Margaret Kiernan is a prolific writer known for her captivating poetry and compelling short stories. With a remarkable literary career, she boasts publications in esteemed journals and magazines such as The Blue Nib, The Ekphrastic Review, and The Galway Review, among others. Margaret’s talent has garnered her nominations for The Best of The Net Award on two occasions and earned her the title of Runner-up in The Hannah Greely International Competition. Her work is not only celebrated in the literary world but also recognized in The Index of Contemporary Women Poets in Ireland, 2020. Beyond her literary pursuits, Margaret brings a wealth of experience from her background in professional advocacy. In her leisure time, she finds solace in the company of her faithful companion, Molly the dog, and channels her creative energy into painting landscapes and still-life scenes. Margaret G. Kiernan’s dedication to her craft and her diverse range of talents make her a prominent figure in the contemporary literary scene.


Benjamin Netanyahu doesn’t read Facebook…

…don’t send him your mail there.
He is busy writing his fakebook.

It glows and soars
In a cantata of words from
the embers of
babies’ heads and toes,
scorched dolls,
missing foes.
His foreword says,
For entertainment purposes only.

Your anger, punched pillows, tear-stained swear words
Are waiting in the ether,
Waiting, waiting.


Dawn in Kramatorsk

Gathering all winter long.
Rat-a-tat-tat, the Russians are in town
Invading, everyone asks is there a real war coming
Has it arrived
February twenty fourth, the year twenty- twenty-two
Kramatorsk Ukraine
five thirty in the morning sirens
air-raids, shelling,
the toll
untold.
Commercial life at the hotel disrupted, the reports said,
dark plumes of smoke billow over Kyiv.

Over yonder there’s a special military operation, Putin stated
He did not say, I’m starting a war.

—-

October Journey
-’23

Squares are drawn down, Pluto against Mars.
Persephone, daughter of Dimiter grown up.

Ropes are sundered; grief untethered,
The last rose of an extended summer, pruned.

Children are sleeping when it
rolls into the night, terror beaded in a sweat

Blood spools, curdles on floors,
Fruit of the dead, like a leaf

Lost to time, to Hades’ myths.
Pomegranates
apple seeds of the eyes.

 


Margaret Kiernan