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Sam Steele Apr 16
Take it from me, the things you can see
The wonders your eyes will behold
Mother Nature did good in this neighbourhood
It’s a landscape of riches untold

The lochs and the glens, the Munros and Bens
They are stunning you can’t disagree
Rivers Clyde and the Tay and the Forth and the Spey
The Findhorn, the Don and the Dee

All kinds of rocks, have been turned into brochs
Into castles and bothies and cairns
If I had a say I would choose Skara Brea
As a great place to show your wee bairns

From clear waters great *****, great meat from the coos
That both share the rich fertile fields
So too the deer, with venison premiere
And the sheep produce great woollen yields

The fishing’s fantastic, there’s salmon (Atlantic)
Grayling and pike and big charr
I’ve so little doubt there’s superior trout
That I’ll not tell you quite where they are

We think thistles divine and we like the scots pine
The heather is gorgeous in flower
There’s gorse on the ground. Scottish bluebells around
It’s what young haggis prefer to devour

We have eagles and kites and owls through the night
Ptarmigan.  The grouse are widespread
If you don’t fancy that, there’s a breed of wild cat
And lots of our squirrels are red

Both at midnight and noon it’s like Brigadoon
The landscape is magic caressed
Every plant, every hill is possessed of good will
And the nice beasty that lives in Loch Ness

I could tell you more, but I’d just make you snore
But believe me that’s far from it all
If you’re still full of doubt come quick, don’t lose out
‘Cause we might rebuild Hadrian’s Wall
Cruth-tire is pronounced Crew-che-ra
The words is Gaelic for 'landscape'.
Robert Ippaso Nov 2020
You know that I won
Some say I clear lost
Their whines so exhaust
Wrong man they just crossed.

How wrong they all are
Fools to a man
When I've only began
To work out my plan.

Just wait and see
The Don at his best
When put to the test
I’ll make them all stressed.

First up I'll sue
Reverse the dumb vote
My win then promote
Un-float their small boat.

That all said and done
If not quite enough
I may tweak the math
Then get rough and  tough.

Call up our fine troops
Coerce the weak judges
Then when in my clutches
It's me or coarse crutches.

I think that will do it
But should I be wrong
There's a place I belong
The land of the strong.

A country of Lochs
Of moors and steep hills
Abundant in stills
Real folk with few frills.

That land I can buy
In fact much I own
And Celt to the bone
I’ll claim Scotland's throne.

A great fallback plan
Melania as queen
All day she can preen
Unspoken just seen.

Once king I can rule
Play golf and write laws
As a man without flaws
Days filled with applause.

My plans fully set
I'll ponder and see
For whatever will be
Yet I’m ready to flee.
Hermes Varini Nov 2020
Airn an’ Thundir!
Ere ye sune an’ syne ***,
Wi’ verra Storne orra!
Frae my Burnan’ Rage o’er ye,
Downe, downe!
Moorlan fiery grass flyin’,
Dinna Daur!
To my Roaran’ Bellum
Not to baith listen!
Nor to set foot, again Ah say,
Wi’ thy ain dishonorable duds,
On noble Glamis’ Hal’,
Kingdom of Scotland,
Robert the Bruce,
Ironclad, her Ruler,
For, ne’er, ne’er Ah say,
Ah Unco Wadna!
Ah Unco Wadna!
Wi’ bleezan blade o’ war,
An’ verra, verra guid Targe,
Auldfarran, just twich ye,
Whene'er, an’ fore’er
Intae Red Hell steel-fechtin’.
This poem of mine refers to an ancient Highlander addressing his enemies before Glamis Castle, in Scotland. "Unco Wadna" means "I prodigiously would not", whereas "Airn an’ Thundir" "Iron and Thunder", the latter intended as a proper start, I reckon.
J J Oct 2020
Mothlet-like owl midges fizzling in and out of the waves
   that shuffle the moon's shed reflection,
hovering and imitating like a wettened rorschach--

with disembodied tiny teeth for feet
suckling from the scurvy gums
where shadows are allowed to be kings.

Kings that observe a godess body that spans the whole sky with ******* made of crinkled ash dripping latex that falls
then cuts into the grass to
                                        spread life--perfection spares no time for the impatient.

Glistening stream,mucky dewlap of the mountain carving a caricature of someone  praying for rain and dreaming of a metamorphoses into ice.

With the night comes tide. Comes time. Comes death. Comes life.

If you were to sit down in one spot
anywhere in the world and not move
for another second of yor life

from there on in--
you would see so much beauty and pain
You'd wonder what you ever did to be

as lucky as you had been.
I've been wandering around, like a waltzing matilda.
From Fife in the lowlands, to the cliffs of St. Kilda.
Carrying my life, and all that it wills
Appalachia and plains, to the mighty Black Hills.
Trekking so far, exploring the Earth
Miles away, from the place of my birth.

From the land of the Scots, to the land of the Sioux
From familiar homes, to the places so new.
I'm wandering around, with so much to do.
In the land of the Gaels, to the land of Lakota,
I'm slinging around, like a waltzing matilda.
Lately, I've been trying to find a way to celebrate both my Highlander and Lakota ancestry, and I decided to try writing a poem about it. I hope you all like it
Hermes Varini Oct 2020
Och! downe to howch,
Ye all swithe hame ***!
Waefu’, waefu’ Ah say,
Wi’ burr-thistle’s gowlin’ Storne
Frae my verra, verra Ah say,
Iron-Curse o’er ye.
A storm in medieval Scotland, before the dreary ruins of a forgotten tower.
Where we men – only -
standing in the shadows of giants?
Craggy peaks worn to greying bones –
mountains of fire in the blazing desolation
of heaven,
with nothing – say for the stars above
flaming out – in the endlessness of night.
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
Skellums! Intae doomed countra
Ironclad ah dwell,
Claymore flashing in yon mirror,
And o'er the dreary muir.
There is a semiotic variant of this poem. It includes the image of a sword placed over a mirror as one with a medieval nasal helmet.
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
In the year 1332, at auld Dupplin Moor,
Wi' a shimmering Dagger of War,
Ah pierced the Looking Glass,
And amid so wild a Fire Mass,
Ironclad and devastating,
Mine awn Wraith cam.
Owre He beheld me!
His Claymore gleaming, unsheathed,
Into a darkness no one could see,
Ghaist, I winna yield to thee!
Across yon shield wa, quo' He,
In tyme of war ah threw myself,
Wi' gilded Targe and unforgiving Fury,
High flames falling athwart my iron wame,
While thoosan times boiling wapin fell
O'er that clan of skellums (Wundor Sceawian!)
Frae the white barbican, before the black well,
While thoosan times rising nae fellow-mortal
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts
Ironclad frae the Fire;
But now man, to my warlike whisper do listen:
Ere the rust, in robes of Time,
Shall curse thy blade,
Airn fist ye maun ay wear,
To hold the Firestorm,
To avenge yon star shining still,
And auld Duntulm's stane,
Sae ah shall be strolling forth
In battle ahead of thee!
And when before Dirleton's Wa,
Wi' Colour of Hell reddening,
And next to auld South Ruin,
Yell warlike, enraged Wha Daur!
To thy enemies, and to thy consumed flesh
Doomed I say no longer
Within a forerunning Shade of Death;
And now advance! thy lane, and faithfu'
To thy auld Emblem of Steel,
Whar moorlan winds gaed,
Whar Immortality gleamingly dwells.
There is a semiotic version of this poem, which is written in a potent, altogether martial medieval Scottish tone. It contains my own image "Ghost of Iron". The main theme remains the speaking double, or alter ego, as generated from within a very mirror, and as leading the narrator to immortality. In this light, the underlying message can be looked upon as proving antithetical, although no doubt related to Edgar Allan Poe's own tale William Wilson. The title refers to Dirleton Castle, in Scotland.
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