I got stuck on Skye;
There were many
Reasons why.
The ring of mountains
Walled me in,
The blue above
Was closer then,
The blue around
Was too deep,
And the whiskey
Was smooth and cheap.
The chatter of the lads
Was keen;
The beauty of the lass,
Serene.
Yes, I got stuck on Skye,
Managed to get off
Before I died.

On the drive from St. Andrews to Aberdeen
I stopped at a roadside cafe,
For toast and jam and tea.
The young blonde server
Took my order,
And never spoke a word.
Then her mother bellowed
From the back of the room;
And her father barrelled through the door,
And a baby cried;
She's wanting more.
This is their country;
She was their girl.
I paid for the platter,
I tipped the teen,
And continued on
To Aberdeen.

One of the most beautiful of all Barry Hodges' "Memories" poems, and one in which a sad death occurs

O how sanguine your author was, that
After so many bitter heartbreaks
On the rocky road to Love
(sweet Nirvana shared with a special kindred soul),
This would be the Big One,
The dawning of my joyous future,
A future to be enjoyed in togetherness
With the woman of my dreams,
A charming full-breasted Highland lassie.

I smiled in innocent anticipation
Of what might transpire
As I waited to meet my wee Aileen
That lovely Scots summer evening
In the bonnie Pass o' Killicrankie -
Her selection of such an inconvenient,
Yet spectacularly gorgeous spot,
Reflected what I had come to appreciate
Of her romantic nature, thus boding well
For our first physical encounter.

Although we had not hitherto met
In the full flesh, so to speak,
I felt I knew the dear girl well,
Having exchanged increasingly amorous emails
On an exclusive dating website
http://brokenhearts-renewed-by-hotspunk.co.uk*
And the semi-draped digital photo
Made my heart go pit-a-pit-a-pat
And made my sporran twitch,
To put it mildly, dear reader.

And so I waited, bouquet in hand,
By the bridge o'er the Pass o' Killicrankie,
That warm evening last year
And the birds sang a gentle little song:
Tweet-tweet-tweety-tweet
They chirrupped, somewhat unoriginally,
And how my heart was gladdened
By their artless warbling, och aye,
But I knew not what tragedy lay
Just around the proverbial corner.

And then I saw her coming down the path,
Limping gently (I recalled she had mentioned
early on in our electronic correspondence
that one leg was slightly shorter than the other
thanks to an incident involving a rabid Rottweiler)
And, O dear Lord, she was indeed a beauty,
Truly a very tasty number indeed
(although at least ten inches shorter
than I had fondly imagined theretofore),
And I knew my prayers had been answered
(yet perhaps not one hundred percent ideally).

We embraced shyly as she rested her lesser limb
On a conveniently sited large round stone,
As we stood by the bridge looking out o'er
The spectacular Pass o' Killicrankie,
With its tumbling burn in the mighty ravine far below,
And she reached up on tippie-toe
So as to bring her lips up my mine
In order to seal our love, to plight our troth;
Och how my poor wee heart pounded
Like a steam-hammer at full throttle.

But Fate, cruel Fate intervened brutally
And her surgical boot slipped on the aforesaid stone;
Then she fell against the ill-maintained fence
Which inevitably snapped asunder
And my Aileen toppled over into the terrible depths
Of the famous Pass o' Killiecrankie,
Her arms flailing like semaphore.
O, but I shall ne'er forget her doomed shrieks
As she bounced over the granite rocks,
Landing with a fatal plop in the rippling stream
As it ran urgently in the crannies at the bottom
Of the legendary Pass o' Killicrankie.

There's aye a silver lining to this tale
As poor Aileen's handbag still lay on the path
And I quick perusal therein
Suggested I could go for a tasty supper
At the nearest hostelry and have plenty left over
To subscribe to a more explicit dating website
(perhaps one where only the physically perfect
would be allowed to register)
In the hope of better luck next time round;
But the memory of her dying gurgles
In the icy waters of the babbling brook
Coursing through the Pass o' Killiecrankie
Will live with me for all eternity
(well, a week or two at a rough guess anyway).

One Christmas Eve in Stranraer
I found mahsel' ****** in a bar
Wi' a fat Dumfries ****;
Ach, 'twas easy tae score,
Once I tell't her I'd kipped wi' her Ma.

I spent Christmas morn in Prestwick
Wi' a girl whose lips were aye thick
(not the ones on her face
but in t'other place).
Their hugeness fair crushed ma braw ****.

That night near auld Newton Stewart
Wi' a lass who declined aye tae do it,
I used all mah' charm
And twisted her arm,
But the smell in her breeks made me rue it.

On Boxing Day evening in Ayr,
I met a girl who had a huge pair
Of bonnie fat ****;
They thrilled me tae bits
Before I explored her "doon there".

Galloway lassies are corkers
And Girvan girls are laud squawkers;
But for suckin o' the ****
Tak' yersel' tae Cumnock,
If ye dinnae mind fat spotty porkers.

You're no wondering doubt, in this poem,
Why no lassies have met a fell doom
(so I'll mention the death
of poor ugly Beth
Who got squashed in a ******* in Troon).

Here the veins of the earth trickle  between moss and rock,
Their passage held by soil and stone.
Who sees it? who is there to witness?
Who even cares?
The earth knows and turns.

Listen... what will you hear but the birds,
The sounds of running water
And your breath?
What will you feel but the earth beneath your feet?
How dare you think
When nature takes you into her womb.

Why do you sit here friend
And worry about this and that?
Go to the forest and walk.
Watch the trees and the birds.
They will take your cares away
And ease your troubles.

How many mouths whispered silent prayer
And sat in these halls wishing for god.
How many lives were celebrated and mourned here.
Unions made and broken.
The family, the hearth, spirit, life and death.
All flowed through here.
Now it stands proud and open to the heavens.
Holding the glory of what has been and is now.

Stone upon stone,
Piece by piece until it was made
That church that castle of the soul
It stood, it stands, a monument to man, toil, sweat and reverence.
Time honours it, blesses it.
Now it is part with the land
As it was always.  

Do not look upon it for you may not see it's glory
And a shame to miss and pass by
and to not think what things happened here.
What joys and sadnesses,
What moments and sorrows it witnessed.
Do not pass by but do not look either
For we cannot imagine. To know
The stories it holds and the memories it keeps.

I will re-visit
The modern picts,
The viking border people
Comparing *******
And slapping bellies
While giving dheagh shlainte.
They've plundered their last village;
It's been a while since they protected the walls
While sleep sets in.
They raid the pubs,
Raise a glass shield,
Weild a shot glass
Singing shlainte,
The dragon ships have sailed.

Jim McDonnagh pulled his 2011 Ford Escape into his driveway, glancing over at his six year old son, who was sitting at the end of the drive. Angus McDonnagh, all of six years old, and ginger haired was waving at his dad, from a kitchen chair, set behind a card table. On the table was a sign and a box. Of course, from the angle Jim was at in the car, he couldn't see what was on the white board hanging in front of the table. Angus waved again, and turned back to the road.

Jim, entered the large four bedroom bungalow from the side door, looking back at Angus one more time. Angus, was sitting, watching the cars drift by on the road in front. Carol McDonnagh, Jim's wife of nine years was at the front window watching out over Angus and his table. Jim came up behind her, and asked "What's himself doing out there at the table then?"

"I think you'd best go ask him yourself" said Carol. She had a slight smile on her face.
"No, what's up with him then....why the lemonade stand at the end of the driveway?".
"It's not a lemonade stand...did you see any lemonade out there?"
"Come to think of it, no I didn't...just wee Angus, and a box"..."What's in the box?"
"Go and talk to your son"..."He'll let you know...and oh, we've a long distance call to Belgium going to be on the next bill".
"OK....I'll....who do we know in Belgium?"
"Questions, questions...go and talk to your son"

Jim, went out the front door of the house, past Angus's bike in the walkway, where he always left it, and where Jim always told him not to leave it. Angus turned to see who was coming and then turned back to the road.

"Hey son, what's up?" said Jim. "Your mum said I should ask you what you're doing out here".
"Nothing Dad, just practicing...that's all", and he turned back to the road.
"Just practicing..cool, ok I asked"....and Jim started away, turned on his heel and asked "Do you mind if I ask ...for what are ye practicing my lad?.
"To be famous Dad, to be famous" said the ginger headed mite.
"Oh, ok then....hold it....To be famous?"..."By sitting at the end of our driveway in the middle of Glasgow, you're going to be famous?".
"Not now Dad, I'm practicing....but one day".
"Oh alright, dinner's in half hour, see you then"...."Hold it....how is sitting at the end of our driveway, at a card table with a box....practicing to be famous?".
"Easy Da...I'm selling autographs".
"Autographs?" asked Jim.
"Yep" said Angus.
"And whose fine autographs are you selling my son, my son....you can't write your name yet....you can barely scrape by on the printing side of things too".
"Their mine Da...mum did them on some kitchen cards for me. Their only one pound each. All famous people have autographs". Jim walked around to the front of the table, and looked at the box and the sign. Sure enough, one box full of about twenty white three by five recipe cards with Angus McDonnagh written on them, nice and sweet as could be. On the sign, "OTTO GRAFS" ONE QUID EECH!!!!

Jim pondered his son's new and sudden career choice and asked "Angus...why do ye want to be famous?".
"Because it's cool Dad. Everyone likes famous people". "I see..." said Jim. "Just a thought though son, don't you have to do something to become famous, to have people like you?".
"That's why this is just practice" said Angus.
Now, how do you argue with that logic?

Up at the house Carol was looking out at her two men, one ready to be famous and the other confused as to why.

"Dad, you like them footballers on telly, right?". "Yes son, I do....they're good at what they do".
"And when you see them girls in the paper, without their shirts.....Cor' I'll have a bit of that...isn't that good. That means you like them too, right?".
"Yes son, but...that's a different sort of thing".
"How?...they're famous and people know them...are they good at what they do?" asked Angus.

Flustered, Jim answered "yes they are son, yes they are". "What exactly do they do Dad?".
"I'll tell you when you're ten son...wait until you're ten".
"I'm gonna be famous like that footballer who's always in the news dad"....
Jim thought about it...not sure who his wee boy was talking about.....and then it hit him.
"You know dad, the one they always show on the news and the sports with that lady".
"Son, that's John Terry, Englands Captain", said Jim.
"He's the one, played for Chelsea too".
"That's not what he's on telly for lately son, that's not the type of famous you want". "Why not?"
"He's famous for doing something bad, that's not what you want...is it?".
"So, I don't want to be like him, and I'm not ready to know about taking my shirt off...what can I be famous for Dad....I'm ready..I've got autographs done in the box".
"I know son, you'll find out"....and hopefully soon thought Jim.
"You can be like that Justin Barber lad from Canada....go on the internet and do stuff there, you can get famous from that son".
"It's Bieber and nope, nope and nope" said Angus.
"He has tattoos, likes girls and worst of all...he looks geeky".
Jim laughed at the last bit. "But, he's famous...isn't that what you want?"

"Supper!!!" Yelled Carol from the window.

"It is, but not if I have to do that...I never thought being famous would be so tough".
Jim thought, exactly why I avoided it son. He grabbed the box, and folded up the table, Angus was dragging the chair behind him...he dropped it by the bike and went in.
Jim looked at it, dropped the table...took out a pound coin, dropped it in the box and went in for dinner.

"Maybe I'll be a fireman instead " said Angus as they went inside. "People like them too...and it doesn't seem as hard as being famous"...."Yep, a fireman".

Jim smiled, tousled his son's raggedy head and went to the table.

"Now would someone tell me about this phone call to Belgium?....