Biography of jerry hughes
Frankly it's a miracle I can write. Born dyslexic I had to be a dunce at school, and I was. Persistence, and a little voice within told me I could learn just as well at the school of hard knocks, and I did.
What you'll read in my writing is a gaggle of experiences, love, lust, hurt and pain. My loathing of war, especially the miserable bastards who promote and profit by it.
Also a life-long support for the not so fortunate with whom I relate. If you find a spelling mistake or two, that's the way flip flops.
jerry hughes's Works:
You Did Alright Kid
Bits & Pieces
Goodbyes Aren't Easy
jerry hughes Poems
'I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree' A single leaf makes its own history. Attached to the bough from which it
A Message To My Father
My beloved father, the last time we met in company with your confidant and friend Abu, we spoke of many things. Most importantly the history I'd lost in the
Hone Tuwhare's: Rain
Rain I can hear you making small holes
An Aussie Summer
The sun rises early. 'Bloody daylight saving.' Birds fly. Grasses grow. The Victa's primed and
He saw her, and knew he had to meet her, this elfin girl with bobbed hair and an oval face. Eyes as big as saucers, and lips,
After The First Death*
Amidst the rubble and confusion a child's hand clutching a toy.
I wish I'd have done the things I should have, when I should have. Looking back, we're told we shouldn't - I could have done better - been kinder -
Aftermath Of A Stroke
The sense of loss can't be explained. It's as though half of you says 'let's do
A Found Fragment
'the Somme 1916' I'm scribbling in incessent rain and mud has turned to slush.
2008 a new year. But is it new? That feeble minded imbecile George W. Bush is still here.
He said calmly, professionally without bamboozle; You won't know a thing
There is a similarity about them. Eric, and my father. Quiet men, who went about their lives doing well for others.
Ye gods, eighty one! Who'd have thought it? Certainly not I. So there's one delightful
Being Seventy Two
Des, what time is it? Seventy two. Not your age you silly bugger; What's the right time?
It was cold and wet
and there he was,
sitting on a park bench,
sorting his worldly posessions
into a plastic bag.
A book of poetry,