"brae" poems
He filled his week bag
with quick picks from the commissary
cover blades and skull cap
canned goods and half stated pearl
liquor bills and bleeders
for the flight of weary
Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana and nurture sage
past the pomp and ceremony
out of robes and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas
Light infantry and yelling men
muscled and scorned
fly boys high in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape
Tarrant tabers and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands grease the mill trap
carnage makers mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers and pile bags and earth pack)
Trench helmets and metal back
under machine fire
minefields burn in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold despair
Slouch hats and burning rats
kerosene lamps and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken lines and limbs
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped and rolled pipe and beam
It was an all in end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the fokker pursuit
over rolling hills and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
off the brae corbie road
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
I am an island child,
Of dire rocks and thistle,
Clear lake and lone skies,
Of bonny birds who whistle,
I race the strands with tides,
Waiting for my lad to meet,
So lonely are the night stars
I dreamt in my loft to sleep,
Far is the isle of my mind,
To slip away on new voyage,
Near is the sorrow into kind,
As I wait for keep in marriage.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Two friends, two lively runaways
Skin tinted light bulb white-
A vague starched contrast to pistachio Mays
So many tides of turquoise fears
Lave rooted feet in flight unseen thus far
In moon parade resulted earthly years
Few never landing kites are brushed against a shooting star
Wait! Now listen. There he comes.
Vein lianas pierce his pale wrists-
Pan plants steps on earthy lumps -
This straying soul the aging still resists
You may spot him in a forest
Leaving seasoned feral brae
With some berries wild in August,
Sweetening strangers' welcomed stay
"Have you seen my Darling, boys?
She wears ribbons in her hair
Darns old lovely teddy toys
Pray this life to her is fair."
"No, but say the author tells the truth
Lives your Wendy in a city
And her children know the sooth
They are little, yet so gritty"
Peter smiled :"Well, then I will bring them all
They'll attend the fairies' ball!
Now close your eyes and let us fall
If muffled in a fairy dust no harm will ever you befall
Onward, over a forgotten cave
Peter's flute in silence lays
Upward for a foggy cradle crave
Three flying figures in ablaze
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
.
I am an island child,
Of dire rocks and thistle,
Clear lake and lone skies,
Of bonny birds who whistle,
I race the strands with tides,
Waiting for my lad to meet,
So lonely are the night stars
I dreamt in my loft to sleep,
Far is the isle of my mind,
To slip away on new voyage,
Near is the sorrow into kind,
As I wait for keep in marriage.
.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 5:06 AM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 7:33 PM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
Tell me again why you are running away,
...forgotten yearning.
It seems to me like you've gone astray,
...very discerning.
I know you won't listen to what I've got to say,
...so concerning.
But it seems so selfish of you not to stay
...ever the casern king.
You always 've seen the world in a shade of gray
...endless murmuring.
I wanted, just once, to hear you pray
...useless stammering.
Just to know where your soul would lay
...'aven't started burning.
I tried to shape you, create form from clay
...too inurning
But it seems that I created a mess, a splay
...you're learning
Blinded, I just watched as you began to sway
...court's adjourning
And now your body ash as we prepare to bray
...just sojourning
My constant pushing led to this needless slay
...very secerning
Regrets of times past will be reminisced today
...un-upturning
And so, we say goodby one last time along the brae
...stop mourning
As we spread your ash to the wind on this spring day
...I'll be...ret..u..r...n.....i.......
Jul 12, 2011
Jul 12, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
In some lost, moss covered grove, lifeless, she layed…
Then Green Venus tipped her basin, showering
streams of endless water thrashing and splashing
atop her ***** then rushing down her bronzen brae.
Flushed in feminine essence, she opened
her great shell to fill with sumptuous water
‘till it spilled and gushed the ribbed edges over
and onto the soil did Spring’s milk descend.
Drenched and dripping she bursts from dormancy
to embrace her first morning of animation
through misty flurries and fluid gyration
leaving slushy trails of puddles and pollen
and, through dew soaked skies, dawn’s first amber light
Illuminates Spring, fully wakened and alive.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
The Crash On Me
It's time To sway
I Will Never Forgive
That World made By Lie
The Only Reason Why You leave
Nothing Left To Say
Nothing Left To Give
Every part of me Fades Away
To be The Rest Of that Wreckage
Lonely behind The Door
The Time When I was Sure
You lay me On The floor
To Scream Please No More
Nothing left to see
You keep it as locking key
Close my eyes to be free
bite my heart such the bee
that's what you want to be
Taking the whole me
As You Uproots A tree
And Drop It From The brae
Lonely behind The Door
The Time When I was Sure
You lay me On The floor
To Scream Please No More
The Wave rolling and crashing
And The hands Was in chain
Drops Me Down With Hard bashing
Tied to me tight, tie me up again
Do You Know How's That Feeling
The Only Thing You'll Never Gain
Through window I Keep Watching
To Realize How Stupid I Been
For Every Moment I was making
you Fake Reactions Into My Brain
Lonely behind The Door
The Time When I was Sure
You lay me On The floor
To Scream Please No More
Author / Aladdin Aures Hamdi
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
I saw her in town yesterday,
She crossed the hill o’er the brae.
She didn’t see me, or so she played;
‘Twas only her son did look my way.
A young man with eyes so blue,
With wavy hair and ginger too.
Often time folks wondered why,
He never had her husbands eyes.
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 5:38 PM UTC
Rustling voices grassland stirs
lisping to trees and flowers:
rising in branches of the firs,
whispering to nesting bowers
urging birds to sing of Spring.
Snowdrops, shamrock, greet
Winter’s sun and shyly bring
crocus out in lane, brae, street.
Now bare lilac buds melt away
frosty hints of doubt and sorrow,
drooped with tears of rain today,
they shall laugh in leaf tomorrow.
As for you and me? A fresh refrain:
“Take new heart – Begin Again!”
TOBIAS
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
wet eyes a-twinkle with unshed tears
from northern wind's raining spears
grazed silhouette of solitary deer
antlers branching as tree austere
then, a hind of tan and grey
tiptoed forth from underlay
followed close by calves to play
'pon the shadow'd bracken'd brae.
and as the deer midst berries bent
in sweet paradise of wet pine scent
in nature's naked, raw element,
sharp rustle was heard, clear, evident
"soft!", cried hart, "who goes there?"
all looked, still, statues a-scare,
"'tis but me", grinned the hare,
his nose a-twitching in the air.
"Well, welcome, then, my good ol' friend",
said he with nuzzle on nose'd front-end,
"I know I can on you depend
those sharp ears to apprehend"
"smallest hindrance to our meet convivial,
for sound though minor be not trivial,
thus we may enjoy our meal
as our young frolic by mother's heel."
Jan 6, 2022
Jan 6, 2022 at 7:03 AM UTC