RSH. PEACE WALLS.
A poem By Randall Stephen Hall.
Update 7.3.26
Plus Song. THE BOATYARD
Listen to _9 THE BOATYARD By Randall Stephen Hall by Randall Stephen Hall on #SoundCloud
https://on.soundcloud.com/
PEACE WALLS
Peace Walls to keep us divided.
Red brick divisions, chiding us
To begin fighting and hurling insults.
We can see them from the top of the bus.
Chastising us, telling us off
To not make a fuss.
To keep us separate.
To keep us apart.
It’s a sly art
Marking us out
And keeping us pinned down
Like Gulliver, held in place
With dividers, ropes and guiders.
For everything runs in circles
Like Bears at Castle Circus.
Religious trickery
Hickory sticks, burning.
To smoke our bacon.
To keep us in our fields and taken.
To keep us down and and keep us mean.
To make us never heal.
Beyond our natural leanings
For connection.
Our wounded meat, beaten and scarred.
But without the view from the bus
We’ll never get far enough
To break through, to each each other.
Through these Peace Walls.
We manifest a future
Beyond the narrow ground
In our mind’s imaginings.
A poem By Randall Stephen Hall.
Update 7.3.26
Plus Song. THE BOATYARD
Listen to _9 THE BOATYARD By Randall Stephen Hall by Randall Stephen Hall on #SoundCloud
https://on.soundcloud.com/
PEACE WALLS
Peace Walls to keep us divided.
Red brick divisions, chiding us
To begin fighting and hurling insults.
We can see them from the top of the bus.
Chastising us, telling us off
To not make a fuss.
To keep us separate.
To keep us apart.
It’s a sly art
Marking us out
And keeping us pinned down
Like Gulliver, held in place
With dividers, ropes and guiders.
For everything runs in circles
Like Bears at Castle Circus.
Religious trickery
Hickory sticks, burning.
To smoke our bacon.
To keep us in our fields and taken.
To keep us down and and keep us mean.
To make us never heal.
Beyond our natural leanings
For connection.
Our wounded meat, beaten and scarred.
But without the view from the bus
We’ll never get far enough
To break through, to each each other.
Through these Peace Walls.
We manifest a future
Beyond the narrow ground
In our mind’s imaginings.
This sorrowful sound.
At Stormont, the auld ground.
Peace is a piece of piss.
With a bunch of our leaders
Lost in the mist.
Transformed into pigs
Still eating at the trough
On the island, in our own odyssey.
Under the spell, the call of the sirens
Letting us know, no ambulance will come.
That us, the prisoners of democracy
Are on the run from a beaten truth.
Yet, we could, escape across the roof
The hot canteen, the corrugated metal
The cheap currency of our fettered dreams
Of peace, and escape
Into a love for each other.
Am I just heckling from the edges
Of a culture you could describe as Irish
But in reality, has no name at all?
Names are just labels we apply to things
We want to own.
Sticky labels, for a country and a pretence
Propped up by the fabric
And fantastic fable of politics.
Still calling, calling still.
From the edge of forgiveness.
With humility to hand
And a different vision
Of a land, beyond bleeding.
www.randallstephenhallsongs.
A northern Irish artist
AKA. Dangerous Banana
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