"bagpipes" poems
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
14k
Me, I play the piano
said one
me, I play the violin
said another
me the harp, me the banjo
me the cello
me the bagpipes, me the flute
and me, a rattle.
And they talked talked
talked about what they played.
No music was heard
everyone talked
talked talked
and no one played
but in a corner one man remained silent:
"And you, Sir, who remain silent and say nothing,
what instrument do you play?"
the musicians asked him.
"Me, I play the barrel *****
and I also play the knife,"
said the man who until now
had said absolutely nothing
and then he advanced knife in hand
and killed all the musicians
and played the barrel *****
and his music was so true
and so lively and so pretty
that the daughter of the house’s owner
came out from under the piano
where she lay bored to sleep
and said:
"Me, I played hoop
ball, chase
I played hopscotch
I played with a pail
I played with a shovel
I played house
I played tag
I played with my dolls
I played with a parasol
I played with my little brother
with my little sister
I played cops
and robbers
but that’s over over over
I want to play assassin
I want to play the barrel *****
And the man took the little girl by the hand
and they went into towns
into houses, into gardens
and killed as many people as possible
after which they married
and had many children.
But
the oldest learned piano
the second, violin
the third, harp
the fourth, the rattle
the fifth, cello
and they all took to talking talking
talking talking talking
so that no more music was heard
and all was set to begin again!
7.2k
there was little octopus he just loved to sing
but the thing he loved most of all was the highland fling
he would play his bagpipes and do his little dance
with his funny legs he just love to prance
he just loved the bagpipes he just played away
doing his little jig that made him bright and gay
he was very happy in scottish kilt
with his little hat he wore at a tilt
he just loved the joy that it used bring
he was very happy to do the highland fling
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 9:32 AM UTC
there was little octopus he just loved to sing
but the thing he loved most of all was the highland fling
he would play his bagpipes and do his little dance
with his funny legs he just love to prance
he just loved the bagpipes he just played away
doing his little jig that made him bright and gay
he was very happy in scottish kilt
with his little hat he wore at a tilt
he just loved the joy that it used bring
he was very happy to do the highland fling.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
and then i am left,
at the upmarket stretch of sand
straddling this most unremarkable state,
quietly flicking my thumb against the blue lighter.
but it's too windy, at the water's edge
in an unremarkable state,
where no one recognizes me,
that bagpipes start playing
the wind acts against my fingers,
they are too delicate, too feminine,
no callousness ever affixed to these,
my ten silken extremities.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
My father's long fingers smooth
over the aged scratchy pleats.
The Kilt is magnificent. It has the
fleeting beauty that only a well
kept antique has, that warm
firelight glow of the past.
It has a few scuffs and holes,
but the somber reds and greens of
clan Mackintoish have settled into
the cloth and darkened pleasantly.
The kilt is always the most important detail,
it has passed from grandfather down,
and it looks as handsome now
as in the sepia photographs on our shelves.
The dirks black ornate hilt rests
heavily against his hip, and the
belt is cinched tightly to hold it up.
you can practically hear bagpipes
My grandfather's dark green cotton socks
sit near the top of my father's calf
and he leans over to adjust the frills.
And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows
in concentration, and his admittedly
attractive white whiskers scrape
across his collar, and the image
nears completion, the drum beats louder.
Reaching up from the ancient past
and grasping the future in tradition,
the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise,
and he suddenly appears less like
my father and takes on the swagger
of a cocky fisherman, of pirate.
He is swinging swords
and playing pipes, and cobbling, and
setting stones upright in ancient
forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers.
I know looking at him now,
what my own ghosts will be
when my time comes.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Another year, another Paddies day,
Here in New York, hope for sun to play.
So the Irish celebration, takes winged flight,
Green is the color in everyone's sight.
Parade in the street, down fifth avenue.
The master of ceremony, we don't know who?
But the master this day, stands as St. Pat,
Clad in green, with a leprechaun's hat.
Hear the bagpipes, the drums pounding loud,
This is the Irish day, to stand and be proud!
A Catholic holiday, dietary sanctions they lift,
Eat meat and drink alcohol, is the Popes gift.
What are we celebrating? Let's take a closer look,
Power up the computer or crack open a book.
St. Patrick was born under English rule,
His family was clergy, formally educated in school.
Kidnapped by the Irish, and held as a slave,
To journey back to England he must be brave.
He returned one day to the Irish shore,
About the eternal Trinity, the Irish learned more.
A bishop now, native clove he did use,
To teach the Irish, about celestial clues.
About the father and son and the holy ghost,
The three leaves on a shamrock, they will forever toast!
The three leaves of a shamrock, and it's circular shape,
Are the same as God's Trinity, the logic you can't escape.
This is why the shamrock is so highly revered,
Wear one on your vest, or tucked into your beard.
Enjoy the day, celebrate with family and friend,
Toast to St. Patrick, may his legacy never end!
