"cannae" poems
Hwenne, och! slawlie IT, an’ unco Licht!
Afoyr th' wounded frae Lyife Ghaist-Ancestors,
At Calanais Stane Sirkill Auld, an’ Verra IT, Micht!
Wae th' Lost ay! o'er Deep Tyme Unforgivin’,
Hidden Bleezan ay, Sacrificial Rite at Myrk Nicht!
Th' Stowed Oot Moon Conquerin’ rayses IT, tae mee!
Amydde Thae Verra Bluish, cannae nowe ye a' see?
Cauld Cluds ay flashin', an' Verra Thay A' Hye!
Ainlie, ainlie Raw Rid Bridie sloch Ah!
NVNC RVBRA CLARO FVLMINE REFVLGENS LVNA
QVIA REDACTA EST AD FVLGOREM RES RVBRA
TOTALITER INTRA SACRVM CIRCVLVS VICTRIX MIHI
VBI REX INVICTVS AC MAXIME VLTOR OVERMAN
RVBRO LAPIDI CVM MAGNO NECNON PHANTASMATE
ALTA HIC FLAMMA POTENTER ADVENIT RVBRA.
Feb 11, 2022
Feb 11, 2022 at 5:11 AM UTC
A Roman, noble and Patrician,
moved his Legions into position.
The morning Sun was in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
The Day was hot, they lacked hydration
as they fought this battle of annihilation.
The hot winds swept dust in their eyes
as they advanced upon Cannae.
Hannibal troops seemed to retreat,
The Legions were in hot pursuit.
The Carthaginians moved to surround
the Romans on the killing ground.
Eighty thousand Roman dead,
Mars’ thirst quenched by the blood they shed
Their arms and armor cast aside
upon the fields around Cannae.
Fortuna always smiled on Rome
before this battle at Cannae
Rome’s Senators refused to yield
though their Sons lay dead upon the field.
In the Pantheon of gods
echo prayers from the devout
to a new god born of that rout.
Some say it is the god of doubt.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
Still like a waters edge.
A sense of no sense and nonsense.
Puddle drunk, a nun to nothing and cross dressing monk.
You cannae hide, seek the tongues that speak.
A riddle of the weak, a bridge that saves both sides from falling away to a mountains edge,
the tiller, distiller lookalike Windy Miller,
converse, adverse no rhyme or reason to build a better will.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
i was in the mood for dancing, but i cannae dance,
17 and have rubber legs and concrete feet,
you 18 and dance a minstrel, jester treat.
we looked and got hooked on the sweet retreat
and home made sushi,
i danced anyway.
and stroked your hand, you told me a carefree whisper
and blew a raspberry, you are really tall and your
favourite pastime is sipping latte and reading,
do you like the ocean, the sea, the waves that wave at me
while cold air takes me anywhere but there and the fear
of feeling alone here, my dancing boy, annoy and freefall
into my arms.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
To the average working stiff
the mouth feel of Saturday
always popped and fizzed
a day to get on with the business
of being
without being defined by your business
(shout out to all in retail and shift work
your heartache is saved for other verse)
This Saturday has come
with revised terms and conditions
that seem to have rather stunted
the former purpose
like a PC revision
gutting all the cheeky dirt
for contemporary sensibilities
Fine, but understand
that from behind closed doors
a million folk are figuring
how to **** about in a myriad
of new ways
Ye can take our pubs,
but ye cannae take
our shenanigans!
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
Pennies rolling roon a scaffy auld purse.
Last year wis bad, but this year is worse.
Winter comes freezing these auld joints,
An'a cannae make it to the bank or any cash points.
And If A could A wid see nothing but zeros.
While the men in suits cut budgets and call themsel's heroes.
But I guess, once again, it's that auld December curse:
Heating or Eating ( Or perhaps a penny to quench ma thirst)?
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Mcdonald says
A jimmy wis lost
in Auld Reekie
'n' sae asked
a polis boaby
is thare
a B& Q in Leith?
'
n' th' polis boaby said
Na bit thare is
a D & E in Dundee.
We hud a roar
'n' Finch bought
th' neist round o' drinks.
A scotsman wis
in a taxicab
whin th' driver said
Th' brakes dinnae wirk
'n' we ur gaun
doon th' road
'n' ower th' cliff.
Sae th' Scotsman said
If ye cannae
stoap th' taxi
at least stoap
th' ruddy meter.
Ah laughed
bit he juist sat thare
wi' that straecht goup
o' his
smoking his ***
wi' care.
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 4:33 AM UTC
You slid a finger
down the inside
of your left arm
in imitation
of a knife blade.
Nurses passed by
back and forth
busy making beds
in the locked ward.
I sat on the sofa
looking at you
standing there.
Your slim finger
left a feint line
of pinkness.
The Scottish woman
stood by the doorway
smoking and moaning
about the Indian woman
who she said
stunk tha place
ta hell.
Music from the radio
pushed out pop
or DJ crap.
You walked past
the Scottish moaner
into the other part
of the ward.
I watched you
walk away
how the short
dressing gown
held you close.
You beckoned me
to follow
with a curved finger.
I stood up
and walked past
the Scottish woman.
Cannae ya smell
tha stinking betch?
She said.
I said no
although I had
but not wanting
to say.
She moaned on
but I walked away.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
Tis' true, that God's as canny a being, as beings can be.
But can he ask a question, even he, cannae answer?
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
Here’s a wee yin for his birthday
The hale world’s hae’in his supper
Time for a poem or a song
And a wee whisky chaser
Enjoy Rabbie’s supper
Wi that big sonsie face
And neeps and tatties
Wi nae stomach space
Every toon in Scotland
Every pub that he’s been in
Telt some odd stories
About his kith an’ kin
Telt them in auld Scots
It’s the language that he kens
If he’s got a beer in haun
He’ll pit doon the pen
Socialising wi’ pals
Whisky, beer and song
All the things to be enjoyed
An’ that cannae be wrong
They call him the bard
But he’s just a man
Wi some great stories to tell
And as many as he can.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC