#thetroubles
***
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
Refrains of Joy
Soldiers Returning from Northern Ireland
Through Ulster’s streets they tread once more,
Silent shadows by the door.
The Troubles etched on weary brows,
Their hearts adrift, yet none allows.
In uniforms worn, their youth concealed,
By sights of sorrow, wounds unhealed.
Through whispers thick with midnight’s grace,
They mask their truths, no trace, no face.
"No matter the storm," their souls declare,
"Let joy arise, though hearts despair."
For life’s gift, fragile yet profound,
Deserves no less than hope unbound.
Brothers in arms, steps firm yet fleeting,
Their truths unsaid in each meeting.
The guns are silenced, yet within,
A battle rages, unspoken din.
Home’s embrace, a comfort strained,
As echoes of their watch remain.
The laughter of a child, a fleeting balm,
A thread of peace, a fragile calm.
They recall green hills where peace once stayed,
Before the walls of conflict swayed.
Yet in their hearts, a hymn persists,
Of life, of light, through murky mists.
The Troubles may have marked their years,
Yet they return, suppressing tears.
A soldier’s refrain, steadfast and wise,
Through storm, through strife, let joy arise.
By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 12:22 PM UTC