"hindmost" poems
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
a deck
now with
Bedouin high
there dream
her red
quotient in
Catalonia with
Montserrat qua
mountain deem
hindmost their
trials to
independence back
to innermost
Barcelona as
watershed lariat
begun this
year Ole
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry “Amen”
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polished form of well-refinèd pen.
Hearing you praised, I say “’Tis so, ’tis true,”
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
1.4k
I'm here, I'm there,
I'm actually everywhere,
Am but a girl,
That is invisible,
And ironically vulnerable.
I'm weak, I'm sick,
They call me a freak,
Am but loner,
Tired of too much choler,
And increasing anger.
I'm disastrous yet piteous,
They're cursing me in chorus,
Am but a ghost,
In hindmost,
In this wide cosmos.
I'm not here, I'm not there,
You find me nowhere,
Am but a nobody,
Yet you can see
Me, being eerie.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
What good is peace if war is not a possibility.
Fool's gold though old men get to sit out while the young
are minced,vaporized.
Peace is a Noble aspiration and
well worth pursuing. Meanwhile The warrior must stand firm
To allow peace to have a say. Wolves are at bay not by happenstance
but by design. The devil will take the hindmost but will catch hell from the foremost who will turn and unleash havoc
Even at the highest cost.
It has always been. That way.
SEMPER FI.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
The devil took the hindmost. The foremost kept the tempo
He carried it away A beacon points the way
then devoured it Reliable to a fault
sat satisfied. The devil
Gleefully. mournful
last seen walking
drag
gone
So. Note to self. Cant afford to slack
No time for looking back or sleeping with regret.
Cause the devil takes the hindmost.
and that's a certain bet.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
It’s easy to discern the who what where and when
Compared to the divination of why.
Why are we here? Why are we alone?
Why are we tortured with foreknowledge of death?
Stop.
That’s the most important why, perhaps.
For it plucked us from the trees
And set us on course
To make some sense of our shortage of days,
To ****** the brass ring of eternity
If only in the collective memory.
(Let us here pause
And give a moment’s thought
To the countless anonymous
Who sacrificed all their
Fleet-footed hours
And all human joy
For attainment of eternity
In the memory collective
Only to have been
Promptly forgotten
In the first moment of
Posthumous silence.)
But this quest is amoral,
It does not specify
Whether fame or notoriety’s the prize.
This is the apple of Eden
The tree of knowledge.
It is the crux of sentience
(Poor sentience,
robbed by redefinition
of all salience and pride,
Left lying shop-worn and ill-used.)
It’s the fear of time, the root of crime
And our demand for assistance devine.
Are our whole lives a scream of protest
Against the known inevitable?
Can inevitability even be known
Without the benefit of hind legs?
(Why the quadruped bias?
(and what does this have to do with inevitability?)
Any more than four legs would render
‘Hindmost’ as opposed to ‘hind.’
Let us be specific,
Whether or not it’s
Neither here nor there.)
Why can’t we make peace with our fate,
And accede to the eventual silencing of that
Hated, feared, beloved voice within?
What does nothing feel like?
What does nothing sound like?
Who would be there to tell?
Imagine our lives
If foreknowledge of death,
Did not exist.
What would be sustained?
What would be lost?
What would have never become?
(I know that my ask is unreasonable at best,
The bell has already been rung.
But this is my poem and I’ll ask what I will.)
Could you live in such a state
Of innocence edenic?
Of course not; not as you are.
But then, who, what would you need to be?
If innocence were refundable,
What would that voice,
That lives in a certain place
Between your ears
(Would that voice still
be hated, feared, beloved
under the prospective circumstances,
or would it be otherwise?)
Have to say
(Does a voice ‘say,’
Or does it speak
For it’s master?)
When in quietest solitude?
Are you uncomfortable?
Will you turn the page?
Would you prefer to debate
Than to imagine?
Do we know which way the wind blows?
Are there any more weathermen?
Or are we all meteorologists?
Does it matter?
Did it ever?
For those who remain,
Let me welcome you
To the Realm of Poets and Madmen.
A distinction without a difference.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC