If This Was My Last Day
What if time ran out today?
Letting Go of the Noise
If this was my last day, I wouldn’t worry about Toxic Trump’s tariffs.
I wouldn’t waste a breath on Musk’s curious absence of empathy.
I’d let go of Puny Putin’s war—the one that dares not speak its name.
Still, I’d hope.
I’d hope that Ukraine prevails against Russia’s unprovoked aggression.
That Trump’s torrent of false ‘facts’ finds its end—
and that someday soon, it will.
But I wouldn’t dwell on any of it.
Tuning In to Gratitude
Instead, I’d open the window to the song thrush and blackbird,
and give thanks that I live in Ireland.
I’d be grateful for my senses—
my sight, my hearing, my brain, my fingers.
For a body that still works.
For a life that, like every life, is fleeting.
I’d be thankful for my wife, our grown children,
for electricity and water and food,
for music, for friendship,
for sex and a nighttime gin and tonic.
The Chorus of Life
A 60-second recording of birdsong heard from my home this morning, 4 April 2025 © Joe Armstrong
The birds keep singing as I type,
the Merlin app alive beside me,
naming each player in this dawn orchestra:
song thrush, blackcap, robin, buzzard.
The radiators creak to life—
a gentle domestic chorus to accompany the birdsong.
Outside, the first car passes our house.
How lucky we are to live here, in the Irish countryside—
a land at peace,
with a democracy to be proud of
and a president beloved by most:
Michael D. Higgins, a wise and learned man.
My friend Robin Lawley—a great songwriting partner—
is alive, and somewhat better, in an Italian hospital.
This week, I made contact with his lovely daughter,
and Matteo Lenotti Lendo, who produced our latest song:
“From the Mountains to the Sea.”
I’m hoping a choir will perform and record it.
The birds are still being counted by Merlin—
blackbird, robin, buzzard again.
From another window, I hear the wren.
Later, in the light, I’ll see goldfinches, chaffinches, greenfinches,
great tits, blue tits, pigeons and sparrows.
Maybe even a woodpecker.
The great spotted woodpecker I videoed in our garden earlier this year. 2025 © Joe Armstrong
Why Do the Bullies Still Rule?
But then comes the crow or raven,
bullying its way in,
chasing the smaller songbirds,
stealing what’s not theirs.
Why is it often the bullies who find power—
in the sky as in human affairs?
Why do we let them rule the roost?
Trump won the last U.S. election,
helped along by the ultra-wealthy.
And once again, humankind circles back
to old mistakes it never learnt from history.
History’s Refrain
Peace is never permanent.
But neither is war.
Dictators rise—sometimes all at once.
Freedom fades.
Then returns.
The wheel turns, endlessly.
Maybe there’s nothing we can do.
Maybe we are bound to these tectonic plates of stupidity,
forever shifting beneath our feet.
If This Was My Last Day
And yet—
if this was my last day,
would I care about all that?
No.
I’d listen to the woodpigeon and greenfinch,
to the chaffinch, the rook, the crow, and the glorious song thrush, blackbird, robin and wren.
I’d write.
I’d walk the dog.
I’d be thankful.
I’d stand at the window hearing the cows moo across the fields,
the cold morning air combating the heat of our home.
Like the Song Thrush
Would I say anything new?
Anything I haven’t said before?
Maybe not.
But maybe, like the song thrush,
I’d just sing my beautiful song—
to counter the crow.
Life is fragile.
It is fleeting.
Our time is far shorter than we realise.
Putin brings death.
Trump brings chaos.
Orban—
No.
Let me be like Diogenes.
Let me bask in the sunlight,
and simply speak the truth.
Happy days,
Joe
Joe’s acclaimed first memoir In My Gut, I Don’t Believe is available on Amazon in Kindle, Paperback, Hardback and Audible editions. His second memoir Saved by a Woman is available on Amazon in Kindle, Paperback, and Hardback editions.
You got some songs in this one
Hard to compete with the 60 seconds of birdsong! I'm very proud of that audio clip. I didn't think my phone would do justice to the dawn chorus but it does!