#northernireland
***
Barbed Wire Sunset
By Paul Baldry
Brick dust in the air,
A setting sun, bloodied sky,
Boys behind the wire.
Hope hangs, a tattered flag, torn
By a wind of weary grief.
Petrol Rain
By Paul Baldry
Cobblestones slicked black,
A sudden downpour of rage,
Molotov's fiery kiss.
Faces masked, fear is a shroud,
Whispers lost in siren's wail.
Mothers' Vigil
By Paul Baldry
Empty chairs at home,
While daughters search shadowed streets,
Seeking missing sons.
A rosary, clutched tight, beads
Telling tales of silent loss.
On Patrol
By Paul Baldry
Green hills watch us pass,
Boots heavy on cobbled street,
Eyes scan every face.
A child's glare, a whispered word,
Peace feels a world away now.
Soldier's Silence
By Paul Baldry
Young man, far from home,
Gun held tight, heart full of fear,
Orders must be kept.
A scream echoes in the night,
Silence becomes a burden.
Aftermath
By Paul Baldry
Walls still bear the scars,
Of anger etched deep in stone,
Flags flutter defiant.
The guns are quiet, they say,
But memory still echoes.
Bandit Country
By Paul Baldry
Green hills watch us pass,
Crossmaglen's heart, a silent
Glower in the fog.
Boots heavy on the cold stone,
Whispers follow in the air.
Armoured Patrol
By Paul Baldry
Saracen's rumble,
Cutting through the silent streets,
Eyes search every door.
A child stares, face filled with fear,
Lost innocence in the grey.
Border Patrol
By Paul Baldry
Borderland is tense,
A rifle held, a strained gaze,
Waiting for the blast.
Another day the same fear,
Will peace ever come to stay?
Checkpoint Dusk
By Paul Baldry
Grey stone, shadowed walls,
A checkpoint's cold, watchful eye,
Halts a weary road.
Whispers of the past linger,
Fear hangs heavy in the air.
Border Vigil
By Paul Baldry
Green hills, sliced by line,
A patrol's slow, measured tread,
Each step tense and brief.
The land, a battleground deep,
Peace a fragile, distant hope.
Eyes on the Corner
By Paul Baldry
Stone cottages still,
Eyes watch from behind the lace,
Every move we take.
Suspicion is bred in the soil,
Crossmaglen waits, hushed and dark.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 5:49 AM UTC
Ode to the Fallen
***
Seventy’s summer cracked the dawn,
Crossmaglen woke to Troubles drawn.
August eleven—silence broke,
Two officers lost to a hidden stroke.
And from that spark, the shadows grew,
A darker sky the whole town knew.
Seventy-two, July burned through,
A land mine tore the stillness blue.
James and Terence, standing fast,
Names now etched in memory’s cast.
September laid its colder claim,
Edmund Woolsey—another name.
Seventy-three, the air stood still,
Three more lives on that same hill.
A ***** trap, no warning cry,
Another mark where men would die.
Each loss rewrote the road they knew,
In greys of grief and broken blue.
March winds carried a sniper’s breath,
Bedford, James—drawn into death.
August heat on quiet ground,
Dennis, Michael—duty bound.
November pulled the daylight thin,
Windsor, Allen—lost within.
Seventy-five in winter’s grip,
An ambush sealed a fatal script.
Duncan, McDonald, Sampson fell,
Names that history won’t dispel.
December closed with sorrow’s bridge,
Civilians lost at Silverbridge.
Seventy-eight, the long road bends,
Turbitt, McConnell—final ends.
A priest entangled in the fray,
Where right and wrong had blurred to grey.
December winds returned once more,
Duggan, Johnson—gone to war.
Seventy-nine, the pattern stayed,
Hanna, Thompson—lives betrayed.
Cullaville watched, still and wide,
As sacrifice walked side by side.
July again, the silence broke,
Mackin, McMahon—smoke and smoke.
Glassdrumman held its breath that day,
As shadows passed but chose to stay.
Eighty-six brought grief anew,
French, McBride, Smyth—lost from view.
A hidden blast, no time to run,
Another tally, never done.
July returned with the same refrain,
Davies, Bertram—counted again.
The nineties came with a colder aim,
A sniper’s patience, a distant flame.
Reid, Pullin, Blinco fell,
Each name a story history tells.
Crossmaglen still bears the trace,
Of every loss, each haunted place.
Not just numbers, not just war—
But echoes that remain… and more.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 3:07 AM UTC
We sidle up the road to the farmhouse on a hill and enter the dark gap that forms a door.
The ‘broken thing’ hangs heavy in my hand.
The floor is bare except for a big pile of metal scrap, the ingredients for the fix.
Two shadows have their backs to us and are deep in conversation.
Heads are nodded and words are exchanged about the near miss and the loss encountered.
The Fixer enters stage left complete with Macbeth bowl haircut.
Hands fat with muscles he approaches me and grasps the broken thing with a swift tug.
‘Not good, not good, bad job, bad job’.
He is working it out.
His skill is not taught.
This is instinct, blood and sweat.
He disappears for several minutes stage right.
The big pile does not have what he needs.
More conversation goes on about cattle and sheep.
The accents are harsh. We are deep, deep in the country.
The fixer returns.
A flush of oxy-acetylene ignites and suddenly two become one.
A rush of steam comes from the barrel that the patient has come out of.
‘Better than new’, the Fixer says.
‘Better than new’ Dad replies.
‘What’s the damage? ’
’That will be…30’
‘OK 30”
No negotiation here, no debate on price.
This work is understood.
This is graft and money hard earned.
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 2:53 PM UTC
Symphony of Silence throughout the night
Doors and windows latched and locked tight
Sleeping softly as dreams ******
Troubled times when morals where subdued
We’re shoulder to shoulder with the **** or the ***
Look at themn's with the same eyes, not down the barrel of a gun
The pasts only purpose now, Make the blind clearly see
The mistakes they made with their ****** corrupt legacy
It’s quiet in the cities cobbled streets, the birds pick at first light
Emerge from their nests, Like our generation glimpses first sight
The new formed world from the rubble of this war
No emblem or flag can heal wounds this vicious or raw
Brick by Brick, The walls of Peace rose to keep in hate
There’s no more guerrillas in the street, Only as heads of State
The Family divided, A Birds clipped wing
This Island, Our home,
Shared together
or
Squandered Alone
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC