Bob Shakeshaft – Aberration

Profile Bob Shakeshaft LE Poetry & Writing April 2018

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Aberration, poems by Bob Shakeshaft

Bob Shakeshaft has been a long time participant on the Dublin open mic scene. Bob has read at the Inchicore village festival in 2005, at Seven Towers open mic sessions, at the Glor sessions where he recorded his poem Why. ? He has also appeared in Seven Towers anthology 2012/2013.Bob is also published in the Curlew collection by writers from Dublin, and the Ardgillan writer’s anthology, where he has been a long time member of this group. Bob has poems published in the broadsheet Riposte, edited by Michael O Flanagan, sadly this broadsheet came to its demise in 2015. And 2014 had his poem” Butterfly” published in the Brown critique magazine, UK. He also appeared in an anthology,” And Agamemnon Dead “, published in conjunction with the Skerries poetry festival Donkey shots. Poems appearing in this Anthology, include, “A plague of uncertainty”, Auld Rope “, and “Gur Cake”. Bob has just recently appeared in the latest issue of the New Ulster Anu, the 40th. Issue. In this Anthology the following Poems appear.” Auld tripe”, “Ashen Sun “, Toddles”, A thin white line”, and “After Philomena. “Also awarded in the New York Literary Magazine, in the category of Life/Death. Recently received 3 commendations from the Jonathan Swift Writers Awards. Bob has recorded his poems on KFM radio, as well as Liffey sounds with host poet Eamon Lynskey, also on Dublin south radio. Recently having read at the over the edge Galway, from the Anthology, “And Agamemnon Dead”. Bob is currently striving to complete a first collection, in the distant hope of been published.


My mother told me that her mother
Never lost faith in human goodness.
If someone wronged my grandmother
Invariably they were excused
Reasoning that it was hum -buggery.

Her simple logic caused angst.
A neighbour who enjoyed gossip,
The better for telling
Even forsaking the truth or
Scraping the proverbial barrel.

No matter how startling
Or mythopoeic
Grandmother’s ears were invaded
She remained indifferent
Remarking never heard the likes

With a tone in her voice
That said the truth was not aired.

Years have moved on
Still her voice guides me
To live in a similar manner,
Alongside my own wisdom
I often remark

To my offenders
That story-telling
Is negated
When the victim
Refuses the intrusion.


On cold seaside bench
dark mind
hung in pitch squalor.

Storm clouds bruised
whip – salt wound
my lonely despair.

I corner out images
bent shape squinting
fish watery dead stare

candle flame pity

inside bleak hell
gust punch

Brow furrows
harvest deep
soiled cold comfort.

Solitary isolation
will deceive
on cold seaside bench.


as the elms clung to one another
like giants whispering secrets
soon falling into a violent flurry
tossing wild arms aimlessly
about the cloudless sky
as if their earlier huddle
were too wicked
for peace of mind

ragged old rooks nests
burdening branches
swung sky –high
like strewn wrecks
upon a stormy sea
trapped like a wild beast
one with its shadow
cast bleak in blackness


the morning lull
rudely startled
by the crash of the plate
once intact depicted beauty- born
recalled in the quiet talk
the first sign a shaky tremor
you not in control
I trying to show no alarm
so as not to seem so
after the doctor
the hospital
tests suspicions
early stage dementia
you would not remember
or even be aware
of the mind
strewn and scattered
its beguiling
how a lovely life
hits the floor

© Bob Shakeshaft