"laddie" poems
Your eyes
Make me smile,
Your lips
Want me, I know,
Your hair
Is for being lost,
Your height
Is for me to faint,
Your breath
Is air of true life,
Your arms
Hold me so tight,
Your legs
Are shock, arresting,
Your cheek
Is for giddy kissing,
Your words
Go trancing, unheard,
Your fingers
Are for **********
Thank you m'lord,
For sensate love,
Thank you m'lord,
For shivering flesh,
Thank you m'lord,
For what grows in me,
I am your mistress.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
2.8k
'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind,
Are frail and failing sair;
And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad,
Gin I come hame nae mair.
The grist is out, the times are hard,
The kine are only three;
I canna leave the auld folk now.
We'd better bide a wee.
'I fear me sair they're failing baith;
For when I sit apart,
They talk o' Heaven so earnestly,
It well nigh breaks my heart.
So, laddie, dinna urge me now,
It surely winna be;
I canna leave the auld folk yet.
We'd better bide a wee.'
2.5k
Out in the opens, I loved you fair,
A greeting door of wishes left ajar,
My heart was true consummation,
Offered up to you, beautiful laddie,
Hands held out for your windy soul
And one day my promises became,
Just woulds and pines and beach,
A childish strand of story charms,
Now a love goes cold, ungathered,
A rag of cloths hangs nigh to ribs,
I leave my prints on knotted wood,
My greeting door is closed to you.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
*sense is seen
when scents on scene*
1.
jaunty-laddie walked and grabbed the sun out the sky
hid it leisurely in his back-pocket
while the candy jumped out the sweet-jar
and the farmer fed the dog to the food
2.
an elm-tree nearby coughed nervously at the encroaching-air
as the letterbox chatted lively to the ivy-hedge
the wind popped by and whistled out a papery-sigh
that the clouds caught and flung into a blue swing-lasso
3.
working out moves in ab-struck-shin
sweaters and jumpers at the local gym got all scratchy
and went on strike to protest against the über-cool fridge
and gravity took a break
and we all
flew
a way..!
woof-woof
S T - 26th of October, is it?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
He was a poet,
She his poetry.
He was a crooner,
She his melody.
He was a painter,
She his masterpiece.
He was a monk,
She his inner peace.
He was a captain,
She his ship.
He was an admiral,
She his fleet.
He was a laddie,
She his missy.
. . .
. .
.
Now there's no more she.
Forlorn is he.
W e e p i n g.
G n a s h i n g.
W a n d e r i n g.
Stripped of...
"E v e r y t h i n g"
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
This topic is near and dear so let me ask you the reader
I just want to take the pulse or check the reflexes.
Ladies and gentlemen. Step right up step right up.
Little closer now dont let the smell of formaldehyde turn you aside.
This is something that goes on.
The government thinks it has a right.to.
1.Tax you while you live.
2. Levy a an exit tax when you croak. How is that for a sick joke.
This is just an observation, a point of fact.
Ever been to an Irish wake.
Ther's drinking and singing
Tall tales abound as the guest of honor poses ashen and.stil.
A drink is on standby. As a test of his will.
Here's a wee snort for you laddie just reach up and knock this one back
And sing us a shanty or a sad mournfull tune .
You say what?. Yeah that's a shell game where the rules change
Like I change underwear. Now that I pulled you leaches of my sack.
Hey come back we want more.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
*Something scary in his room
Haunting him from daily sleep
Those evil green eyes
Was only visible for his eyes
No one believed the story
Of a ten-year old laddie
Decides to find it himself
Nearing those eyes so green
The fat black devilish creature
Runs with a creaky meow-meow!*
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
Ah didny recognise him fae the eulogy.
The meenister'd nivver met the lad, Ah could see.
A hero? Aye, mibbe. Jist a name tae maist ay these fowk.
But ah kent im as a boay,
the daft wee scapegoat, ayewis in boather,
but nae real hairm in im.
He wis the lad wha'd get skelped, the noise
makkin the teacher turn is heid
jist in time tae spot im skelpin back.
Mairched tae the heidie again.
"Yir a bad lot, Barry.
Yir faither wis a bad lot too."
Puir Baz.
Da in the jile,
Ma aff her face on smack,
an him, daft, funny, doomed.
If onybody at hame had cared enough
tae keep the schuil photies,
they'd have shown a wee freckly laddie
wi a too-open grin,
year eftir year,
jersey gettin tattier,
teeth getting gappier,
still grinnin while the rest ay us
were far too cool tae smile for the camera.
Ah liked im.
Didny unnerstaun how the teachers
were sae ***** tae im.
There wis far badder boays in the year.
