"kesh" poems
this split level sickness ***** spindles of sadness out
climbing clay walls
tasting tenderly treated Turkish candy
splashes of sound surround
and pounce quickly
on
small plated quills of sugar
spun so softly
that only a queen
could see its beauty
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 6:20 AM UTC
In her majesty's prison hospital
The patient slipped in to a coma.
For two months he had led a fast
in solidarity with his brothers.
The men of ‘H” block wouldn’t don
Such clothes as thieves might wear
They were brave Irish Republicans;
Politics put them there.
They dressed in sheets and blankets
When denied their clothes to wear
In this time of the “Troubles”
the “Blanketmen” prepared.
No warder's food would they accept.
No uniforms would they wear.
The world was focused on Long Kesh
and the brave lads dying there.
Bobby Sands was comatose;
His breathing shallow; his pulse was weak
This Native son of Antrim
Nevermore would speak
Just Twenty Seven years of age
As he slipped into the past
Bobby Sands was the first to die,
But he wouldn’t be the last.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
The past is a glacier that grips the mountain wall
And history is formed in our hands.
The bars in this prison do not concern me
I look out from the window and what do I see.
Invisible tears for all the years lost in a frozen sea.
Words in turmoil dance in my mind.
The darkness of El Hecho
And the hopes of Long Kesh
Now I am unable to touch.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC