Biography of Joe Hughes
Born in Drogheda, Ireland.
Now living in Sussex, England.
The bits in between are in my poetry which I'd love you to read. Best wishes, Joe
Joe Hughes's Works:
Small press, local press and poetry magazine bits. Self published 'Fun and Young Stuff' - available for purchase. DVD 'Where there is despair - let me sow hope' - A Photographic History of St Francis Psychiatric Hospital, Haywards Heath (1859 - 1995) , joehughes.org.uk website.
Joe Hughes Poems
I am a fresh blown bubble, Just born with lots of care. I'm undecided if I'll burst Or fly into the air.
The Old Man At The Sea
He stands silently looking seaward, Perhaps longing to be free? To be free from land's firm clutches To roam the endless sea?
A Catholic Hell!
To Hell with the Church And to Hell with the Pope, To Hell with the Brothers, The Sisters of Hope.
'I'll do it much later', Means 'Never at all'. 'I'll be there in a minute', Means 'Perhaps by nightfall'.
Young mother, fag in hand, Bags of shopping, Coke in can. Young mother, not yet grown, Ever on your mobile phone.
The Padded Room
It's just my eye that you can see, Come closer now, can you see me? I'm locked in here against my will, They tell me I am very ill.
Houselights hue domestic bliss. Curtains drawn, some still apart. A distant engine gently purrs. Night-time fodder for the heart.
I have a place called heaven Where my spirits rise and soar - It's the chair by the TV, When Countdown's on at four.
A Healthy Life
I've got Germolene for spots, Head and Shoulders for my scalp. I've got Olay for my dry skin, Vaseline for hands so chapped.
He's got her finally in his grasp. He smiles in silent contentment. She loved him at first sight - lost her appetite. Now her flesh sags - lost between her bones.
Her Little Blue Number
I told her that I loved her, Her body then petite, In her tight blue sixties tunic, She was bubbly, slim and neat.
A Noisy Donegal Night
It's noisy here tonight, The thud of darkness descending, The searing of grass growing, Banshees making merry.
I've got hammers, some screwdrivers, I've got wrenches by the score. I've got screws - Yes, bags of nails, A hundred hinges for fifty doors.
The Lying Photo
They cuddle, yes they nestle, Dressed so finely, photo smiles. There's a gap twixt mum with children, Not just inches - more like miles.
The Bogey Plasterer
I am the bogey plasterer,
Smearing bogeys everywhere,
From New York to St Louis,
From Leeds to Leicestrer Square.
I've never got a tissue,
A hanky nor a wipe,
I pick, I poke, I draw them out,
Each long and dangly stripe.