Between Castle Dawson and ToomeBridge

Where Heaney was conceved

The gun rests between

my finger and my thumb,

ink leaking from the nib

as blood is pumped

to my cortex.

 

I smell the peat

from the bogside

as my father’s digging

invades my mind.

 

He slurps milk

from the cow’s tits

to slake his thirst

for freedom.

 

The boots of oppression

stomp upon the corpses

of true men

killing life itself.

 

And I, I write

my frustration

in stanzas full

of hate.

 

15/10/23

Reviews

[D. Mansfield]

I've found a theme, and it, and your writing are dear to me. Tiocfaidh ár lá

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Indeed, Beidh an lá linn. Many thanks.

[FGFRANKLIN]

The Irish poet and Nobel Prize winner would be honored by this. Well done.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Now that would be an honour I do not deserve but many thanks yous FG.

[Patricia Wedel]

dear John... there is too much Hate in this World... but still we find Love in all the Countries as "Time goes By". It is Tragic to witness the destruction of Wars. softly, Pat

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Indeed true Pat. many thank yous. Ireland sits in my heart and the troubles I remember well.

[Sami Khalil]

This was intense and powerful; not sure of the hidden message, but I like it.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Thank you Sami. Nothing hidden it speaks of the British occupation of Ireland.

[Sami Khalil]

Ok. I see. You are welcome sir.

[W. Barrett Munn]

This rings out in the grand tradition of Seamus reminding himself and us of his father. Nicely done.

Winston

[John Alexander McFadyen]

My favourite poet. Many thanks Winston.