Leonard Holman

Leonard Holman is a poet and short story writer.

A Limerick man, who hails originally from Garryowen in the City, his poems and short stories have been published in the Limerick Leader newspaper, The Stoney Thursday Book,  the British Poetry Review, Revival, Anthology for a River, I Live in Michael Hartnett (Revival Press) and Street Line Critics

I have been published in revival,anthology for a river,the stony Thursday book I live in Michael hartnett book,street line critics ,and self published a book of short stories called the dark horse stories.

Under the title The Dark Horse Stories, Leonard's collection of short stories includes Paddy the reluctant Limerick Vampire, The Waiting Game, The Rose Murders, and many more.

ISBN  978-1-907107-04-7

Available on Amazon and in local (Limerick) book shops

 POEM

(1)

SHINE BRIGHTLY BURN FAST

Going to the cinema in my youth
I was mesmerised dazzled frightened
From this make believe world
Some stars shone out more then the others
And one flew out from the screen
From  rebel to story she played the part
Of the young hurt beautiful woman
Her Russian looks said it all
In rebel hurt tragedy witch sadly followed you
In to your private life
Made some bad decisions with some of your later films
But when you got the right script you shone
Now a new generation can see you again on d.v.d
And like me will fall in love with you
Actresses have come and gone but for me
None can touch you Natalie wood

POEM

(2)

FLASH

My today was yesterday
Yours is now
Grab hold with both hands
For soon it will be long gone

POEM

(3)

THE HOP HILL

We sit on the rocks. By the side of the road
Looking down on killalee  pennywell and garryowen
Young very little money and then easily pleased
Talk about the next weekend and where we go
Tent camped inside the field
Sylvia's mother blasting out from the transistor radio
Look down again put my hand into my jeans pocket
See have I enough for a bag of chips,yes
Walk back down the hill, still
Listening to Sylvia's mother saying she is catching the
Nine o clock train
Holding hands not thinking of the future, or what will
Come our way