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
Bagpipes wail in sorrow,
This man will not wake tomorrow.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
Feel the cold air
hear the sounds
the bagpipes
the prayers
Take time
to remember
to hear
the stories
Stand up
appreciation for
the soldiers
that carried us
Home
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
*go with your flow cause when you hold
on to fear it slows everyone down
like when your clothes get soaked.
Aren't you tired of listening to that cold sounding channel?
Switching frequencies to love is like donning
a warm flannel blanket but
our minds are a storm of thoughts pouring
down in a rusty trough filled w/ GMO foods
bathed in pesticides--
we've forgotten the well deep inside ourselves
it transcends space and time cause
we're with the divine one teaching us lessons like
a father does with sons and sometimes we don't understand,
it's ok, we're human
class is always in session
jamming like musicians listening for the groove--
the beat and rhythm our self produces to dance to,
a soothing tune like fresh water splashing our dry tongue
a song sung from nourished hearts
where every action is artistic as we listen to our one connection
hitting our ear playing our lungs like bagpipes
bodies in vibration swaying with reckless abandon
dancing like when man first discovered fire
to enlighten up a whole nation.*
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
Early morning message
There are
Bagpipes
In
The
Ghetto
Like when teachers give textbook assignments
Knowing the solutions are in the back
Doesn’t matter how you learn
Show up on time with the answers
What a rocking knock
A clock to the jaw
People die
One just did
Listen, you can hear it
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 10:16 AM UTC
we
boarded
our
ships
and
hoist the
Royal Queen's flag
the
captain
shouted out
maties
all
hands on deck
while
the
shipmates replied
aye...aye Captain Bly
we
coupled our sails
and
we
started our
young maiden voyage
through
the
White Cliffs of Wales
upon
the
dark wine sea
if
below
her
where
we
joined our sails
and
the
Scottish
bagpipes march behind
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
We've got bagpipes and buskers,
cannons, and clip.
Lots of marijuana, and tons of tall ships.
Plenty of seafood, and point pleasent park.
It looks pretty lame, until the streets become dark.
Weve got the Citadel hill, and pavilion kids.
lockups, and lockdown. All things that we did.
Plenty of days, where we fell on our *** ,
smokin dope in the glade, and layin on grass.
With colt 45, and 151.
Alexander keiths, and malibou ***
Weve all jumped a fence, and swam chocolate lake.
No other province could handle the risks that we take.
Cause were crazy,obviously, were maritimers.
Dartmouth, and spryfeild.. Hell, our schools are the worst.
But its halifax, Nova scotia.
We do it our way.
Live like the east coast,
Cause i do everyday.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
In August, 1977, My wife, Karen, and son Russ, moved back to Texas after eight years of being away. Back to Dallas, Karen's hometown. A house which just happened to be next door to her parents was going up for sale. However, the owners decided to rent it to us, with an offer no sane person could refuse.
Now the neighborhood was a long- established residential area. The majority of the residents, like my in-laws, had been there from its inception, which made the move easier, for we knew most of them. But, there is always one, whose antics over time, become legendary.
Joe, a Scotsman to the nth degree. Every new years eve, at the stroke of midnight, he would appear on his front porch dressed in his kilt, with his bagpipes, heralding in the coming year with supposedly,
"Auld Lang Syne ". At least that's what it was supposed to be, but with bagpipes, how does anyone really know. He didn't stop there; never ceasing to take advantage to publicly play that over-sized vacuum bag, he would often welcome newborn children, puppies, kittens, etc.
The day the moving van arrived, there he was, out on his porch wearing that plaid kilt, bagpipes clutched against his chest. Except, there was an unexpected "twist." After every two or three bars he would stop and yell out, "Stay away from the moors! Stay away from the moors!" Some of the neighbors stepped out on their porches just to see what was going on now. Even the crew unloading the van seemed to enjoy the entertainment and it helped the time seem to go faster.
Within ten days after somewhat settling in to our new place, Karen and I realized that the "moors" of which Joe spoke, actually were the "Moore's" who were our next door neighbors. Needless to say, it was an interesting neighborhood. That could be "another story."
copyright: richard riddle-august 03, 2015
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
There was a Scots soldier, Bill Millin
The sound of his bagpipes was thrillin'
The Germans thought how sad-
The poor man's quite mad-
We'll not waste a bullet on him then
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
Royal indeed it is my Scottish mile,
May I borrow your body awhile,
Your brew gives me just the smile,
I'll save you forever in my travelers file!!
Another year now, another year new,
whiskey, one too many a few,
like strangers who haven' a clue,
one more night, at the backpacker's blue!!
Now or never, those eyes shine forever,
in my senses, in my heart, in my pyre,
bagpipes printed over the hogmanay's flyer,
singin, hey ya'll, cry me a ****** river!!
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
the sounds of the bagpipes
found their way through my window
I imagined them being played
as the Highlanders marched into battle
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built
A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions
Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
THERE'S many a strong farmer
Whose heart would break in two,
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom
At all times of the year;
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood;
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured,
"O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
"O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
When their hearts are so high
That they would come to blows,
They unhook rheir heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again.
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men,
For O, the strong farmers
That would let the ***** lie,
Their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.
The little fox he murmured,
"O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rcin;
But the little red fox murmured,
"O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish-tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk.
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink.
The little fox he murmured,
"O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured.
"O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
1.5k
. it's like...
listening to
the freddy krueger
soundtrack...
and then...
coming across
ashleys abundance
videos...
you seriously can't
make the **** up!
handshakes with your
shadow, all the way through,
in not making diary
inquisitions,
of dietary requirements.
look at me?
i know...
creepy as the ****
that isn't,
even
closely related to punk;
i had to relate to
alternative impromptus...
i was raised on original
*** Godzilla movies...
i was questing for
an alternative to ****
can i confiscate an teenage girl
with raspy voice?
yes? no?
fuck it... lets go!
tits for bagpipes!
god almighty,
this alternative to ****
late teen girls merely talking...
about their dietary schematics...
oh yeah... date no. 1...
me?
i already have my issues...
i'm a heavy drinker...
i'm not looking for a date,
i'm looking for a ******* dog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
My expression in verse and word.
It is my rock.
My salvation though I. Walked away when limbs were healed. Over the
Years. It sat in dusty corner like the forgotten bookcase.
Runway living. Reaching for the next thing distraction.
Social interaction has become a relic. As we wiggle and prance but
Speak less about truth. Face to face. Eye to eye.
Raise your hands out there if you hear me.
Look up from. The screen if you know. Ditto.
Pain is the great equalizer. Fatigue makes cowards of us all.the mighty has a date as well as the meek .
Nod your head if too weak to speak.
I swear. This coil.
This man-ifestation of struggle and toil.
Fear not. The bottom approaches with a rush. A sudden stop.
It is the anticpation that tingles and teases.
Breathlessly we glide.
My words are my blessing and damnation. Barbed and tipped with buffalo ****
Sweet as the sweetest nectar. Volatile and ******
Willful and recklessly they exit to strike and injure.caress. Convince.
My fathers legacy. Process of elimination.
Truth. Has gone wanting today
Never to return I fear. A vagabond.outcast.
A *****
The wellspring rustles and bubbles patiently not stagnant.
Time is of essence an essence. In essence. A dab or two behind each ear.and sodium pentothal. politicians fess up.
Money caves see sunlight in all corners the thief has absconded. The judge
Slinks down from his perch blood red hands clasped behind his back
There stands the summit. Still I must climb. Unknown the other side.
Will truth abide? there .Another expanse of lies and distortion.Trickeration says I.
a misty bog. Listen. Bagpipes ?. The leafless branch vibrates a siren song to the sod.
The shimmering pool in the parched desert of god.
I stagger foward now unaware. No I am past caring. The will still is there
A ghost. Soon soon.
No ?. No. A mirage
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Dancing bodies in flickering light,
beads of sweat from the heat,
blessed between the bonfires,
between spring and summer meet.
Bagpipes play a haunting tune,
sacrifices are freely made,
these gifts we give to nature,
hoping for an even trade.
Golden flowers braided,
into locks of ladies hair,
scattered in the bushes,
luck and beauty shared.
And when the night was over,
sacred fire taken to the homestead,
bring good fortune and health,
to greener pastures, our herds are led.
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
all in black
suited and booted
wandering
back the ferry
the memorial
has finished
the bagpipes
lay silent
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
i found you like an unnoticed treasure at a garage sale
hidden near old sheets and dusty furniture
and your arms were the bubble
outside of which was only reality
and a thousand things i didn’t want any part of
you told me you’d lived entire lifetimes in dreams
so we slept next to each other to see what would happen
and somewhere along the way between dreaming and not
between pillow talk and nagging questions
i forgot i was supposed to be able to let you go
where were you last night
when i found the secret room behind our bed?
i was trying to tell you, but i could only whisper
and you were sleeping so not even bagpipes could wake you
you told me you wanted just one truth to build from
and i said the truth is a question
just a game that we’re losing
with rules that pretend at dimension
but dimension is a lie
a figment
a fragment of us and tea yesterday
and you said no, there is more than that
because here we are, and what are we?
and i said we are a ripple in the rain.
you believe in substance and i believe in you
but we are made of limitations and hesitations
we are only patterned variations
we have left our shoes at the door of causation
and i forgot i was supposed to be able to let you go
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
i came to you and you welcomed me.
i was with you only for a while and you understood.
i gave you all i had and you loved me more.
when i was happy you laughed with me.
when i was sad you encouraged me.
when i was curious you delighted me.
then came cancer and you were astounded.
then came doctors and you interceded for me.
then came knives and needles and you stayed with me.
i loved the water and you brought me dolphins.
i loved the blue sky and you coloured it with butterflies.
i loved you and you filled my final days with joy.
always remember our days together.
and, i really liked the balloons and bagpipes.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC