Govan bar banter:

Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.

Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!

Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.

Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?

Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back

Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.

Without
your smiling face my love
So rare now to find in this place
Without
your Glasgow banter
What remains is left speechless and misplaced;
I am a ship adrift without its anchor

Within
deep blue ocean eyes
that look straight into me
In ways and wonders and for why
Without
I can not take back what was said
nor’ parting waves and late goodbyes
now lost to the turbulence
of new experience under foreign skies

Within
I almost hear your warm whispers still
Without
it creeps in my ears to replace wax with made-up doubts
Play round-a-bouts upon my brain
But listen intently anyway:
In case she might whisper it again

Within
a tender touch that knows my gentle being
The passions unwrapped as such
By fingertips
And a stolen kiss upon my lips
And all that I remember seeing

Without
I am the frosted breath of a Scottish chill
With
a voiceless shout
No exit out

I await
that which is meant for me
Within
Without
or cast
adrift at sea

Frost underfoot and crisp cold air
morning dew, everywhere
each a crystal pearl
a million drop fruits unfurl
as far as the eye could see
caught precariously
by all the tiny hands
on every flower, fern and tree

a myriad of wonder
nestled here with natures mother
Time is irrelevant
other than the pressing
impatience of Another

To him it was just wet
bathed in ignorance
and bad for driving,
so he said.

I disagreed.
and had to take
the bus instead

Prophetic words
prioritise &
immortalise
that which
we embrace
then slowly paralyse

Realisation supersedes
idealisation:
Prepare
for impact

Taste
the bitter sweet
fruits
you have carefully
nurtured

Epilogue:


The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.

Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.

“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.

Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner

People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces

The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill

I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?

Mr Green:

Mr Green, or whatever it may have been
Was last seen, across from mine (allegedly)
Pleading with some suits in a Greek parody
of his own life’s tragedy
begging for a Parlay of more time

I know not what, nor if your smart, and your no part
it’s none of your business anyway,
not that you don’t care for the man over there
He was just the spectacle for the day
or at least, originally it seemed that way.

Shouting always carries on the wind, especially if it’s angry,
More than laughter or nice surprises, I’m afraid to say
Roaming hounds were all some place else or had the night off
No engines revving juvenile celebration of joyriding
Another car chase at the end of another day

Mr Green, or whatever it may have been
Next morning was found
Face down to the ground
Crumpled, bloodied and broken.
Lips open
As if still holding onto those last words
In a motionless magical speech bubble which cannot be undone
Leaves him left unspoken
Leaves a Mother to bury her son