Ricky ****** Jackson - a nasty, sleekit wee body,
yankin ab'dy's strings.
But his da wis rich
an the teachers fawned ower im.
No Baz, though.
Cannon fodder, richt enough.
Tackin the flack fir the rest ay us.
Exactly the kind ay lad
the ******* Army thrives on.
Ah canny feel the patriotic pride,
canny picture the self-sacrifice,
the heroism.
Ah can juist see im,
daft an grinnin,
daein whit he wis tellt
an gettin killt.
Mind you,
he wis aye headin for the poppies, that yin,
One wey
or anither.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
That's him away then. So, kids,
what do we do now?
No, laddie, don't cry. We'll find our way.
No-one will write it down,
you may be sure of that,
but no-one will be burnt alive for it -
no nation will be conquered for it -
no vacuous, rudderless culture will claim it at their convenience.
On you go now, boys,
there's work to be done.
We can't all nap under a bodhi tree when it suits us.
Here now, no tears -
here's a kiss for you both.
We'll walk this path together,
real dust rising behind us,
real pain and real joy before us
and we'll maybe find
that attachment's not such a terrible thing
after all.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
I had too much,
Swirling in a bar,
Swells after swalley,
My girlfriends gone
And I, lost, alone with
Familiar strangers.
They circled me,
Paddling, soles holey,
Rafting under rafters,
My red hair drawing
Them in, motley moths
To a flame, locks lit by ****
And glinting with flit of glass
In peat drub smoking pub.
One brave soldier, sailed
On over and our glaze eyes
Danced, deftly avoided any
Glance as we swayed, silent,
His breath was dank, of sea,
Moist and salty on raw flesh,
I could nae help but wake from
Dream by the scent of only you,
But it wasn't you dreamful laddie,
In shelled ears some brigand shot,
Sprayed a cold loss awakening,
His words, nothings, oak aged,
I felt loudly drowning, caught
In a corner of rusted, hulled
Ship now sinking, he threw
Himself a line and I saved
My soul, a life preserved
By a leaving, breaching
Heavy waves, bobbing
Into the out of doors.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
A brown drool of dew
Crackling woven's clue
sitting on a desk pike
adjacent copies alike
But still he sits and gapes
on the old momento he keepsakes
with sober hands that rests
and of mellow smith's vest
on a creaky chair
with a pendulum clock
and a photograph he holds dear
as four seasons pass by the dreary wedlock
Through a thin-tormented picture
shallow eyes become ruddy
like an ill-fated venture
The lost of his Mrs. and laddie
that dim sullen memento of his
in that old wan home
is what brings him bliss
but locked inside a semi-finite dome
-he is-
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
you walked in without a warning
into this beautiful artist's life;
although a lot from her was missing
still she continues to strive.
into her life you left a consequential mark,
since then she has never been in the dark.
the smiles and the feeling of blissfulness
came to her life as a vital witness.
she got moonstrucked by you,
from gray her skies became blue.
her art that embodies her psyche,
is now dedicated to that laddie.
every color in her painting
is a momentous thing;
they represent every felt emotion,
as she gave you her affection.
every line that was drew
was all dedicated to you;
those were just mere hand-shiftings
as to you is where she is drifting.
every outputs she has made
were feelings she has bade
as a symbol of romance,
just as her hands did the dance.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
Where is my laddie? As reason,
Time, unreasonable, runs amok,
Precious, stone frost on the rose,
And sun travels yoked with moon,
Somes, climbing into skies broke
With light and smoke and hopes,
Dashed on earthly tides quaking,
My heat waits to be aired, beaten,
My soul, thirsts for carnate touch,
In of outter reaches of openesses
My breath suffocates in rainy sun,
All this life to know is but waiting,
The flowering of my flower wanes.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
I am so happy that you're my Daddy,
I sincerely love you my little laddie!
I really love do love you,
My love for you is true.
I hope you know how much I love you,
My love for you is true!
Even though we tease each other,
And I pretend you're my little brother,
We love each other!
It'll stay this way forever,
Will we hate each other?
No, never.
Marian
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
Why art thou so sad, dear Daddy?
I makes me sad to see you this way, little laddie,
He writes about sad and gloom,
It makes me want to escape to my room.
It may not be so bad,
But still to see him writing about death makes me sad,
I write about light, sunshine, and sunrays;
While he writes about funreals, knells and lays.
Cheer up, dear Daddy,
There is still sunshine, little laddie,
There is sunshine for you;
Under skies of royal blue!
