Question Everything

Some good questions begin with a problem – What to do in a certain situation. If we do not have problems, then we are at a loss as to what to do. Firstly, one can consider the situation uncertain. So, what is the situation.

At a crossroads in my life, and a path traditionally travelled is now closed to me, due to social exclusion by the opinion of a judgemental committee. So much for live, and let live. I am into biodiversity, to the exclusion of some other disciplines. People create problems for other people, and sometimes, those in power say, no. Now, why accept this? What can you do? No, is no.

The divergence between the amplified and the once off provides a description of where one is at, when one is reviewing one’s previous media. If you have populated your persona already, there is limited room to refresh or redirect where one is at, with one’s media. By that I mean: the back catalogue of output, potentially on recurring themes.

I have not posted on the lichenfoxie site, for a while now. I must acknowledge here an Irish lady lecturing in Wales, with whom I have corresponded, about a poem broadcast on the BBC4 about a shield bug, who compellingly asked me to continue to post online. I am beginning to wonder where the blog roll is going – a catalogue of examples of things that exercise me, so that people can benefit from my mistakes, without making them themselves. Fact checking in botany, is part of the process that protects us from delusion and error. We also need a supply of species concepts – ideas from the books – that broaden our expectation, to make us receptive to our encounters with nature. I am beginning to get exercised and reenergized by Corracloona, our townland, and the natural history here. Bactridium flavum was in a photograph on a rotten stick from the townland, and it recalled 20 years of memory, having been seen on the mycologists Fermanagh foray on Lusty Beg in October 2000. Maria says we now have information on 460 species in the townland of Corracloona on the computer, and we need to bring our investigations from 2018, 2019 and 2020 to a close. There are photographs of most of the species, at least a hundred that are of a passable publishable standard.  

On Sunday from about noon, 15 November, we went for a wander, in the company of Ciaran Rock, starting at the Sean MacDuirmuida cottage, taking in Tricholoma saponaceum, a mushroom troop under the Thuja plicata, a starting hypothesis for the shelter belt trees; three kinds of Hygrocybe: niveum, with a normal scent, and two red ones; one gregarious and small and another larger solitary one. Up the lane to a sheep field with a triangulation point, overlooking the hedge school location that Ciaran explained, has a set of boulders, glacial erratics, fragments with Sphaerophorus fragilis on peat, Parmelia omphalodes, Parmelia saxatilis on the edges of a peat free boulder top.  The willow in the corner has Sticta limbata in quantity on the trunk face downslope towards the Upper Lough Mac Nean. This is a once off in the townland and the greater part of the south side of the lake, we are in Old Kiltyclougher here. The species density is exceptional. Twenty or so kinds in a small area. A mushroom lichen led us to this. Along the fence with the bog to the west is Omphalina ericetorum, a half lichen half mushroom on the peat by the fence, which now goes by the genus name Lichenomphalia. Punctelia seems to be a new genus placement, a synonymy for Phacopsis oxyspora, formerly Nesolechia oxyspora, as a consequence of genetic bioinformatic studies. The oxyspora was on a willow branch too, on Parmelia sulcata.

The bag of twigs of rowan and willow from the triangulation point field OSNI number 3610 (if recalled correctly, photographed on the south face) from the Sunday walk, dry in the living room, and are to be hung in the hall. Other samples are sought to add 6 specimens to a batch that is being worked upon. Bringing the threads of enquiry together is a frequent task, and one of the key elements of closure in research. Maybe I am too French in my sentiment, and tolerant of the mystery. When the answer is no, in what should be a factual situation, and the judgement is flawed, it is a choice that is hard to accept. If you believe it is just, then peace follows. Justice brings peace. But then again there are many justices, and it is a choice of selecting behaviours that are consistent with that, in order to keep excitable peers at bay. For a singleton, acting as an individual, in as mentally free a scenario as one can, is an optimisation one aspires to. Not getting tangled in traps is hard work, and releasing oneself from them takes cooperation. The confidence of managing these turns of adversity probably comes with experience, and we will get there, in due course.  

How are you doing – a question not frequently asked – can be the type of question that gets a reader opened up. There is the seeking of empathy, and then there is advice, simplify and let go. It takes many situations to force you to confront one’s fear, and the narrowing of avoidance options is one of those social constraints that lead us to such traps. I am still uncertain what this blog is for. Is it a text to reach for communion among a wider society, or is it just a valve, into the echo chamber, indicating our experience as humans? In recent weeks, some of our thoughts have been with the other mammals in the townland and how they are faring in the incessant damp weather. Their need for warmth, succour, security and the essentials for a contented life. My mindscape is exploring an insular idyll, a civilisation in isolation, and building infrastructure for that society, as it applies to my skills as a botanist. The balance between competing tasks shows a sense of priority, and sometimes there is not the time, at that moment, to attend to long-term goals and the short-term details that get you there. Then there is the encouragement of taking 30 days to achieve something – a course – that needs to be stayed, – persistence, good advice and focus.

All the best,


Starry starry night revisited

“He is gone”.
“I’m sorry. What do you mean, He is gone?” My mouth opened. I just about remembered to shut it.
“He managed to leave, while we were serving Tea. Please talk to Security, on the right hand side, just inside the entrance” Then, she was gone.
I was standing at the entrance of the not so secure facility in the Psychiatric Ward of the Hospital. I held a shopping bag containing his new pyjamas, slippers, robe, some juice and toiletries.
Somehow, my heart restarted. Whooshing and thumping resounded in my ears. My knees jangled.
It was 8pm on a January night. The day had been spent bringing my distressed, schizophrenic friend to the Doctor, and then onward by car – not the wisest, safest move – to the nearest Regional hospital, 25 km away.
There, we sat all afternoon in A&E, my friend becoming increasingly agitated. He eyed every man who came near, wary, alert, tetchy, assessing. He prepared to lash out at anyone who would breach his need for safety. My friend, well over six feet tall, and now heavy, as a side effect of the medication he had been obliged to take, had always been a lamb. He reminded me of a quiet dog who snarled and snapped when badly injured, full of fear and pain.
We had a farcical, Monty Pythonesque interview with a Doctor. Between the fog my friend was lost in, the lack of English the Doctor possessed, and the obvious time pressure, a coach and four horses clobbered over my friend’s rights and wishes. In the end, my friend was not packed off to his local Hospital, 100 km further away. Evidently, Geography overrides sense and safety in our Mental Health Service. As I refused to take both our lives in my hands again in an attempt to drive to this other Hospital, the staff accepted my friend as a patient. There was no mention of an ambulance service.

Three intimidating security Men in Black enveloped us and like a dark cloud, we made our way slowly to the Psychiatric Unit. It was all a bit dramatic. My friend was cowed, surrounded by these silent, strong men. People stared. I was glad we were never the kind to worry about what others might think.
Our leaden Security detail dispersed when my friend was allocated a room alone. He was given a hospital gown by a nurse. I helped him to change, then he got into bed. Finally, I was able to breathe normally again. Morning was a long time ago. We had eaten nothing all day. At least he was promised some Tea at 7 o’clock.
I decided to go buy my friend some pyjamas and explained this to him. He was pleased at the prospect of chocolate. At least something of him was still intact. Off I went, and was so happy to locate everything he needed within the tight budget. Thrilled, I raced back through the dark, thanking the myriad tiny stars above that he would at least be physically comfortable while dealing with severe mental distress. I thought of Van Gogh and those gentle people who see beauty and who try to share it with the rest of us in the gutter.
But now, my friend was gone. He had “escaped” from the Psychiatric Unit. He had walked through the Hospital in very few clothes and no shoes. He was filmed by CCTV as he left the Hospital grounds. I was shown this footage by Hospital Security staff. This was not to demonstrate their efforts in relocating my friend. A female Security Guard explained that, as my friend had left their Campus, they had no obligation to search for him.
Shock pervaded my body. My mind reeled with their legalese, their lack of any sense of responsibility or compassion. I explained that my friend was dressed only in a hospital gown and that it was a frosty night. I tried to impart that he was in the midst of a psychosis, almost completely unaware of who he was and where he was. By now it was getting late. The Security woman explained that they had called the Guards to let them know. Of course, I was entitled to go look for my friend myself, as the Guards did not have much capacity for that sort of thing. Involuntarily, one word came to me, Abbeylara, the poor young man who lay dead there and his family who had asked for help for him.
Meanwhile my friend was lost in a city he did not know well. There was a very big river flowing by a long quay. I realised I’d better get going myself or he could die of exposure, be hit by a car or truck, be attacked by someone or worst of all he could drown… that is, if something terrible had not already happened. Time to move…
I ran from the Hospital entrance dumbfounded. We had arrived in the reasonable expectation of finding some solace there. I paid the parking fee and drove out the gate, but where to go? Fatigue, after such rushes of adrenaline during the long day, had started to cloud my mind. Gravity tugged at my tired muscles. These sensations clashed with a strengthening sense of alarm. How do you find one person in this vast strange, dark and unfamiliar place. He could easily have an hour head start.
Frantic, I scoured streets as I drove. Nothing. He knew no one here. “Think”, I ordered myself. “Feel”. “Think like him”, assuming he could make any sense of his surroundings. He has an excellent sense of direction. Has. Not had. “Come on now. Keep going.”
I had done some training, had some experience and heard stories of hypothermia. How long could a psychotic man in a hospital gown last in minus 2 degrees Centigrade? Traffic was light this night, this quiet week after the New Year. Silver linings.
“You know him so long, you should be able to figure out where he would go”. I chided myself for leaving him at all, but that was nonsense. Surely, it is OK to trust that someone would be safe and secure in a secure facility? Was that really a lapse in logic?
I could not work up a sense of guilt, just disbelief and distrust in this Hospital. It was as if these people did not really want to admit my friend and were then quite happy for him to amble slowly, psychotically off their Campus. A pang of anger. My fingers gripped the steering wheel of the car. Where were those Men in Black when we needed them?
We’d been through enough for several years now, dealing with this alien world of schizophrenia. It was an entirely new experience. There was little help, beyond pamphlets, pills, internet searches.
There had been short stays in hospital, returns to work amidst strange looks, loss of pay and increasing discrimination, isolation and degradation and shunning by family. The phone did not ring much anymore.
We did not think a psychosis was that big a deal. Other people pay good money to get high, to get mad drunk, every weekend. But when someone gets a bit disorientated quite naturally, everyone gets so weird about it. Delusion is an everyday experience. The real insanity was that my friend was missing.
Everything in this city slopes down towards the river. I worked my way slowly along the quay. The river was a big, black, absence of light. There was only dark movement and lapping. I got out of the car to work along the metal rail. It stopped in places where seaweedy stone stairs slithered down into black water.
My hair blew around my face. Water filled my eyes with cold. “Please don’t let him fall into the river” I begged. My friend did not like to swim as much as I did. Still, a voice in his head could tell him to do something. The cold alone would take him. The tide was strong here. Small white caps of waves were picked out by the street lights as the wind whistled over the water. “He must be so cold already” I reasoned. Surely this would keep him from wanting to get wet.
I got back in the car and thought hard. The train station was a possibility. He might just try to go home. It is a natural, basic thing to do if you are fearful or upset. He would not think about being in a hospital gown. He would not be worried that he has no money. Whoever he meets might have a hostile reaction though. I drove, scanning all the way, and parked by the station.
Just as I went to open the car door, I spotted a figure in the dim light from a lamp post. I knew him by the beating of my heart and let’s face it, not too many walk around in hospital gowns. Relief fell on me like a soft blanket, silent, warm. I breathed out so loudly that I startled myself. “Wow, he is alive. He is here. What should I do now?” Bring him back to that stupid Hospital that lost him? Would he be willing to go? I nearly could not believe that he was there, about to go into the station.
Quietly, gently I approached him. He was pale and shaking, his gown flaring slightly in the breeze. He had not seen me. “Hey”, I said quietly, “I was looking for you. Will you come and get in the car?” “Yes”, he said simply. I helped him in. I was shaking too. It was partly from the chill but mostly it was due to such sudden decompression. Is it possible to get the bends on land?
“Will you come back with me to the Hospital?” I asked. “It is warmer there. I’ll stay with you as long as you need”. “Yes” he said, then nothing. He sat, staring forward. I drove us back in minutes. It was all so simple when the alternatives could have been so messy, so tragic, permanent. Images flashed through my mind and I shuddered. So easy. Others have not been so lucky. I praised all the powers of the universe for the gift of another day with him. He nodded off beside me as the car heater churned out warm air.
We were dazzled in the lights of the hospital foyer. We walked down long quiet corridors to the right door. I knocked. We washed him. His feet were filthy and cut, as he had been barefoot. He had an unexplained graze on his knee. That was all.
The psychiatric staff said they were sorry but did not explain how they could lose a person who was so unwell.
My friend slept a lot for several days, heavily medicated.
During the years of caring for him, I had grown to realise how people can lose so much – employment, home, family, friends, security – due to mental illness and other people’s reactions to it here. Even though we had both received fantastic educations and had such promising futures, a lot of that lay in ribbons. “At least he is alive”, I thought. He could have disappeared in the river and then nothing, not even answers. “We have to rely on ourselves” I decided.
Ten days later, my friend left the Hospital, like a timid fledgling, he was so vulnerable. No tests had been carried out to address his general health. No investigations had been made into potential causes of his symptoms. The Psychiatric staff helped my friend to come back to himself and for that we are eternally grateful. We drove away together to begin to re-join the world. We faced the additional wreckage of the past couple of weeks to the general pile. He was alive and improving in himself. That was the important thing.

Doing what one can

Drained and upset I arrive needing respite

seeking solace and security

from mental conflict and close tort

day off confusions requiring

electronic communications and bipartisan readings

to prevent comprehension lucidity lapses

issues from afar, too close and too afar.

WiFi exclusion a threat to our digital lively-hoods

dealing with argument, set out in every e-mail and text

days for linguistic accuracy and emotional perfection

fatigue. drained, doing what one can

to maintain sustainability in communication

A saucer stack and spoon clatters

as canteen voices murmur,

stirred cups sugar elutes

as the heater fan switches off

Seeking solace and tranquility

recharge from going on empty

doing what you can

curating sustainability

Sunlight on the computer screen

typeface hard won

maintaining sustainable relationships

can be work enough

Sunlight, sunlit, recharged

solace, seeking the even keel.

Topping rushes

The ringlets dander by
in the field of rushes
fluttering between effusus florets
crashing into stems
and off again

The taarup came the other day
topping rushes to make hay
where can the ringlets go
between the tussocks flew

Meristems geometrically laid flat
in a rushy field in the townland
where can the ringlets go
now that their field is turned to hay

August follows July
and we will see how
the ringlets fare
now lost among rushes lost

In a tree view far

Birch trees catch the light,

Between telegraph poles,

The wire might be there,

But the wire I cannot see,

White trunk specks halfway up.

Alder hard to pick out,

Hazel rush at the edge of wood,

In front a shoot of padded leaves,

Willow left behind leafing late,

A small leaved bush,

More twig than else.

Beech crown sprays drooping

High on a tree top line

I can see the Alder now

Open brown trunks darker leaves

Not easy in the mix

A died back ash, tied black

Leaf hit by Tuesday week’s frost

A calamity for walnuts too.

Mid May, all this,

Among the canoring birds

Of the near meadows.

A sonogram one can assign

Segments to passerines,

Interspersed by crow.

This morning I am

Long lane watching

From my muses seat

No one walking in

Well on in a summer’s dawn.

Tranquil, cool, there goes a Fly

Inside the porch window

A portent of unexpected motion

Yet the long lane draws my eye

Between frames of this spectacle

Sudden, there goes a Bird

Sunlight strength in rushes

Over shadow of the house

There goes a Bird,

In a tree view far. 


We looked ahead and saw two people.

She said “We met them before”

“What did I say to them last time?”

She reminded me that I had said nothing.

As they drew closer, I felt ready and rushed through my thoughts for an opening gambit. We had been walking and talking all afternoon since before we got to Clancy’s and now we were almost back.

My eyesight been poor in reading glasses, they gradually became discernible 30 yards of as the people whose son we had met turning up the steps on the Corracloona link, as an exerciser, who has apologetically run behind, and then darted past between us as we had blocked his path, like two bullocks on their way to the mart at Arney who had bizarrely slipped up a side lane back into some field or other between Swanlinbar and Arney in the Fermanagh North Leitrim glens fog.

You have to be quick, like a Leitrim hurler, whom you read about in the paper.

They were 20 yards out and I boomed in the friendliest tone I could muster:

“Good Afternoon”, ralentandoing it to be in synchrony with the gaps between their footsteps.

“It is a wonderful day.”

They had a dog they were struggling to bring under control. I focussed on the dog breed…

“Do you know that the dog that John Steinbeck from California in Travels with Charlie was a poodle? Your dog, what is his name?…

I chanced the genderized pronoun. With poodleish dogs, they are so curly, it is hard to tell.

Two chances and the conversation design fails. They slowed like us to a standstill.

She struggled to recall the name of her dog that he had on its lead.

We learned it was in fact her daughters dog Chloe, a cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle.

She was a dote. She became a handful biting at the lead. I picked up on his epithet, not shedding, a euphemism suggesting that the dog does not moult and leave dog hair everywhere. He must have a perfectly clean house. You have to be quick like in Hurling, as in conversational design. I started again.

“Mickey Rooney in an Arabian film in 1978 had a carpet he went flying on, like the carpet on the tiled floor at home in Corracloona with a weft of dog hair on it, which floated off into the air, as if it was from an Afghan hound.

“You like your films… there being a film club in Kilty.

We gradually learned that the daughters were at college and one was doing exams from home. They had internet.

I write and have a webpage lichenfoxie on the word press.

I am fluffing the story telling, not living by Hemingway’s maxim, write what you know, and write it as true as you can possibly make it. Listening, writing, telling a story, remembering is such a busy thing to do all at once while trying to do a themed essay on conversation design, which brings us swiftly back to the people on the walk.

Two film references, and he said… You like your films… He has also said something else but I forget it now, not that I did forget it, but I did not recall it, if you can indulge me.

Writers are a tolerated bunch, reaching out for friendship. He has said lichen pronounced in the formal way, whereas I has said lichen in the uncouth way. Being a lichen themed conversationalist, if all else fails I flailed around looking for the nearest tree for a specimen to demonstrate if the opportunity developed. Here is a Graphis scripta if necessary, visually saved. Lichen, like as living with mosses on a tree.

“You must be an engineer…

She would have opened up with a reply but I fluffed it again… not leaving enough room for silence… You must be an engineer …

I wish I had said in my best diplomatic French, I was so rude. I did not answer, I talked over your entrance to your riposte to my reply. It all got very confusing…

Good writing is like good listening, picking up with an opening question on the word that was left dangling … lichen… dog hair… engineer… Blacklion… Holey Soles, the walking group… the glens… an encyclopaedia of the area… so full of knowledge, but slow to release it, one grain of sand at a time. Slow is an understatement, like the Black River delta, dropping one grain of sand at a time on the delta… while there is swift water flowing over the Ballyshannon dam weir at Belleek.

The inquisitive nature of mine has been satisfied by meeting Kevin’s plant friend earlier before getting to Clancy’s to get internet. The Leitrim glens writers write about themselves and their neighbours… There are so many glens, and so many Glen writers, that an essay on conversation design is precisely what is needed, and like any good guru… start with a few tips.

Conjecture on the side of absurdity… Really listen… Speak slowly… Really leave gaps… lots of them… so many in fact that other people help you fill them in, unlike the potholes. There is not even one at the end of the path up to his house, this putative engineers house. Filled in. I am loosing my touch as a reporter. There were so many conversations today, the bullocks, the rams, the sheep that were loose, the internet, the dog peed ending, and other potential conversation gambits… he must have read lichenfoxie… all the while you could have picked up on anyone of the hurling moves to play long rally tennis conversations with.

You have really arrived in Corracloona a year and a half… She is, a reader is, a long conversationalist… practised on the telephone while walking, you can tell by the breathing pattern in time with the steps sonogram, of a flute player, writers cannot keep up… unlike hurlers… that walk the lanes of Corracloona perchance whom you might meet… labelled on a post box, and strike up a conversation… if the y are in the humour… vary your pace… weather… the trees… a question… arrest them with a question… may I see your licence please… the dogs… no I am not the guard… all over the place… writing, reading, talking, reporting, over-talking not over-taking, drawing people out, winkling like a newsagent from Athy, Winkles, fishing… Fishing skills for beginners.

People are vying to talk. We have a writer, not great, not bad, but a story about a midge, eating you… So now we need a guide to the conversations we are having… confessions make us busy. I could imagine a priest saying that. They do not have anything to do but reach out for a sage metaphor, and they train for seven years, not to utter a put down… about conversation design.

Not that there has been a train to the ballroom since 1950 something. Which brings me to the next conversation… Blacklion… Nevins’s Cistin.  And Ben’s Madrid waiting… and onward to find himself… Handy with livestock he is… That’s the thing Priests train for seven years… and there is the Turin Shroud in the letterbox…

Community is built with people… and conversations… free conversations… not inhibited, controlling ones… conversation design can get in the way, and that only gets you so far… out with it… tonally apposite, before you go running, tonally appropriate conversation gambits.

Conversation is a skill for the quiet ones, that all at once we do at once, and do not practice enough, in our isolation in the glens of North Leitrim. Conversational design, a subsection of a subsection of an article on offences against the person act… My… Trump is good… as a guru… His downfall perhaps… the Hippocratic oath… never do harm… with your utterance… Then you are on the correct path… shining… These ellipses, the three dots are great… my favourite punctuation, after commas, and full stops.

Ellipses an opening to allow you to sing along with an Ed Sheeran song, where if you listen and try to sing along, he leaves no room for conversation… Which is precisely the reason he is so popular, perhaps… And everyone walking with headphones must be listening to, whom are difficult to approach with a booming 20 yard opening, conversationally designed, gambit. Not that I have a tape, download, podcast, or cd of Ed Sheeran songs, apart having heard on the radio a story about a something or other lineman, mid east coast America a bit over out west. Not far from Nashville, Tennessee.

No internet is a luxury, for a writer. We go to Clancy’s or the other way into Kilty to send our e-mails. We share a computer. In the house, I have just a pencil, a quiver of them, ready to write. Corracloona style, Gan Gam. Nom nom, nom. Our organic vegetables survived the frost, as I watched over them, as the vegetables read the small print on the Irish Times, repurposed to protect them from Frost, until the morning came. Reading the Irish Times in their minds eye, plants, each plumule and radicle, frost sensitively reading the headlines, Covid 19 reports, and our reporter here in Corracloona, some cadences from lichenfoxie, like a water flea detective…

Yours sincerely

Is mise.

Lichenfoxie, the uncouth pronunciation.


I forgot to type in page 7 from my double-sided 14 page pencil script. Now here we are.

Two mistakes, co-segmentation is a disaster… One slip in my amnesiacal memory is one thing, but over talking and inhibiting conversation is another. The dog who was a handful had stopped being one. Dogs are a great judge of character, like in wanderly wagon.

All this is too frenetic, four people, one dog being playful. You have to be stable and focus on the point of view. Jumping point of view is a disaster. The conversational design was maturing and the itchiness to get home was returning, I could see it.


In reaction to other conversations, and other local readers, I need to write more, to catch up with our public written lichenfoxie persona. Had I told him about the story about the midges of Corracloona? The story with the overblown militarist reference points, not that I would not be militaristic if I was thinking like a midge and be sorrowful and resentful about all the offences against the midge by bats and their below attic house habitants, with their carbon dioxide machines, sweet as the dioxide of a deer’s breath, that lure them to bog myrtle paths on the slopes of Thur Mountain, where swallows drink the summer raindrops and where along streams we go on the hunt for sweathouses. Which is so bats, it is the normal state for a North Leitrim glen Buddhist writer, Hippocratic oath, catharsis for the reader2, and all that.

After Cosmos Mundi

After Cosmos Mundi

The enlightenment is over.

Over, and gone for good.

2020 vision in narrator’s order.

Consequent in space and time,

Tide waits for no woman.

Biodiversity dependent up in the air,

bark-skins of Atlas

Rasta Varian your eyes

Brush up on Latin names

For our daily tunes

When we sing with you.


In our vigil on life

Ask not: What you can do,

Rather Ask: what you can see.

Ideas taking shape

Concepts of logic and morph coalesce

An information fusion,

With a … Salmon’s

Leapt lip of Recognition.

A signal of joy for a species with life before you.


Life to tarry over

To sing to

Known from psalters before

New to Us,

Admitted to skeptical realities

We apprehend you

Inquisit you

by your ocular beauty


We slow you with an example of nature herself.



Cyclops viewed.


The latin binomial

Family and placement

A quatrain design for

Our linguistic utterances:

Fathomable facets,

Of facts for a townland,

En-Booked, en-Laois’d

In hopeful contemplation

Of their future in Laois.


That Januguaritic dawn

Of Palian dimensions

After Cosmos Mundi

Seven veils of taxonomy

Needs the other …

To Alpha octo-ellipse our mind’s eye

Twin pencils,


Hand drawn

Sheet music


Midi playable


On our Hatton

Celtic Explorer

A compass clinometer

En-videoed on Peridote

Surface biofilm deeps



Signals to your mind

Creative commons

Communicated to you

For us all

Lest, we may advocate for

The voiceless …

In crimes against their meristems

From this day forth, in

Ages of ferrous-dendrous war.

Plant pathologies of a pith,

Bone marrow of plants,

That Joey Dunlop would feel…


Now when enlightenment is over

And August is done

And Francis has won

And chains of science are free

To Rood this earth of ours

From beyond

The Morgue





With their



Howard FOX

3 March 2020, Cosmos Tuesday. Revised 12 April 2020

My goodreads Book Reviews

Every so often I find a good book and I am prompted to write a review in how it changes my mind-scape, after consuming it. Sometimes there are a few lines, of things topical and well said. Other occasions the books are more comprehensive and alligned with what sort of things I am doing,

Here are some entries on lists from my Goodreads profiles.

All the best,


Put out, in town

An leabharlann is dunta
Dunta on a monday
New hours, they say
Cut backs, hours reduced
All over the Chontae

Not to be
Put out in town
I’ll go not
On a monday

Off reading
Having green tea in lieu
Composing a protest poem
Inside, next door,
put out, in town.

Disorganized Thinking

Summer evening light,

In bed early for a fresh start, to deal with:

Lack of version control.

Too scattered to have the killer instinct,

Or the ruthlessness to put down others,

A protracted process, evolving to a style,

thought through, iteration by iteration,

until it is right,

polished from disorganized thinking.

A weakness I hide, only the malicious exploit;

Advocacy for an artist’s defense,

From the depredations of the less benign.

Vulnerable, slow to whinge,

If all is not right.

Persistently evasive to deny hardship.

Planning is a much more central part for survival,

for those pushed to the pin of their collar,

to revoke white collar abuse.

Generosity reciting reviewed information live,

To scientifically document life’s home truth

until they are lucidly communicated

is the service provided,

polished from disorganized thinking.

Howard FOX

Summer 2019