Ryan Morgan Singer & Poet

Ryan Morgan Singer & Poet A dynamic, renowned and experienced singer, with vast versatility in many genres.

02/06/2026

Living With The Pessimist

The tiger rustles
In the inscrutable brown
Of every opening envelope.
Defeat camouflaged
By a squinting motto
To be realistic.
Fatalist phantoms whisper
“Stop!”.
Each rest hisses in the pressured silence,
Whilst lightning lines that silvered cloud.
People never change…
Well, only for the worse.

The table eternally tilts away.
Somehow, there’s always enough impetus
To remind us of this.

31/05/2026

Leaden Casket

The pencil case is empty,
Smelling of old leaden work
Sharpened down to erasing silence.
Only smudges and shavings
Dirty searching fingertips.
I fancy it echoes with snapped nibs
When I rattle its casket
And mumbles dulled nonsense
When held up to my straining head.

21/05/2026

Parental Knots

I sit safe in my shelter
Turned to my tasks.
Yet my thoughts
Are pulled to the stony shore—
Shifting, sharp-shelled.
There I see my distant son
On the grey expanse,
Threading water.
Glimpsed, but unreachable.
Through my distorting scope,
I watch the serrated sea
Saw back and forth.

19/05/2026

Old Iron Bridge

That old iron bridge
Was once new.
The first in the town
Wrought to bear burdens
Cast over the tricksy river—
Lime, ore, coal,
From the underworld
To furnace fires
Then canal waters,
Down the valley
To a building world.
So much better than stone
To meet the demands
Of man’s plans.

Such was modern life.

Its iron arms lie forgotten today.
Pitted and pitiful,
Slowly dissolving
In a council yard.
Too easy to discard
That which connects
Us to our past.
To the history of us.
To the scars and spans
That run from then to now.

Such is modern life.

15/05/2026

Post-Industrial Town

A crack-paved place:
Discarded vapes.
Grimed and smudged.
Plastic fatigued.
Exhausts and exhaustion.
Frayed initiatives.
Littered defiles.
Coffin nail coughs.
Gap-toothed High Street.
Gamble-planned
Then left to deal.
Shuttered shops
Sprayed in the vents,
Spitting “I am here”
Stakeless not speechless.
Merchants’ awnings
Bent as old gas lamps,
Hanging off the memory
Of richer, if not easier, times.
A town,
Hollowed
As a heart donor.

But that’s just the spoil, the slag —
The ground-out surface.
Underneath
Arteries branch
Wide and deep.
Generations of people.
Hard people.
Warm people.
Hard and warm
As roots which draw
From the core of what matters.
Hot-blooded.
Sweet-sweated.
Refusing to be refuse
And harrowed under.
People whose hands and faces
Map the seams of multiple lives —
Provider, survivor, fighter, maker, caregiver -
Layered geologies
All under the surface
Of each person.
Containing all
Gone before them.
They burn as coal.
Grind like grit.
Holdfast as roots.

08/05/2026

Sea Bridge

Though the tectonics
Of growth dictate
Separating rifts
To split and steadily spread,
Occasional eruptions
Setting new shapes
Upon our dividing landscapes
Until adult and adolescent are distinct.

Still,
We can meet at each sea edge,
For the ocean’s tensions touch
Each piece of land
No matter how changed.
You might stand upon your sand,
I on my shifting, stony shore,
And dip our fingers simultaneously
Into the silver-solder sea,
Feel the ripples from the other,
And so know our connection,
Despite stony distance
Through the shared salt
In our hot blood.

07/05/2026

Untested Invulnerability Syndrome

Fancifully,
We always called it
Bamboo,
Sprouting hollow and tall
On the slag-heaped riverbanks—
The furnace-fused stones
From which it sprang
Smelling of sulphur
And the river running
The colours of rust.

We would cut down the stalks,
Make of them samurai swords
To inhabit the shells of amphibious ninjas
And submerge in bloodless battle,
Always aiming for the sticks
Not the boy,
Whipping each to splinters
Before yanking out a fresh blade.

The bamboo made it all more authentic
Somehow,
And just like the false knotweed
The idea of being a samurai,
Never challenged by real fire,
Rooted in my head
And has never retreated.

30/04/2026

Living, Now and Then

I say I live in the
Now,
but actually I live in the
Then —
trying to remember
what I was just doing,
why I’m here,
who I am.

23/04/2026

Let Slip

“Unclear” is an anagram of “nuclear” - just one rash slip away.

(This is an American Sentence - a 17-syllable form developed by Alan Ginsberg)

22/04/2026

Hurricane of Change

This house
Hugs the bedrock,
Riding the night
Against waves of wind—
Rocking, creaking
Tenacious as a limpet,
Dreading the sharp surge
That will strike
It from its hold.

I close my eyes inside,
Awfully aware
In this fragile shell—
I await
And feign to sleep.

Address

Cobh
N/A

Telephone

0861531205

Website

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