~Marian~
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 9:07 AM UTC
Out in the opens, I loved you fair,
A greeting door of wishes left ajar,
My heart was true consummation,
Offered up to you, beautiful laddie,
Hands held out for your windy soul
And one day my promises became,
Just woulds and pines and beach,
A childish strand of story charms,
Now a love goes cold, ungathered,
A rag of cloths hangs nigh to ribs,
I leave my prints on knotted wood,
My greeting door is closed to you.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
I will knit him a jumper for the seas,
Soft as the breast of mourning dove,
As he, so far away from, recedes,
To embrace him sure as I am gone.
O, my laddie, my love!
I will sew grandest socks for keeping,
Soft and warm as the summer oceans,
To spindle his feet at long fires for me,
Betrothals we promised under moon.
O, my laddie, my dove!
And I will write him such sonnets so fair,
Even the stars all nightfall shall swoon
And I shall fiddle, with poets, sweetest airs,
Counting the days till when he returns.
O, my laddie, my truest one!
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
My dad was on Omaha Beach but he
didn’t talk much about it so now
I’m going to take the rest of the day
to tell you all that he didn’t much talk about
we broke the Enigma code yeah we did
you can always tell a real veteran by
his thousand-yard stare, yessir, I know stuff
we kicked the Germans’ butts but he didn’t talk
much about it if not for us the French
would be speaking German yeah man yeah
when I was in graduate school but he
didn’t talk much about it we saved the world
when I was in graduate school when I
saw Patton those liberals in academia
he had this thousand-yard stare them snowflakes
wouldn’t hit Omaha Beach now they’d be browning
their pants when I was in graduate school
but he didn’t talk much about it yeah
that M-1 was the best battle implement
ever devised I got me one and boy
it’s got some serious stopping power yessir
I just love to go out to the range and pop some caps
with that bad boy the French are cheese-eating
surrender monkeys we can’t depend on the Italians
but he didn’t talk much about it when I
was in graduate school thousand-yard stare
my dad was there he didn’t talk much about it
here is a youtube about it if only
those snowflakes would watch Patton they’d learn something
left-wing academia he didn’t talk much about it
when I was in graduate school yeah man
I seen it on Band of Brothers liberal elites
Macron Macron Macron first front second front
‘cause I know stuff I got a whole liberry
but he didn’t talk much about it if not
for us yeah you’d all be speaking German
we saved France’s **** when DeGaulle told us
he wanted all American soldiers out of France
we asked him if that included the thousands
of American soldiers in French cemeteries
and that sure shut him up ha ha ha
bet you never heard that before and then
there was these old veterans at the airport
and this Frenchy asked them for their passports
and this old man had to look for his
and this Frenchy asked this veteran if he
had been in France before and this veteran
said he had and then this Frenchy he said
then you know you need to have your passport
ready and this here old veteran said that he
was at Normandy and there wasn’t no Frenchies
to give it to and you could hear a pin drop
ha ha I bet you never heard that one before
When I was in graduate school when I
was on my gap year but he didn’t talk much about it
snowflake liberal elites in academia
I love me my AK-47 that son
spits out some serious lead but he didn’t
talk much about it…
Me? Like, I had this deferment, my feet,
but I know all about it ‘cause I watch John Wayne
and my dad was in it so I guess he ought to know
and he was in a real war; you were only in
like you know them A-rabs and stuff…
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
dear god, you humble me into quietude
she says it’s sunny and 75
nearing 3’o’clock, cooling,
let’s go for our usual constitutional,
for a lovely afternoon walk to Shell Beach
*can’t can’t can’t walking now in
a bottomless pit, every handhold,
poems, newly commissioned, newborn,
broken off the wall, revealing a gleaming,
light of iron pyrite, really good fool’s gold,
cause only fools write good poetry, or even try*
but tonight I’m gonna feed you bucatini bolognese
babe, you gotta walk, make some room for all the words
that will come tumbling free falling while I’m sleeping next,
you’re up prowling looking for rhymes, lines, unheard of before,
you’ll need energy to bite, write, and make loving poetry and then,
then, sleep late, my laddie-baddie, new ones on my nightstand,
for my perusal, my usual unusual man who gifts me them to
in quantities of ‘more galore,’ that I accept, adore...adore
so afterwards, I must say my morning prayer, as an atheist forgiven,
the one I commissioned, and you composed, for me:
Dear God: you humble me into quietude, with gratitude...
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 3:37 PM UTC
He was a highland laddie
Grew up in the great glen
Played shinty for Fort William
A man amongst men.
He played the highland pipes
With heartbeat rhythms felt
That pumped his blood within
While wearing his clan's kilt.
Fishing at Loch Linnie
Would stir his Gaelic pride
As he viewed the heather
His Lassie by his side...
...he wakes up from his dream
And yet his dream lives on
To prove his Scottishness
And confirm where he comes from.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC