y
Have we lost our focus
Upon that other day.
Upon Bloody Friday?
For it sits on the dark side of the moon.
While the sun’s rays, the raging core
Always the Illumination
The media attention
Upon Bloody Sunday.
Well deserved, but . . .
Should we think about that other day
Never mind Enniskillen and Omagh?
Can we talk about that inconsistency?
Can we walk awhile, with that too
And the innocents who died that day?
In Belfast, on Bloody Friday
For time has failed them all
And the boy,14, on his bike
Still trying to warn us
Of the fifty four years to come
Of comparative media silence
About Bloody Friday?
I am a wasp, caught in honey
Since that day and the actions
Have we lost our focus
Upon that other day.
Upon Bloody Friday?
For it sits on the dark side of the moon.
While the sun’s rays, the raging core
Always the Illumination
The media attention
Upon Bloody Sunday.
Well deserved, but . . .
Should we think about that other day
Never mind Enniskillen and Omagh?
Can we talk about that inconsistency?
Can we walk awhile, with that too
And the innocents who died that day?
In Belfast, on Bloody Friday
For time has failed them all
And the boy,14, on his bike
Still trying to warn us
Of the fifty four years to come
Of comparative media silence
About Bloody Friday?
I am a wasp, caught in honey
Since that day and the actions
Of the IRA.
Boys killing their own.
A population fed on the bread of hate.
With badly timed actions.
So blurred now and smudged.
Softened and dodged with late apologies
Like dirty windolened rags
By a crucified shop window.
Would it be better to share
The light of our screaming candles
To all get a handle on grief?
To weep together beyond belief
If only for Stephen Parker?
The boy on the bike
Still calling to us, a warning
From then to now, that peace will come.
The twenty first of July.
Twenty two bombs.
In Seventy Five minutes.
One hundred and thirty injured.
Nine dead.
Belfast and ourselves in pieces.
With comparative memory loss.
Powerless as cracked ornaments
We need putting back together
To be rebalanced.
Our lives, our lives
Have never been the same since.
But who rinsed this all away?
The narrative of these events
Seems to have been scrubbed
Like some auld front door step..
Lost snap shots of faded flaking paint.
A shared fairground perspective.
Still turning, still turning, spinning still.
Bloody Friday, still, an uncomfortable event
Doesn’t sit well with the image
Of freedom fighters killing their own
Boys killing their own.
A population fed on the bread of hate.
With badly timed actions.
So blurred now and smudged.
Softened and dodged with late apologies
Like dirty windolened rags
By a crucified shop window.
Would it be better to share
The light of our screaming candles
To all get a handle on grief?
To weep together beyond belief
If only for Stephen Parker?
The boy on the bike
Still calling to us, a warning
From then to now, that peace will come.
The twenty first of July.
Twenty two bombs.
In Seventy Five minutes.
One hundred and thirty injured.
Nine dead.
Belfast and ourselves in pieces.
With comparative memory loss.
Powerless as cracked ornaments
We need putting back together
To be rebalanced.
Our lives, our lives
Have never been the same since.
But who rinsed this all away?
The narrative of these events
Seems to have been scrubbed
Like some auld front door step..
Lost snap shots of faded flaking paint.
A shared fairground perspective.
Still turning, still turning, spinning still.
Bloody Friday, still, an uncomfortable event
Doesn’t sit well with the image
Of freedom fighters killing their own
Without end.
Still the dark side of the moon
To the Illuminated Bloody Sunday.
Why is that?
Both equally tragic.
Does one just have more iconic magic?
More news worthiness?
Have we lost our even handedness
In how we share the news
And the stories of our wee country?
A badly drawn report, as if fired
Still the dark side of the moon
To the Illuminated Bloody Sunday.
Why is that?
Both equally tragic.
Does one just have more iconic magic?
More news worthiness?
Have we lost our even handedness
In how we share the news
And the stories of our wee country?
A badly drawn report, as if fired
From a gun
From which we are fatigued.
For the light of the sun
Is a greedy thing to our shadows.
Where only moss grows
On old headstones.
www.randallstephenhallsongs.
A northern Irish artist.
“I never had the words until now. All sympathy to those who died on Bloody Sunday, on Bloody Friday, Enniskillen and Omagh. We are bound up together in the one shared experience that needs expressing.” RSH.
From which we are fatigued.
For the light of the sun
Is a greedy thing to our shadows.
Where only moss grows
On old headstones.
www.randallstephenhallsongs.
A northern Irish artist.
“I never had the words until now. All sympathy to those who died on Bloody Sunday, on Bloody Friday, Enniskillen and Omagh. We are bound up together in the one shared experience that needs expressing.” RSH.
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