princess


We gladly submit to your commands

For this is your Kingdom

And we, your loyal subjects






Seven hundred and ninety-six

Barely born, young innocent souls

Never given a chance at life

Born out of wedlock,

Born out of luck

Considered nothing more than livestock

To be buried ‘neath sewerage; bricks & muck

By the cornerstone & bedrock

Of Ireland, the Catholic Church, stuck

Still in the dark ages

Who heaped shame upon unmarried mothers then

For “living in sin” as they say


‘Give up your baby

Pay your penance in the laundries’

Never told of their fate

Treated them as dirty whores

Social lepers;

Religious outcasts

Thrown out of the Kingdom


Malnourished; neglected

Emaciated & rejected

By the church and state

Complicit with them

Paying money to the run the institutions

Wash their hands

And clean the slate

Society complicit with them

By watching on;

Allowing it to happen

Indifferent to the massacre

Going on behind closed walls

Out of sight, out mind


Their voices now crying out

From beneath the grave

The echoes of which

Now reverberate loudly

Through the once locked up corridors

Of Ireland’s minds

Clearing the closets of all the skeletons

Lifting up the bulging dusty carpets

Under which years of dirty secrets lie


Written by Ken Hume

March 2017



The baby they yearned for

That new life for which they hoped

The expectation, the promise

Fragile; silent & cautious

For fear they won’t cope

With yet more disappointment

Heartbreak & despair

Another dream hanging by a rope

Fate’s random gallows

Executioner’s fickle whim

It doesn’t seem fair

Deciding our fate

Leaving us to grope

About in the darkness

Walking a tightrope

Of faded longing


Struggling to balance

Our barely contained grief

And tears. Absolute loss.

With our desire for contentment

For Motherhood.

The longing to be a father

Heightened by the loss of his own.

But we put on a brave face

Smile through the strain

For our family’s sake

We walk through the rain

We pick each other up

Dust off the shame

Our mutual love

Sustaining us

Steadying us

Through the pain

Bringing us closer,

Strengthening our bond.

We’ll always have each other

We’ll always walk

This tightrope of life





Easter Rising of My Heart

(Rebellion of Love)

On 29th April 1916,
After 6 days of ferocious fighting
Heavy losses; bloodied pavements
Battered ideals
Padraig Pearse agreed
To the unconditional surrender of arms
To the British Army.
They had made their statement
To the world.
Fiercely they had fought their fight,
Shed their blood
Then bravely laid down their lives
In the hope for a new; liberated Ireland.

100 years later
(Tired of waging constant war with myself
Of battling the darker side of me
Rebelling against the intimacy I craved
Keeping everybody at arm’s length
For fear of getting hurt)
On 29th of April, 2016, I Ken Hume
Agree to the unconditional surrender
Of my arms… my legs, my mind,
Heart, body and soul
To the ruler of my Island
President of my Republic
To the Queen of my Empire.
Anne-Marie Stones.

Royal, Unbowed
I will gladly bow to the knee to her.
My very own Countess Markievicz
Fiery; principled; headstrong
Courageous and compassionate
Willing to sacrifice herself
For the greater good of others
Willing to die for her beliefs
Willing to stand up
For the rights and liberties
Of those less fortunate than herself

This is the Easter Rising of my Heart
For this Easter Rising I will start
A Rebellion of Love
A Rebellion that will shove
Back all the foreign forces
That have invaded my soul
And sought to take control
A Rebellion
That will break down the walls
I’ve built around my heart

I will now gladly surrender
I will now gladly empty my guns
And lay down my arms
I will stop fighting
I will wave the white flag
And embrace the very thing
Of which I’ve lived in fear
The vulnerability of loving completely
And of being loved.

In the Easter Rising of my Heart,
I was shot.
Fatally wounded by her unconditional love
For me.
A bullet of undying affection forever lodged in my heart
A new; liberated me emerged from the rubble
Dead to self.
Alive to love.

This is the Easter Rising of my Heart
For this Easter Rising I will start
A Rebellion of Love.”

A Shadow Cast

“Are you John Hume’s son?”

They would inquire,
Once they had caught wind of my surname
“I am”
Came the immediate; proud reply.
“Nothing to do with his namesake John Hume up in the North by any chance”
They would pursue.
Both men of peace. Both much respected.

“I worked with your father when he was Hospital Administrator”
“I was in the Civil Defence with your dad”
“I used to work with him in the court house”
“Ah, I remember working with John in Kilroy’s”
“Didn’t he do the Mater Hospital Pools?”
“He was a good man. A kind man. Always had time for everybody.
Was an absolute gent. Always got things done. Always had a smile
On his face.”

“Who is this man?” I thought to myself
This man they call John Hume
The man with a plan
This man of whom they speak
With such fondness and high regard.
With veneration almost
As though he were a saint
To be revered.
A giant among men
Chosen to walk among us mere mortals
Without equal.
Yet treating everyone equally
Such high standards
Such lofty heights
Such charm and charisma.
I did not really know this man
Nor he me.
He was a stranger to me.
And I to him.
A mystery wrapped in an enigma.
Not a patch on him
Yet cut from his cloth
So something of him
Must have rubbed off on me

Yet he loved me unconditionally
Encouraged my talents
Embraced the path I chose to walk,
Even though it wasn’t pensionable
Nor secure
Walking the extra mile with us all
Bending over backwards to support
Always expressed his pride in me,
Via our mutual translator:
My mum. His wife.
He said to her
“I wish I had Ken’s way with words”
I said to her
“I wish I had my dad’s way with people”

You cast a large shadow over us all dad
Spreading far back into a time before I began
Before I was a twinkle in my mother’s eye
Comforting and warm as a thick blanket
Suffocating and inspiring in equal measure.
Your name carried so much substance
And character. Had a gravity to it
So loaded with expectation and history
That I sometimes stumbled under its weight
A weight that I’m only now learning to carry
And embrace.

A rich tapestry of experiences
Sewn together by the same name
By the same man. Bound
Together forever by
The same man’s sorrow
Which made one family, two.
One family’s loss
Became another families birth
Multiplying his legacy
And casting his shadow
Way beyond what he could
Have ever imagined.

Written by Ken Hume
Copyright of Ken Hume 2015

Social Networking Soap Opera

Another “private” family matter
Played out in public
On Facebook’s cluttered wall
A social-networking soap opera
With more drama in a day
Than a week of Eastenders
One couple’s nasty break-up
Someone else’s attention seeking bender
It’s an hourly episode
24 hours a day
Where you can watch people’s lives implode
While they strive to play
Out their laptop characters
For the Hollyoaks generation
Facebook pokes; procreation
Beginning & ending of
On a small screen scale
Binning & rending of
Where friendships
Are for sale
A pretty pose
A silly face
Take off your clothes
Happy disgrace
All to find & compose
A profile pic
A clever status
That folk will click
Like on
Maybe share
Comment on
Or just stare
At all your photos
Breathing ground for stalkers
Feeding ground for mockers
Saying whatever they want
Without regard for font
Proper spelling or punctuation
Selling their PlayStation
And losing their souls
While confusing their roles
Between real life
And imaginary
Inventing strife
With defamatory
Statements & comments
It’s all too common
Collecting friends
Like stamps
Rejecting friends
To revamp
Your social circle
Slag off
Angela Merkle
21st century definition
Of being ‘cool’
You need a revision
Get off your stool
Or the high-horse
That is Facebook
More like erase-book
Because you’re erasing
Your old self
And embracing
Your no-self
From a big fish
In a small pond
You got your wish
Your identity absconds
You’re now a small fish
Swallowed up by
The internet sharks
The twitter set smarks
Is it everything you hoped for
Is it what you eloped for?

Written by Ken Hume


Drifting off on some on some delirious; dreamy; distant breeze
Sifting through my thoughts as they taunt; tantalize and tease
Serenanaded by the sultry summer sun; swayed by stormy seas
Persuaded by mistress poetry as she plays with me and pleads
This quill has me demented, longing for literary appease
Tranquil yet tormented by this lingering lyrical disease

That jogs and jokes with my tired imagination
Then prods & pokes. This pen-shaped flagellation
Whips me into lacerated; bleeding desperation
Clipped and incarcerated by my needing preperation
100’s of ink-starved stories stuck in mental gestation
One dreads to think the gory rut of zero inspiration

Clicking of the Pen

“All the window staring
And the paper taring
And my scribbled out ideas
Of my lyrical diarrhea

The clicking of the pen
The stirring of the cup
The turning of the pages
The slow burning erup-
Of inspiration
Or desperation
At the flood or the drought
Of words as they come about
Or they don’t.

The searching & the scraping
The unearthing & landscaping
The digging in the dirt
For a word to heal the hurt.”

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