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Apr 2011 · 1.1k
A Sign
David Tollick Apr 2011
You carve your trade
Above your door
The chisel bright and keen
Looking for work
Like a collie dog
Mallet wagging
Weightless in your hand
Rounding the letters

The letters speak of rowan
Fetched from a'side
A mountain burn
Fed by snow-melt
Even in summer
Hot sun through thin air
Burnishing each day
The wild, burred grain

Adorned with marquetry anemones
Each petal in fine horn
Further etched with pewter
And you will love that sign
The thought of that sign
Even if you never carve a single letter
Nor ever hang it until
You have something to trade
Apr 2011 · 1.2k
An Laoigh
David Tollick Apr 2011
(for Glynn)*

Singing breeze
Singing breeze
Carrying nothing
Kissed by sunlight
Carry my wishes
Scatter my troubles

Leave the grey highway
Slip through the forest
Birch and pine
Needle and catkin
Shutting the sky out
Speckles of sunlight

Evening sky
How many colours
How many colours
Woodsmoke and silence
Unsleeping river
Silence and river

Wanting to share this
Beautifully lonely
Only I saw it
Only I held it
Stop this stone rolling
Let the moss gather

Living as leaf-fall
Living as boulder
Keener than snowmelt
Fuller than August
Cradle of tree roots
Mantle of mountain

Granite horizon
Breezes will soothe you
Whispering breezes
Will you be listening
Do you hear singing
Do you hear forests
This is primarily a song lyric of mine; the tune has a kind of rythmic, chanting quality. An Laoigh - (Scots Gaelic - the calf of the red-deer) - is a placename from the foothills of the Cairgorm Mountains.
Mar 2011 · 1.7k
Waterways
David Tollick Mar 2011
Maybe water runs uphill
From the ocean's bursting treasures
Of salts, silts, sands
Marshalling at the estuaries
Spawning rivers, as pioneers
Oozing into coastal plains
A brackish caravan rolling
Inland to new-found-land
Beyond the rule and will
Of the tide's spill where
Drought and dry spells
Sweep like wraiths
******* on thieving winds
Throwing heartless dusty curses
Picking off stragglers
In slacks and backwaters
Or caravanned through known channels
Paying taxes to the thick-rooted soil
For passage upstream
Past thirsting leaf and bough
Every mile hard-won
Til the watershed haven
Of bog and lochan
Corralled safely among peaks
There to farm the cloud and mist
And to see blossom, in good years
A deep harvest
Of cold, clean snow
Lochan - a small upland lake (loch)
Mar 2011 · 1.5k
Gold Trainers Dixieland
David Tollick Mar 2011
You just don't notice
The wrinkles an' lines
She's covered them in fun
Coz her easy smile
Will her airbrush be
Until her race is run

Gold trainers
Worn with blue jeans
Are the icing on the cake
As she boogies
With her old man
With the bar-room in her wake

An' the dixie-band
Don't miss a beat
Black jeans, black shirts, deep south
'Cept the double-bass
On whose poker face
Someone's stuck a smiley mouth

And the clarinet
Awaits his cue
Eyes shut in swaying bliss
While Goldie,
She's gone freestyle
And the front-man gets a kiss

So the trombone slides
An' the susa-phones
Just as cool as a cu-cumber
And the 'Judges rocks
as the chorus rolls
“Your Age Is Just A Number”
'The (Three) Judges' is a bar in Glasgow's west-end
Mar 2011 · 847
Kirkdale
David Tollick Mar 2011
Watching the April northerly
Blow the Spring away to sea from Galloway
Towards Ireland
The lee of the **** for shelter
Low sun warming your face

Massive frequent clouds, megalithic
Dull below to towering snow-white heaven
Their wind-driven gunmetal shadows rush out to sea
The bay, at distance, a breastplate of pewter
Beaten across with countless, tiny hammerings

With animal purpose a shape moves slowly,
Breaking the horizon heading for Man
The breeze, coltish, struggling to be gone
Headstrong with promise and challenge
A fine day for such a crossing!
Kirkdale is locally pronounced Kir-dal
Mar 2011 · 721
Trotternish
David Tollick Mar 2011
The wind is stretching her fingers
Kneading the waves
Into darker, worried scuffs
As the sun teases her
With silver treasures, always distant, elusive
Thrown onto the sea
Through cracks in a sky
Whose slate-grey mood
Could be mistaken for malice
As creel-boats see to their lies
Off Flodigarry, in Trotternish
Mar 2011 · 721
Raven
David Tollick Mar 2011
Your talk easily carries the mountains
flattening the blue hare
further into her scrape
ears down, nothing there

Only her breath moves
as the boulder-field
rings with your call
ice falling on rock

Beneath you, deer hug the ridge
your chatter will not irk them
until death takes them
then they will taste your beak

Men's careless leisurely ways
leave you their scrap
you will waste nothing
you will stay above them

You know what they lost
you know what they look for
you, and the hare, and the deer
you have it safe

Dropping into nothingness
your hidden shining eye
sees everything that moves
and all that is still

With the eagle you are fearless
it is not fear that will stop you
nine winters have set your mind
there is no going back
Mar 2011 · 1.3k
Blind Spot
David Tollick Mar 2011
Blind Spot
How lovely to see you again
You are just the excuse
I've been looking for

To leave the road
Crash through the fence
And come to rest
Off track, way off track

Blind spot, sun spot,
Hot spot, turn-me-on spot
Dazzle me, blind me
You seem pleased to find me too

You are just the excuse
How lovely to see you
You are just an excuse
Blind spot, my soft spot
Mar 2011 · 913
Just Me
David Tollick Mar 2011
Is it just me
Or is it just four bottles of beer
Or is it just the picky, pock, patchy
Thawed and re-frozen
Left-over snow

Or the starry sky
A hint of Northern Lights
With the beautiful s-bend of the river
Willow and alder as skeletons
Scribbled against the winter meadow

With river-washed flotsam
Caught along the fence-line
The big trout in midstream under the bridge
In daylight behind her rock
And why not still so now?

Or is it just peculiar -
That while to every horizon the stars fall to Earth
As secrets on countless tongues -
That the word on my lips
Is your name
Mar 2011 · 1.3k
The Soldier's Daughter
David Tollick Mar 2011
careless that she is a soldier's daughter
this afternoon she is a dancer
Looby-Loo skipsy across the cool tiles
while outside the sun crushes the town

hardly enough of her
to fill her pinafore
feather, skelf, sunbeam in perfect time
to the tune in her head

she holds her audience's gaze
four chairs, a broom and the cat
she notices a moth caught in a web
the window squeaks in the heat

1000s of miles away
sand catches at his boots
his mind waltzes back
across his last patrol

trusting the instincts
which have carried him safely
through each patrol so far
dancing with his death

like some deadly tango
after the first few steps
there is no going back
just like having children

there is no going back
Feb 2011 · 812
Island Eventide
David Tollick Feb 2011
I dare say it's good
to talk at times and
there is a lot of the day
that always was a blur
even before you started drinking

along this quiet island's quiet roads
telegraph poles buzz
with 8 megabytes-per-second
bringing the world
to your door these days, they say

You won't answer back
this is just the way it goes
there's the postie
and the nurse now too
and from the mobile library, there's Tennyson

You are at sea still, with his Ulysses
sailing these coasts awhile yet
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

most days now, someone gives you a hand
Feb 2011 · 1.2k
The New World
David Tollick Feb 2011
Must you go to the New World
forbidden fruit, thrilling
nerve-racking, dreaded exam

Looming where the sun goes
a spell you need to break
trailer-trash meets the Long Carabine

Making love to Laura Inglis Wilder
Shock and Awe meets John Muir
Martin Luther and Chicken George

All clapper board and Hopper-esque
while James Taylor sings Mockingbird
with Carly Simon

Your fingers trace that coastline
those place-names where perhaps
you will stand and wonder

At what people can do
because it is all there
in the New World

A new world to replace
the one you already have
should you ever finish with it
but i don't even have a passport
Feb 2011 · 943
Love Makes War
David Tollick Feb 2011
"Consider it” the courtier said to the king
"The Gods would never let the Reaper count among the battle-dead
The young and strong whom love has newly bound
As blissful newly wed”

And so it seemed!
When searching the war-torn land
No grave was found to mark the stain
Of newly wed, newly slain

Thus must they have triumphed with lovers' might
Two hearts in every lover's breast
What foe could stand the steel that love drove
To cleave helm, rend armour, sunder bone

“What mighty, fell warriors these must be
In the springtime of their love”
So spread the Courtier's revelation
The grim weaponry of devotion unmasked

The King, foes at hand and hard pressed
Now quickly formed his shock battalion of lovers
Whose brides, close as a skin to the battle, would suffer
To see Hell break loose between vows and wedding bed

Wedding parties among armourers and farriers
A wedding draught for courage
Gold bands not yet blood-warmed
On hands raised in “Adieu!”

Only through battle the taste of heaven on earth to be had
The love-zealots drove wild through the enemy to find
Among  baggage train and camp kitchens
A familiar, foreign rear-guard, devoted and adoring

Who overjoyed to meet victorious warriors
And at such short notice could not countenance the worst
And, as angels, would have felled these men
With easy smiles and tender greetings

Whence came the counter-revelation
Of us-and-them and just-the-same
And wheeling, reeling heads and hearts
Turned back to battle and were condemned to mortality

The noble and sanctified were thus slain
Justice was served to kings, courtiers, lovers and mere others
And by brutal blow and fickle chance the victors wrote history
And made justice, made their heaven on earth.
Feb 2011 · 1.7k
Subtle is the Willow
David Tollick Feb 2011
Brewing your bitter sap
From the sour, dank sod
In which your feet
Are so comfortably shod
Silk purse made from the bile
Of good-for-nothing land

Your are on the river
In the bog early green
A smile on Spring's young face
Russet tines raking winter's putty
Bearded bonsai of icy summits
Run-maker on summer greens

Webster-woven into creels
For peats, and baskets
For logs of firewood types
Promise me a sprig of ***** Willow
Almost a tree
A match for any tree
"Run-maker" - willow is the wood of choice for making cricket bats
"Webster" - a Scots word for weaver

*****-willows are out now - Spring is coming to the northern hemisphere!
Feb 2011 · 787
Natural Piney
David Tollick Feb 2011
Turned in my hand
Pine cone every perfect detail
Like a pattern
Something of armadillo
About you
Love the symmetry
The natural grace
That makes my head
Swim
So natural
Like the way you smile
Like the way I feel
When you smile
Do you ever do
Anything less
Than be piney
Or coney
Sure you don’t try
Sure you don’t
Feb 2011 · 1.1k
Torn-Face in Gretna
David Tollick Feb 2011
Call it stupid
But feeling not at all
Light-hearted and romantic
On St Valentine's day
I pedal off
Without thinking
And follow my front wheel
To arrive among brides and grooms
Bouquets and buttonholes
Limousines and vintage Rollers
And even a flippin’ horse-drawn carriage
As I cycle into Gretna
Marriage-Ville, UK
On St Valentine's day
Gretna, about 15 miles distant from me, where the blacksmith married, at the famous anvil, hundreds of 16 yr old runaway couples from the south who could not legally marry in England til the y were 18. Even today Gretna has a flourishing marriage economy, based on this romantic tradition.
Feb 2011 · 2.0k
Old Rabbits
David Tollick Feb 2011
Drinking dandelion-and-burdock
til you drop
fighting over the does
punting your second burrow
over the first swallow
the first frost

Playing reynard-roulette
with the yearling foxes
out all night
winding up the hares
“big ears – can't dig”
Countless children

A sweetheart in every meadow

Old rabbits die hard
Feb 2011 · 754
Peewit
David Tollick Feb 2011
you carried the summer here
to move to stop stop stop
to move stop move
across this winter field

olive-speckled smudges
dull-ish sparks
a-flicker over furrows
dusted with snow

are you really there
whispers the naked hedge
are there really so many there
sings the stubble

here, here chorus the flock
blown skywards like spume
banners dancing bonny
at some alarm

cast like confetti
in an icy sky
to settle sudden, calmed
unseen now

the hawk is past
the dog is with its man
the crow-wars
are still months away

— The End —