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Mike

Liverpool born poet and writer Michael Walsh traces his Liverpool roots back to 1865. This was the year his Irish great-grandmother arrived in the Second City of Empire. His parents were born at the turn of what was to become the most tumultuous century in history. Michael's father, Patrick, fought in three major conflicts before reaching his fortieth birthday. His mother, Kathleen, was a former nun turned gun-running renegade.
On leaving school at 15 years of age, Michael spent 12 weeks at the Merchant Navy School for Sailors in Sharpness, Gloucestershire. During his years at sea, he was to visit and work in over 60 countries.
The journalist and broadcaster since provided articles and columns for numerous magazines and international news media. In 2011 he was awarded Writer of the Year by the publishers of Euro Weekly News, Europe's highest-circulation newspaper of its kind. He has authored, edited and ghosted over 70 book titles.

THE CROSSING OF THE BAR

THE CROSSING OF THE BAR . Is that the sound of breaking surf, Or sighing wind in stays, Who else can feel the rising breeze, Or hear the slapping sails? . I hear a ship’s deep whistle, Feel rise of ocean swell, The telegraph is muted by, The […]

WE ARE WHAT WE EAT

Finally, after weeks of near-death experiences, we were recommended to an herbalist. Mr. Trevor Evans situated in a small Welsh market town gave each of the two children a spoon of a gravy-like liquid and a bottle and prescription of some dark brown liquid. It was like the laying on of the hands. The deadly disease disappeared within hours. Our sons were cured without common side effects. 

A LIGHTER SIDE OF POLITICS

He described the government as being like a baby: ‘An alimentary canal with a big appetite at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.’ Talking of babies, the U.S. President remarked: “I notice everyone who is for abortion has already been born.”

ALZHEIMER’S

ALZHEIMER’S . I think I just fell over, son, I really can’t be sure; Perhaps I just lay down awhile, I think it is the floor. Oh, I wish that I was younger, Less tired and bemused; Why do I, son, fall over; And why am I confused? […]