"kilt" poems
Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And *** leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.
When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.
There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.
Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.
So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.
5.4k
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
You don't know what it's like
To be violated
To be held against your will
And felt up
And leave bruises
By someone you trusted
By someone you thought cared about you
You don't know what it's like to be used just for your body
By someone you thought cared for more than just nudes
By someone who told you were cute and pretty
You don't know what it's like to tell the person who violated you
What they did to you
And how it made you feel
You don't know what it's like to receive a fake apology
One only to get you to shut up
But as you're telling him your point of view
And as he's pretending to apologize
You could just feel all the "I don't cares" and "will you shut up nows"
You don't know what its like to attempt to leave an uncomfortable situation
Only to be pulled back by the handle on your backpack
Unaware of what is going on
You thought you were leaving
You don't know what it's like to be held up against the body
Of a strong, tall male
Unable to push him away
Unable to squirm out of the situation
You don't know what it's like to be barely able to breathe
Because your face is pressed right up against his side
But of course you knew he was strong
He played hockey and baseball
But you didn't know he was that strong
You don't know what it's like to be violated by someone you thought you could trust, or thought they could protect you.
Let's not mention how you don't know what it's like
To be sitting in class, sharing your homework with another boy
Only to feel his hand on your leg
You don't know what it's like to sit in a room full of students
And have no one notice what is happening
And you've shot a look that says don't do it
Yet he takes that as a look to continue to go up further
Because he thought it would increase tension
But really he made your self-worth decrease
You don't know what it's like to have an unwanted hand go up your skirt
And you thought it was okay to wear a skirt that day
Just like you wore one every other day
Because the Kilt was part of your school uniform
But of course that made your visible legs vulnerable
And it's a good thing that someone else call for his attention
Because you wanted anything but his
And you don't know what it's like to make a scene
Or to tell someone
Because you're not sure if you parents will be more upset
About you talking to boys or that your got yourself into those situations
You don't know what it's like to stay silent
Because you don't want to make matters worse
But it's my body, why would someone think they have access to it?
Because you don't know what it's like to be sexually assaulted
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:25 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
Dat ***** Kild (sic), yo !
Little White
Snitch
***** Kild (sic), yo !
Galantine White
Worked Like a Charm
Cataleptic Farm.
See Nothing
Say Something
See Nothing
Say Something
Liked, Liked, This.
See Nothing
Say Nothing
See Nothing
Say Nothing
Said : Liked This
Liked, Liked, This
Liked, Liked, Liked
Liked, Liked This
Kited Dread Slough !
James R Morse, NYC.
All Rights Reserved 2012.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 1:22 AM UTC
There once was a man named Milt
Who wore a very short kilt
On windy days he'd stay inside
For fear his kilt would go for a high ride
If wind was blowing outside Milt's kilt would stay inside
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
i.
Coming out of the state of anabiosis, mine form was ripped and torn, mine adorn was battered and burned, I went through Hades whilst the pit of death's kiss shattered me in agowilt;
ii.
I was dying, in Hell's kilt; once a shape, now ***** in a pit of unsatisfactory demon's; roped, doped, bleeding.
iii.
The scaled creature's bit me, the ceiling's muck dripped me, whilst at mine ending breath's, a light shined forthward, a Filipino empress.
iv.
I was nothingness: a mess, molested, infected, by the realm of raven's nest's. That's when she thundered in, in Baro’t saya wonder; twas me who on the sea, on her lip's i swirled up-with Satan down under, mine tears hadst fluttered by like butterfly's; mine ghost awoke with Jane;
v.
Twas, she was
Heaven on
Mine side;
She took me
For a ride,
Back to
Life
Again!!!
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
The topic for today's selection
Is how to deal with your ********
The price is high to get a thrill
But, it comes in a small blue pill
If your private will not shoot
Or, your soldier won't salute
There's an answer from a lab
That comes to you in a small blue tab
If you have poor self esteem
This pill could just fulfill your dreams
If your pecker seems to wilt
This will give your kilt a tilt.
So, if your manhood is slightly flaccid
Like the waters of Lake Placid
One small pill will make a diff
It won't take long and you'll be stiff
It works deep down on your projection
And points it in the right direction
It helps the package in your trousers
And makes the women all say "wowsers!"
