Monty Alexander is a Northern Irish poet whose poems and tales reflect his experiences and perceptions of life.
The Roman town of Pompeii was already ancient with Greek and Etruscan history, before it was buried by the erupting Vesuvius volcano in AD79. When still a child, I always remember my late father at times showing me a picture in a history book of a painting, depicting a Roman
Gold Roman solidus of Byzantium Roman Emperor, Theodosius II (A.D. 402 – 450) This is a story that spans generations of my family. My Grandfather was David Alexander, born at Ballydown, Banbridge in the year 1864 and died aged 75 in 1939. Before he was 9 years old, he had
TRIBUTE TO A HARPIST (Enniskillen 6 August 2025) Walking along that winding street, I wondered who I might meet, Perhaps a friend to gladly greet. But from beyond my vision there, Melodies traversed the morning air, Issuing forth with taste and flair. Then sitting in the old
Things have form, but some have none, Just like thoughts that occur to one; And what of space that’s all around? An entity unseen like sound. Undeniable that they exist, The two afore to coexist; Parallels with this dimension, Outside our comprehension. Perhaps creation on another plane, Different
THE PIPES That soil is our soil, the place of our birth, The Highland, the Island, along by the Firth; Piper and Pibroch, the sound of our land At Culloden and battles, where’er we did stand. Nothing is sweeter than the skirl of the Pipe, On Mountain or Glen,
HOLY TRINITY CHURCH (BALLYLESSON, PARISH OF DRUMBO) The Church stands upon the hill, Where it was meant to be; Uplifted to the heavens above, For you and me to see. As I strolled up the avenue, To that warm inviting door; The distant, near forgotten past, Stirred within my
Summertime, the day is long, Swift and Swallow on the wing; It is the land where I belong, Of which the Harpers sing. Trees cascading o’er the bower, As Pheasant peck and roam; Haze of heat engulfs the hour, Here where I call home. Tide in recess as
Equestrian Queen of Worldly Realm, No longer at her regal helm; Lamenting family of nations, Melding race of all creations. A fount of wisdom now is gone, But her presence lingers on; Enduring symbol of stability, Both here and o’er the sea. Although a presence is no more, Life of
George Barnes b 1926 was the son of George and Lizzie Barnes and nephew of Hugh Alexander. George senior, formerly of the 4th, 8th and 14th Hussars was one of ‘The Old Contemptibles’ who fought and was wounded in the Battle of Mons 1914, later to serve in Mesopotamia and
I had a friend and neighbour in Belfast who was an English woman, namely the late Mrs Joan Mee (Nee Wragg). When she died, her daughter Abigail Kirby-Harris gifted to me a poem her mother had treasured having always displayed it on a wall in her home. The poem had