They tried a cream, now that is gone
They couldn't get their work gloves on
They say it works and really fast
And helps to make your love life last
Your girl will love it, that's the goal
For now you've got a brand new pole
Dr. Frankenstein, he brought life
But, no excitement for his wife
She wanted more than he could give
The Doctor's "Monster" didn't live
They say don't drink it with a beer
The side effects are ones I fear
They say that if your BP drops
There's chances that your heart could stop
And should it last for say....4 hours
You should take some cold, cold, showers
Then, if it's still petrified,
I guess...go take it for a ride
Apparently, when it's like this
It makes it really hard to ****
But, if this pill should make it stand
Don't go waste it in your hand
Don't buy generic, at least not yet
For there's no telling what you'll get
It may stand up, it may lay down
It might just turn a dark, dark brown
Remember, it's to give you pride
And make your smile ten feet wide
It's not to ask "what's in my pocket"
"Well, dear it's shaped like a rocket"
It's something to improve your life
And return enjoyment to your wife
For now that she knows this stuff works
You won't be wasting it on jerks
You'll be home where there's no pressure
And having *** at your own leisure
So now, I'll end with some advice
And I don't want to have to tell you twice
The next time you go to NIagra
Take along a few ******
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
Constructioned paper
With spools of colored
Nails to ***** together a longshot drive Autobiographical predicamentals, (k’s roll hard in *****
Be careful, this system telekinetics, some see as a simple communications mechanism is used as weapon by the powers that be that have Molded themselves into of a bunch of specialist.
I'm still living, so far all i've learnt is
Motive
Freedom kilt a lot of
Shut the **** ups.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 4:06 AM 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
*Like fairy dust caught in dappled sunlight they dance.
Swirling gracefully like a ballerina pirouetting
on a child's music box.
Graceful specks of fine dirt engrossed in cloaking
surfaces smooth and coarse.
Like petticoats caught in a summer breeze
rippling, and dipping, causing a sneeze.
Dust motes like a kilt swirling,
whirling in the kaleidoscope of daylight,
engross you in devoting a poem to their dance.
Those molecules, atoms of time passed.*
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
i never understood the concept of
intellectual ************
coming from people with more than three
children.
personally i found it more economic
to sell the theory of relativity
than i cared to see three *****
telling red from blue apart...
the concept of intellectual ************
had me lost...
i could only understand the worth
of ************ intellectually
had i the capacity to breed 3 or more children...
i found that intellectual ************ always
existed in people who had the capacity to breed
Irish families... and did so... without discouragement...
inclusive of some ulterior prompt,
or some Amazonian whim.
or a potato famine.
as paddy always does: move to the whimsical
care for strata.
intellectual ************ only makes sense
if you come from large investment familial circles...
or rabbit libido. who cares?!
none of them will ever build a Coliseum
what's the bother? a pint of Guinness?! why, i can pass
that one modern bother...
i rather ********** intellectually,
than fulfil my biological obligation of a catholic
family... paddy oats.
what do you get when you scratch a potato
long enough?
CHIPS!
squatter mckenzies! limp *****
kilt prone! chequers & cheese!
cheap joke... ha ha... hmm ha:
you got to load up on the romance
to **** off what's never bound to be funny.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC
This was written for Tim Burris. My best friend.
Happy Birthday, Warchief.
The sky will break open.
Meeting shades of red, black, and white, as the sun settles into the void.
This is his brow.
Anvil hands. He marks the moving beneath, like earthen plates in shift.
Affecting change. Symphonic strokes.
War is on his breath. Hidden behind a smile that shines like pax.
Don't dare him or he'll ask you to look down.
Heed the drums.
The warchief comes.
Your victory is written in the fabric of his kilt.
Gilded in the golden thread of kith and kin.
He was watching. He is always watching.
And though the black steed has gone gray,
He snorts storm clouds into the valley he looks down upon.
The tides ripple beneath his skin.
His chest swells in pride and laughter.
Alpha. Hands curled in furious fists of might and mirth,
Trained for love and war and so much more.
Heed the drums.
The warchief comes.
His hug a phalanx.
His word, unbroken steel.
His hands. Anvils.
His history, legendary.
Mighty.
He is the spirit horse.
He is the edgewalker.
He is the vibration playing across the drum skin.
Carrying outward on wind.
Settling peace in the hearts of his own.
Heed the drums.
The warchief comes.
We will stand beside him.
For we are mighty too.
We that tie our spines together, like coursing veins.
We that are family, not of blood.
But spirit.
We that match our heart beats as one powerful rhythm.
Pounding off canyon walls.
Ringing in ears.
Shaking the fabric of the never forgotten.
We that are woven together.
A tartan of our own.
We that stand as one to love.
And laugh.
And revel.
And fight.
We that never run.
But run like blood.
We that are bound with him.
Storm clouds.
A phalanx.
A fabric.
A family.
A drum beat.
We are the drums.
We are the drums.
Look to the horizon.
The warchief comes.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
i was walkin across centrsl park one night when all a suddenly was 75,000 green berets charging
with bayonets flashing in the moonlight screaming "death to da hippie dog jeffrey, death to da hippie dog jeffrey!"
what chumps!
but!!!!!!
i ALMOST felt compassion for them which woulda distracted an thus kilt me
but i overcome
there was a burst a light from inside
an i continued walkin home
lettin them was responsible take it if they chose to
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Am i pellucid
Can any being see me
Like doors standing wide open can you see right through me
Are you all looking past me or at me
What did I do to you
To deserve this
The treatment the wind gets
It's never really a being a living thing
You feel it it caresses your face
But it's never acknowledged as simply being
For this treatment
Did I **** you or did I ****** your ardor
Well you have kilt mine
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Porridge Oats
Porridge porridge porridge oats,
It’s like a giant big over-coat
You can’t beat porridge for a real cold start
It has been said, it’s good for your heart!
The guy in the kilt eats porridge I see
I don’t have a kilt but it’s good enough for me
It can’t be lumpy, must be smooth as silk
You can’t use water, you must use milk
The Scottish put salt on top of theirs
I use sugar like ‘The Three Bears’!
Eat porridge, it’s good, I have no fears
Keeps prisoners alive for twenty years!!!
#food #breakfast #porridge #hungry #warm #fulfilled #cosy #funny #humour #yummy
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
I argue the point and take a stand. How is eating food and sliding a fork in and out of your mouth so much different than a kiss? It is a sensational thing to be fully present for either but if I cannot be kissed I will eat like it is my ***
A hard chair. Sit upright. Dress right..or undress just right.Heels of course. No Tv. NO PC. Silence or the Cocteau Twins Treasure.
Treasure is the third studio album by Scottish alternative rock band Cocteau Twins. It was released on 1 November 1984, through record label 4AD. With this album, the band settled on what would, from then on, be their primary lineup: vocalist Elizabeth Fraser, guitarist Robin Guthrie and bass guitarist Simon Raymonde.
The album reached number 29 on the UK Albums Chart, becoming the band's first UK Top 40 album, and charted for 8 weeks.[9] It also became one of the band's most critically successful releases, although the band themselves have expressed dismay at it. Know your ******* music!
Sit proper and nice. Make a nice table setting-IMPRESS YOURSELF!!!! I mean **** who is in your mouth?? You have more sensations all over than you use..I might spank you if you do not do a nice setting and snap a photo..you know I want to sea green IT!!!
Now take the time to feel the complexity of the flavors built, skill involved-maybe a ******* KILT!
Feel the sliding of the FORK IN AND OUT..little strokes in your pout.
Let is slide so slowly out..feel the edges..nice and smooth..let it slide feel that tine groove.
Chew so succulent and slow..feel the textures and LET THOUGHTS GO
Feel the flow, taste everything within it sink below.
Belly warm, food is desire..imagination and being present is all that is required~
The best way to treat myself is some fine dining. Living watercress & Italian parsley- balsamic vinegar salad on the side of a tempting dish of white beans with sun dried tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, celery, cilantro,orange peppers and some garlic and chili paste with a lemon slice I ate right away and dashed the whole thing with a drizzle of balsamic. I did not taste test anything. I know what a good balance is. My meal was a 5 star worthy dish. I ate everything on my plate.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
They tell of a land to the North
with misted valley's and of glen
Where red deer wild roam
as they make splash upon the fen.
Strong and hardy is the stock,
many with deep red hair,
Raised from their day of birth,
on naught but deep fried fare.
Custom demands of each a thrift,
and preservation of everything,
this all born out on coinage in pocket,
bearing the head of the last king.
They are true a hardy race,
of this many can contend,
and rumours abound all over,
of them tossing trees end on end.
So too there are tales of a legend,
that gives some despair to the soul.
that they smack a ball all over hillsides
until it falls into a wee hole.
Cultural music is a strong tradition.
and dance often accompanies that,
with much joy and merry festivity
to sound of someone neutering a cat.
An ancient tongue they sometimes speak
that gives cause to a certain lilt.
But ire them not for revenge is sweet
as they turn backs and raise their kilt.
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 9:16 AM UTC
No boy will ever
want to **** me
if I forget
to put on makeup
in the mornings
lips red as Eve's forbidden fruit
succulent enough to
bite
tongue
devour
go down
cuz my nose don't
look so My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding
mountainous-side-profile
when it's caked in highlighter
if I have short hair
because short hair means
I'll look too masculine
in the ninth grade I
had a pixie cut
faith
trust
pixie dust
I could feel
my light burning out
(I never did believe in myself)
if I'm not thin
starve
binge
purge
two finger diet
VSCO diet
have you seen
the lovely girls
on the internet
in their
tight bodysuits
Coke Zero
figures
MVP
VIP
they'll get first access
to his ****
if I'm a *****
cuz how will anyone know
what you've really
got to flaunt
when you have to wear
a uniform to school
frumpy plaid kilt
white polo shirt
every button a barrier
like the notches
on his belt
tie coiled
a noose
around your neck
every casual day
I wear fishnet stockings
***** necklines
with push up bras
even though
I'm already a D
cuz I gotta get that D
gotta compensate
for being a ****** somehow
if I don't shave my
legs
stomach
*****
three days before high school graduation
I bought a thong
and got my first Brazilian wax
even though I didn't have
still don't have
a boyfriend
but I wanted him
to be my boyfriend
thought I should be prepared
thought maybe when he saw me
clad in
cleavage
periwinkle
floor-length gown
blue Converse peeking out
from underneath the tulle
I'd be his
Belle of the Ball
that he'd
take me
**** me
love me
but how could any boy
ever love me
in all of my
warped-perspective
grief-possessive
passive-aggressive
self-obsessive
manic-depressive
glory
how could any boy
ever love me
after reading
this poem?
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
In clear dawn’s prescient light I saw
Integrity of man withdraw,
Withdraw from that integral grace
Illuminated in that place.
A clear blue light in silhouette
Of moon and mountain pirouette,
A truthfulness of stark relief
Quite unencumbered by deceit.
Unencumbered by the paws
Of those who bare discordant claws,
They who twist God’s clear blue light
To manifest their grip on might,
Those who would, quite by perchance,
Enlist oblivion’s nuclear dance.
This hanging crescent moon aloft
Above our mountain’s darkened croft,
Delicately etched in vivid glow
Of promised new dawn’s velvet show…..
Dependant now on exchanged themes
Of thermonuclear warfare’s screams.
But then…..
Old soldiers call from War afar
To we who listen, jaw ajar,
To wisdom earnt by good blood spilt
Be of Field Grey or Scottish Kilt…..
“Fight no more this curse of War”
They, from beyond the grave, implore,
“We sacrificed our youth for thee
So thou might dwell in harmony”
In clear dawn’s prescient light they saw
A slit of sunshine’s open door,
Where sanity, just, could pave the way
For laughter’s peal to save this day.
M.
“Lest We Forget “
ANZAC Day
25 April 2017
HAMILTON, NEW ZEALAND
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
A purple carpet.
Sharp.
Spiky.
Cold shrugged off.
It's used to it.
The girls name's laid upon the grass.
That girl so lucky,
Feels the gypsy's pinch.
The lady peeks up the Scotsman's kilt, to see just what he's hiding.
(c) Livvi
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Come on, bro, we gotta put on a show
Keep up with the flow, we're doing this so
Turn off the lights, and I'll glow (Vanilla Ice reference)
A doe is a female deer, didn't you know?
With all these words I'll be put on death row
Doesn't matter, I'll continue to grow
While kneading the dough and ploughing the snow
I'm the rhythmic Van Gogh, let's take a trip to Bordeaux
To and fro on the lyrical train, don't have no woe
I see a siren's glow, whoops, time to lay low
You're from the Skid Row? I'm not though
Thanks for being my foe, guess you've learnt you reap what you sow
No cash I owe, a rhyming kilt I have to sew... Whoa, this is going way too slow but this little gift I bestow, please hold it in escrow. That'll be the quid pro quo and here we go.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Jamming turtles for me.
900 lives later,
I finally kilt koopa.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
*actually, the only home i have are the muddy fields of belgium during world war i, or among the jews, but given the jews are settled, i guess i better daydream: i mean i never got the cultural imprint of the english idea of dating... put me in the Czech Republic and i'd be freely participating in ****** any day... this stiffening date-culture never appealed to me, it always felt like a divorce before a marriage: so no amorous fun with body but fun in making out in cordiality of being fully dressed and lapping palettes up with tongue rather than the ******** as if throwing a coconut at Robinson Crusoe? yes?! ah crap... point towards the Zulu clan, i just feel the need to strip naked.*
yeah, i believe in meow-meow land,
that's the country next to la-la-land...
where you're trying to sterilise
yourself in terms of organic
historicity and integrate yourself
in terms of inorganic sterilisation
via importing alien values to hush
the monogamy crescendo of failure.
with the irish telling you:
ain't no english...
and with scots you shout back:
there's no thing as to be treated impossible
whether in thought about or moved!
the irish want you to have a coarse
enough accent as them so you can be belittled...
i always favoured the scots, warm-hearted ********
and i too the first hairy-shinned trans-gender
kilt loving twirly girl of a music box
of cherry tree cheaply picked Muzak
for the thrills of shopping for cardigans and pineapples.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC