(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the hell was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to hell with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to hell with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!

You tie my gut in knots
Never expected this in my plot
Twisting my lochs with
Nervous fingers locking
Hands with you is magickal.

You tie my mind in knots
Its like a roller coaster lost
In space the comet's frost
Ignites a shower of colors
Cascading across your eyes...

You tie my heart in knots
I pray it doesn't clot my
Thoughts about our
Dreams about our
Kids about our
Means of getting by...
And I love having this in common with you.

I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.

II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.

III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

thankfully Hamlet is taken to a couch,
that's hardly a sick-bed,
for we all know: psychiatry is half
of medicine, it breeds more ill men than it claim
to have cured.
and there be that thing, that shadow,
that resemblance of a man,
stalking the highlands, and drinking
at the Lochs...
until there are three,
under a street lamp with due walk,
and a brick wall near,
                         a man and two shadows,
one more full than the latter more fog,
    and the sudden thrill, as if being followed
by one's own unsuspecting guise...
           usurper strong, a Judas in a Judea...
asp tongue, wasp thought,
doubly piercing the status quo of today...
as said, by only a single word,
macbeth, macbeth, macbeth,
into the night, shrill of violins, shark-infested
airs of a witch's shrill cry at the black sabbath
around the fireplace...
    macbeth, macbeth: said: deep frozen
into the night...
   to a neared upon usher of equivalent tear...
avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
(and hades resurrect thee!)...
   against all that encompasses the noun zeus:
and fathering wisdom for care to lose repeated
cohorts of the titans sun, moon, gaia...
  aye, and a bold one, that dare
          look on that which might appeal to the devil;
have you no care to not flog to these
past expressions, reading them,
as reading our modern undermining into
things of origami consort?
             folded, folded once more,
a piece of paper is a metaphor,
that blooms into the end result of it being
treated as metaphor... a piece of paper
given the status of metaphor, later becomes
   a paper-folded swan, and origami swan...
  that icon of monogamy...
           or how swans like to see it:
in sickness and in health, beyond death do us part...
ever look at a widow swan and not feel
a pang of hope to be given the altar of death
upon the crucifix mound?
        just a little bit?
who may i rather challenge for unkindness,
than pity for mischance! -
        can one man's love affair be as short
as another man's play,
given the chemistry suggest that the man spent
the four seasons in the stated place of concern?
had i been invited to Erasmus Denmark,
my sparrow would have sung differently...
to a less Celtish drum of heart...
             and the man in question would
remain as curriculum material for a midsummer's
night, and romeo and juliet and shylock...
         here, we keep promises...
  just here... every time i read a philosophy book
of deep under-sea thinkers,
   i am the quasi-acuatic animal, a sly
mammal of the seas, a whale, a dolphin...
  every time i read a philosophy book,
and subsequently re-enter shakespeare...
i am that same old mammal keeping his breath,
to surge back toward the heavens of a sea-level
atmosphere...
                   i say: contend with reading philosophy
books to then reread your choice of shakespeare:
for me, nothing beyond macbeth...
    thus said: learn, to live again...
          as i have done on countless opportunities...
   i can not prescribe a most perfected dichotomy...
  oh sonnet so pale, oh other works so well preserved
that they encourage memory dementia
with a workload of pristine recitations...
     just a chance encounter, when psychiatrists
faded with Hamlet, that Macbeth arose from
the ashes and said: i stand as a sword firm in hand,
and i will not reach the safety of
   lounging in gleba...
                  to merely be a dead entertainer of
some obscure theory...
                     and with every instance
upon seeing the **** thing,
   my eye be blunt, and my tongue be sharpened....
likewise in reverse, concerning the same thing:
my eye be sharpened, but my tongue be blunt...
of these two essences, man first thought...
    and had only thought provided man with
a simple yes, or a simple no, wouldn't
the point of thought be more than if not less
bewildering than arguing from its own existence,
an existence of a god?
        not man, devoid of god crafted this deformity
to later impregnate an icon with...
       but man too bewildered by thinking,
that spawned this horror...
       of thought, thus said, no moral grounding,
but merely the numbing, the selective numbing
of the senses, as ailing man suggests,
the ailing via hearing,
   the hedonism feats suggesting exploration
of seeing...
   of feeling numbed, and apathy creeds to experience
as many people as possible...
   thought mediates the sensual-numbing we
all see... and none of thought, is concerned
with being injected into a moral theory,
since thinking is too simple, and a lie a too great
opportunity to be mislead into mis-use...
  for a simple yes and no - the theta-ought...
would not have spurned the phi-nought
    and if the senses are not duped,
then what story are we to be told?
            that might provide a throng, and an opulence
of a campfire for it to be tought?
to the last syllable of recorded time, said Macbeth.

When the skies are settled 
And out went the sea 
A rocky cave is shone
For all the world to see
And in Its depths in darkest waves
There shines a light,
Of fluttering filtered focus
There  swims a fish 
With but three fins,
Through lakes of reddened snow.
But light through every flake

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

I want to travel far and wide.
See much more of the English countryside.

Beautiful beaches that surround us in Cornwall and Devon, remind us we live  in our own corner of Heaven.

Mystical places with tales of legends to tell.
So much to do and see, I'll do my best to make it sell.

Tintagel such a mystic place, where legend has it King Arthur had his chair.
He had a roundtable it held many Knights, all ready to defend, always ready for a fight.

In York a Viking museum to tell how they came upon our shores, with longboats, a 60 man crew, paddled with their oars.

Bath has the best Roman baths to be found, laze and spoil yourself in the steam rooms built in Roman surrounds.

In Wales, there's Snowdonia for you to climb, or the less active can take a train ride.
A castle in Caernarfon where Princes are appointed by H M The Queen, the sword on the shoulder duly declares arise HRH Prince of Wales, the crowd are waiting for the new Prince to be seen.

In Scotland there's Edinburgh with a castle tall and round sits atop a very high mound.
The lowlands and the Highlands are a sight of well known beauty, driving around the lochs at night keep your eyes open for a monstrous sight, nessie fact or fiction,

Of course there are the lakes of England too, Windermere the largest draws the biggest crowd. Find a cottage out of sight, snuggle up with a loved one, cuddle tight.
Put on your water skis, hire a boat, sail your wind surfing board, fire up your jet ski any of these activities can be fun and available to be done, daily.

The Cotswolds, for take your breath away beauty, small villages, luscious village greens, cricket playing in the field, Large Houses, Lord of the Manors, old worldly pubs, thatched pubs and rivers waiting to be seen.

There are Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor and Exmoor too, Peak District, Lake District mountain ranges, many a zoo.

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

So much to do, so much to see.
On your doorstep, no need to stray.
Whatever you do, wherever you go, have a happy holiday.

Often alone I think of you
rolling mountains covered in a purple haze
both in highlands and lowlands too
running water so pure sparkling bright
making our whisky a natural delight
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

I hear music played from the heart
oh' the sound of pipes and drums
heart racing hairs standing on end
poetry filling my eyes with tears
recited at suppers year after year
in celebration of bards no longer here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath
dancing between swords at highland gatherings
playing games testing their manhood
eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood
porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes
quality food that is for sure
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

History remembered with pride
Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie
Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too
some myths, some true
castles, lochs, bridges and glens
places where lassies are called hen
where houses are often **** un bens
people answering with ah' ken
Celtic blood running through my veins
makes me glad I am alive and living here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams

False memories and track marks pave your arms
Sudden revolt of youth pressurised to fail
Painkillers doubled and stacked for a head to slumber
Soft heads and dead leg spasm attack pillow piddles in *****
Fictitious tesla coil blue breath mortifys mortality
And your goggles won't fog out the underwater current miscellaneous
Digital tectonic pushing ideas you brainstorm
Shadowed reluctance to consume the musk of infrared roses
This romance is one that was jealous of itself
Pre-divorced in its own certainty on incompatibility
Basin top full too top heavy to predict precarious
Living in a shaded sense of erased memory lapses continuing truth
Toward magnificent still life categorised by perdition
Forward thinking ruby gold phong shaded hatred quantum conversate Unthinkable
Nebula of gas
Face first head in hands
Euthanasia between my thighs crush my head
Choked neck
Throat
Strangle me and give me breath
I roll and the conductor pulls apart my mouth
Diseased by euphoria lips separate and teeth show
Pupils land home and iris jumps ship
Perfume gum dry bitter butterfly kiss
Head held back in place tongue falls back into the razor-front of the mouth
Caution held simultaneous irrelevant body load carries my smile
Jump knee deep into the silence of my own lungs
It's been a while
I breath vindictively in time with the respiration of the country
Somewhere out in the hexagon sun I burn candles and whisp
Hold in smoke
Die
Twitch forward in palliative peace motionless and still
Cuspids and lochs
Spread across the grass the harmony touches yours and mine
A hole and whole dream
Conscious and dead
Content
Voices rattle in unified mono-chromidity
Sadness
Carrion

Long I followed happy guides,—
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and, ere the day,
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right goodwill my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I meet many travellers
Who the road had surely kept,—
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken:
In sleep, their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,
It may be in wood or waste,—
At unawares 'tis come and passed.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harplike laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.—

Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.

Eastbound sundown on the I-84, the sun in my mirrors.
I imagine standing on the beach in Klamath
watching it say good morning to the other side of the world
with the girl of my dreams cradled in my arms asleep.
But the land here is different, the grass is dead
and that girl doesn’t escape my thoughts.
She stays in there, waiting for me to fall asleep
so I can hold her again in the darkness for a few minutes.

Pocatello to the left, Ogden to the right,
where is it I should go tonight?
I heard of an Aberdeen near here, a home away from home.
Maybe it looks the same as the Aberdeen I know.
I move into the left lane, the fast one if you’d believe,
because here in America everything’s the wrong way around.
Last chance now to change my mind, final call for Ogden.
The slip-road passes by me and joins another highway
that seems to ascend into the horizon and disappear completely.

The landscape here is unbearably flat,
I feel myself longing for just the slightest rise or fall,
let myself feel the curvature of the world ever so slightly.
There is a hill on my right that looks just like my Bennachie,
rising sharply to a peak then slowly flattening out
until it joins the inescapable flatness of this country.
Raft River, American Falls, Pocatello,
fourteen, thirty-seven, fifty-eight.
Many miles to go before I can sleep,
many more miles to go until I am home.
Sixteen miles just to the next rest area.

I wanted to drive around Raft River
but I couldn’t see it from the road
and I didn’t know how far it was to Aberdeen.
What looked like a diner was by the road on the right.
The dust swirled up around the solitary pickup parked outside,
the owner looking like the guy in Nighthawks with his back to me.
There was no fancy couple there,
just him on his lonesome in Idaho alone.

Exit 36 points me in the direction of American Falls and Rockland.
This was where I was told to turn off at.
The slip road rose up towards the next road, and it felt wonderful,
finally feeling like I was actually going somewhere,
The signpost at the top of the rise
shows me the way to go to Aberdeen.
Left I go, to American Falls.

Through the city I drove, trailers and bungalows together.
There were big trees in the front and back yards
but they were not too dense that they looked unseemly,
in fact, they added character and life in this place.
A cat darted across the road, waking me up,
warning me not to keep my eyes off the road too much.

The end of the road, stop sign, no others giving me direction.
To the left, the road went around another corner
to go back in the direction I came from.
I took to the right and followed the road,
trees and houses on my right, wasteland to my left.
I went over a crossroads and stopped at the next,
exasperated at the lack of signposts.
I parked next to a long bungalow
with a red-painted ramp going up to the door.
An old woman wearing an apron covered in flour answered,
and she found my accent pleasing
when I asked her the directions to Aberdeen.
She offered me a cookie, and I accepted,
I hadn’t had food since I left Oregon
even though she said I was not far from Aberdeen.

We said our goodbyes and I turned left,
continuing on a road that curved to the right
and through a well-manicured little park.
It was unusual seeing grass this green,
having been offered greys and yellows
for most of my journey in Idaho.
I turned left at the police station then left again.
A large body of water, Snake River I think it was called.
It’s hard to call it a river, more like a lake,
the water the same shade as the lochs back home.

After a few miles, I make it to Aberdeen,
the signpost informing me the population is just over a thousand.
I have a feeling this Aberdeen will be different to mine.
The houses here are so small, but they have good gardens.
There is a warehouse with potatoes inside it.
I am a long way from home tonight.
I can’t find a motel, so I stop at a bungalow covered in windows.
A ***** gold pickup sits outside.
I knock on the front door, which is on the side,
because this is America and everything’s the wrong way around,
and a middle-aged man wearing a mullet
and a Phish tank top answers.
He invites me in and says I can stay as long as I need,
offering me food and beer and company.
They people here are nice, much friendlier than the old Aberdeen.
I like this new Aberdeen, it feels like a home already.

I dreamed well that night, the girl in my arms,
sitting by Snake River, watching it flow,
carrying away all my troubles.

By the sun and moon,
I swear
That I love you.

Golden Claws
Separate the sky
Laughing Animals
You and I

Flow with the moment
Feel the pull of our auras,
Poet
I sent you warmth in the postage
Preview
Lochs of our love
We'll be swimming in
See through

Bring me love
Bring me love, All your love
Bring me,
Bring me love.

By the starry sky
I swear,
You and I will never die.

Flow with the moment
Feel the pull of our auras,
Poet
I sent you warmth in the postage
Preview
Lochs of our love
We'll be swimming in
See through

Bring me love
Bring me love, All your love
Bring me,
Bring me love.

I’ve been to straths,
I’ve been to lochs,
I’ve been to mountains -
I’ve seen but every single beauty of the world!
But everywhere I went
Blood flew in fountains.
I saw that
And my blood went cold.

13.11.2003

Golden lochs gently kiss her shoulders
in a mass of beautifully divine color
a peaceful solitude floats above her
smiles wide bringing her to that special place...

The most beautiful translucent blue eyes
piercing, tranquil, like ice on fire
blessed she be...gorgeous
look into her eyes deeply...

Appears the hint of deviousness
devotion, delicate, empowering
Heart to give she strives to live
devoid of that dream state happiness...

I once got lost in those beautiful eyes
taken in like a hellfire vortex
liquid blue mystery, sapphire times two
extruding sweetness and bleeding hope...

Live,love, laugh wrapped into one
I've seen her in action.leading the fun
does she exist in more than my mind
certainly this Goddess is more than a dream

For now you all know her name....is Christine...

your finger tips, they speak of days, they speak of places far away,
of lakes and lochs and fjords and bays, they speak what you're afraid to say.
they tell me much of what you fear, your need to be held close and near,
they tell me who you are my dear, they scream and yell and dance and cheer,
your finger tips they call to me, they drag me far far out to sea,
they show me who you want to be, and they do this all so silently.
this is why i miss your touch, it seems so simple but it's much,
much more than that, you are my crutch, that's why your hand i'll always clutch.

She always spoke of Scotland
With a faraway look in her eye
The fog, the moors, the lochs she saw
In her memory of years gone by

Where the sea would crash the cliffs below
As she would sit above
And stare out at the water
And watch for her true love.

Her love was the son of a fisherman
And his Da would teach him the trade
But she knew that they had different dreams
Of a land far, far away.

They saved and saved and made their plans
They dreamed their dreams and prayed
And she sold baked goods in the town
And he learned the fishing trade.

They finally had enough money
And off to London they ran
They bought two tickets on a steamer
To take them to their new land.

Once on board they asked the captain
If he would marry them at sea
And they had the wedding of their dreams
In love as they could be.

They raised six kids with horses and mules
And built their home by hand
They made a life full of love and grace
And were happy in their new land.

But time marches on as the ancients say
And you can't hold back the tide
And people age and eyes grow dim
And their shuffles lessen their stride.

The hands that used to bake are still
Except for giving hugs
And behind the wrinkles the dimples show
When the memories begin to tug

He's gone now and so Grandma stares
And sees what we can't see
And dreams of a place so far away
And the girl she used to be.

The box~


I keep a razor
In a wooden box

With pictures
Trinkets, jewelry
And lochs

It's under my bed

I keep it locked
And lost the key

But all the faces
Are still in my head

And
       Sometimes
           They
Talk
       To
Me

~

Stealing defeat from the jaws of Victory.
A feat that was tall, fought for then slipped away.
The Scottish way it seems, to let it disappear.
To come so close with hands open as we near
then through our fingers we let slip another year.

Disappointed and down, we maintained a disjointed crown.
We could have swam for freedom but in the open water we drowned.
The lochs turned to black, no clock can turn back:
Freedom was for the taking, but under the pressure we cracked.  

Scaremongering, propaganda. Down right lies.
The told the feeble to stay together, and there would be a prize.
Hungering for a land. A place to call home.
They listened. Now no longer can they roam

Or swim in open waters that are their very own.
They are bound by unity yet completely alone.  

So from a foreign land I think back to the time.
when I felt a part of it. In land that was mine.
But no desire to return. The lesson I learned:
Fire always burns out. We had heart but no spine.

A young girl was singing of mountains and mist
as if granite and moorlands were all that exists
she sang of the heather and sun on the lochs
of tinkling burns born up high in the rocks
she sang how the water runs down to the sea
and I stood and believed she was singing for me

The years have traced her
like an eternal Goddess,
her beautiful lochs fall upon perky *******.
each curl an unfurling strand
in a silver streaked mane of madness.
gorgeous, divine, flowing gently
In the rhythm of her movements.
shrouding her pretty face,
cheek bones high, smile wide,
The hair of all hair lives, gives,
demands my breath, I freely give.
only an occasional glimpse do I so treasure,
silvery sheen, sun kissed, so blessed,
gorgeous...

1945
The endless war was over.
We were all returning to the new normal.
That is if anything could ever be normal again..
The train trundled along the british countryside
The towns the counties passing slowly by.
Rows of houses country farms
The edge of Scotland  ahhh Scotland.
We Passed the cities into the Highland where pristine lochs sparkled in the rare sunshine.
She got onto the train at Inverness
A change of vehicle descending south.
To a London I did not want ever to see again.
I was reading my book on the armies of Rome in England.she took a sandwich out of her oversized purse. would you like one she asked softly.?
I was famished normal protocol apolite no.
But my hunger screamed even louder than my reticence
yes that would be lovely.
Thank you so much.
The food  trolley arrived I ordered two cups of watery after war coffee
And two custard tarts.
I showed her Hadrians wall
As we passed it.
The city of York which had been the centre of the British civil war
Cavaliers and roundness and all that.
I guess by now she knew I was a terminal bore.
But she did not seem to mind
She smiled and laughed dutifully at my jokes.
What she did not know
By the time we reached Crewe
I was in love with her.
It was obvious  a woman as beautiful as her.
Would have no interest in such a stogie old Bachelor  schoolmaster like me.
I had no skills in alluring the fairer ***.
Only Shakespeare Plato descartes.
But as the train pulled into Euston
dust from the coal fired engines entered
  a piece of soot into my eye
From the open window of the carriage

She came to my aid taking the dust from my eye with the rolled corner of her handkerchief. The pain immediately subsided. And she kissed my lips softly yet firmly.
I have never kissed a man unintroduced she whispered.
But I do not want to wait for you
you are very shy.

2000
The snow fell on Greyfairs school early that winter
We had retired into the headmaster's quarters which would be ours for the rest of of our days.
I remember the train my love.
She whispered her beautiful grey eyes as young as the springtime.
You gave me half your ham sandwich my love I answered weakly.
Then at Easton you kissed me first.
Like this she said her familiar sweet.lips reached mine.
That's because I found the man that I wanted for my life partner she purred.
The light faded in my eyes
She melted into oblivion.

I was on a train alone again like so long ago.
The British rail trolley came
I bought two weak watery coffees and two custard tarts.
Keep riding sir
the lady's voice said kindly.
she will be with soon at Inverness.

THE Lady on the  Train.... A Romantic Love Story

1945 in postwar England.

The endless war was over.
We were all returning to the new normal.
That is if anything could ever be normal again.
The train trundled along the British countryside
The towns, the counties, passing slowly by.
Rows of houses, country farms, peace and tranquility once more.
The edge of Scotland ahhh! Scotland.

We Passed the cities into the Highlands
where pristine lochs sparkled in the rare northern sunshine.
She got onto the train at Inverness.
A change of vehicle descending south.
To a London, I did not want ever to see again.

I was reading my book on the armies of Rome in England.
She took a sandwich out of her oversized purse.
would you like one she asked softly.?
I was famished normal protocol a polite no.
But my hunger screamed even louder than my reticence
yes, that would be lovely.
Thank you so much.

The food trolley arrived I ordered two cups of watery after war coffee
and two custard tarts.
I showed her Hadrians wall
as we passed it.
The city of York which had been the center of the British civil war
Cavaliers and roundheads and all that.
I guess by now she knew I was a terminal bore.
But she did not seem to mind.

She smiled and laughed dutifully at my jokes.
What she did not know
By the time we reached Crewe
I was in love with her.
Obviously a woman as beautiful as her.
Would have no interest in such a stogie
old Bachelor schoolmaster like me.

I had no skills in alluring the fairer ***.
Only Shakespeare Plato Descartes.
But as the train pulled into Euston
dust from the coal-fired engines entered
a piece of soot into my eye
From the open window of the carriage

She came to my aid taking the dust from my eye with the rolled corner of her handkerchief. The pain immediately subsided. And then she kissed my lips softly yet firmly.
I have never kissed a man unintroduced she whispered.
But I do not want to wait for you
you are very shy.

2006
The snow fell on Greyfriars school early that winter
We had retired to the headmaster's quarters which would be ours for the rest of our days.
I remember the train, my love.
She whispered
her beautiful gray eyes still as young as the springtime.
You gave me half your ham sandwich
my love I answered weakly.
Then at Euston, you kissed me first.
Like this, she said her familiar sweet.lips reached mine.
That's because I found the man that I wanted for my life partner she purred.
My last vision in this world was her beautiful face.
The light faded in my eyes for the last time.
She melted into oblivion.

I was on a train alone again like so long ago.
The British rail trolley came
I bought two weak watery coffees and two custard tarts.
Keep riding, sir be patient
the tea lady's voice said kindly.
She will be with us soon, at Inverness

cut stone
lichen roam
over your
shut mouth

mineral lochs
run through
slowed vein

ex
tend

your hard hand

take my face
and wake the sleep
that petrifies me
sunk into this bed

ancient thing
ancestor to the mountain
what tales of brokenness
you must have

break them
over mine
widen this time
give me eyes farther

Temple tunics
On antipodal brim
Enfolding in boughs
Lochs of lagoon
No broadcasts
To ruin ourn tune
Ourn tress to clout
No shame nor doubt
Endless labyrinth
North to south
Feeding doves by hand
Grains of tan
Whilst the bairn scowl
For mimes and Lambs
Broods of technology
Tearing down filth
Governmental collapse
Every man's self
In his house!!!

The breeze comes down the mountain
like a cool moist autumn tease
it will kiss the leaves and let them dance
and make you feel at ease

Like when the warmth from your breath
tickles on my ear
ensuing sweet nothings mean the world
I so love it when you're near

The roses which i hold so dear
have all but wandered off
except the one i give to you
her petals silky soft

I give to you my broken heart
forgive me can you fix
I have little time upon this earth
the clock it quickly ticks

I watch your lochs fall like rain
running down your back
before i die i give to you
my love on bible stack

As i breathe one last breath
your pretty eyes they smile
you kiss my lips and say "I love you"
you'll be there in a while

Remember when we'd dance for hours
in torrential rain
making love under starry skies
and never feeling shame

Now I say goodbye my love
and slowly close my eyes
thank you honey I love you too
as i die with one last smile...

1943 ww2
The. Invasion force took
the never ending war
to the other side of the English channel.
It had been long in coming
but they were ready.

The invasion landing craft
were rusty made of iron and steel
like the men aboard them
They were all afraid.
They knew  their losses would be many.
They knew it might be them

But the duty was absolute
for each and every one of them.
He was a teacher not a soldier
but wars had made him into to one.
He could not recollect
when he even shot
a firearm at an enemy.
Or even if he could.

He was not a avid soldier
but he must do his duty.
He knew this
as he looked at the men
in the crowded landing craft.
The beach was silent no chaos
but in moments that would change,

the protective front dropped to the ground.
As he rushed forward
as though an electric light switch
had been galvanised.
the mayhem started
machine gun fire and rockets
bombarded them.

He saw his friend Johnny hit badly
in the chest it was fatal.
He dropped His weapon
and cradled the young man in his arms.
He died there calling for his mother.

The rocket shell exploded next to him
and he fell next to his friend
and lay as dead.

Three years later

The military hospital was always
full so much pain so much grief.
The Irish nurse was cleaning the soldier
that had been in a coma
since his arrival  several years ago.

She had bright green eyes
and red hair the trademark traits
of an Irish lady
who drank a can of hope and stubborn
every morning for breakfast.

She noticed his fingers moving
Well now she whispered
Its himself.
He's with is thanks be to Jesus.

His eyes opened they were
blue and beautiful.
Your back are you?
so she said.
I thought you were going
to sleep forever
so I did

When am I?
he said almost in a whispered
Am I dead?
No your back with the living she smiled.

It was the start of his recuperation
she helped him move his
anthropic muscles.
and learn how to walk again
she told him of the war
being over and won.

After six months he was well enough
to leave the hospital.
He had even interviewed for a teaching post
at greycastle school for boys.
The doctors told him to take a vacation
Perhaps  on the railway
to help in resolving himself
with the post war world.

He took the sleep train from euston station
in London and set forth on his adventure.
The old coal fired engine set forward
to Scotland it was peaceful
as he passed the green towns
of England county by county.

Until re reached Scotland .
Ahh! Scotland
so far away from a London
he no longer wished to see
after its desolation from the bombs.

He trembled as he thought of the war.
As the train trundled past lochs and mountains
of Scotland gleaming in the rare sunlight
he felt a peace that had eluded him for so long.

She alighted the train at Inverness
so beautiful and yes enticing.
Even to a stodgy old
out of work schoolmaster like him.

She  sat opposite to him in the old carriage.
After  while she opened
her huge purse an took out a
package of sandwiches.

Would you care for one she asked softly.?
Normal reticence was overtaken by hunger
Yes  please that would be lovely he said.
He bought two weak after war coffees
from the char lady.
And two custard creams.

They talked he did not realise.
How much he had missed
the conversations with an attractive lady.
He told her of his war issues
how he had lost several years in a coma
She listened intently to him.

He realised  that such a beautiful woman
would have no interest
in an old stodgy
Old school  teacher like him.
But she was sweet
and kept asking him more details
about himself.

He knew he had no skills
in charming the fairer ***.
Only his love of literature
Shakespeare decarte Chaucer
but she did not seem to mind.
By the time the train reached CHESTER
he realised that he was in love with her.

The train inched its way back
into euston station
On a trip he did not want to end

The window was open an piece of coaL dust
from the engine found its way into his eye.
she rolled the edge of her handkerchief  
and got the speck of soot  out of his eye.

The pain subsided immediately
Then she pulled his face to hers
and kissed him. Full on The mouth.
I have never kissed a man
Unintroduced before she said.
But you are so very shy.

Forty  five years later

They were old now he was dying
They lived in the house
allocated to headmaster emeritus
of greycastle school
a post he held for some twenty five years.

She leaned over his bed
and said do you remember
the train my love.?

Even in leaving her he smiled
yes my Darling
You shared your ham sandwich with me.
And then you kissed me first.
thats because I found my life partner.
Like this she said
he saw her crystal grey eyes
Still as beautiful as the day
they captured his heart so long ago.
The fragrance the softness of her lips.
He passed from her
The last breath of his in  this world
Was left on her lips.

The train was  traveling through the daylight
scotland came into view the lochs
and mountains the purple heather.

The old char lady came into the carriage
He bought two coffees and two custard tarts.
Be patient sir she whispered kindly,
She will be joining us very soon.
At Inverness.

Where the wild weather reigns
over the heather clad hills
and the sea rages against towering cliffs.
Where the Sea Eagles swirl
on wings and wind hunting
Artic Hares and Trout in the secluded Lochs.
The call of solitude brings the Hermits
to their knees in prayer and contemplation
and the poets seeking songs from the silence.

and thus each man's script, from on high,
how res cogitans  simply becomes res vanus,
and is signed ουροβoρος oφις,
tail-devouring snake, ouroboros ophis -
so that many more that come
(and come they will whether willing or unwilling),
and either chain to us
in shackles of either attracted
by our status of res cogitans
with keen interest in our works,
or likewise with apathy keep
us in hidden depths of lochs beyond
all care or concern - as simply
automated lived out care-free
contentment, not demanding us to
take centre stage, and indeed associate
with us more res vanus rather than
res cogitans, as easy come as easy
go due to man's numbering -
landlocked ably seeing the great seas
nimble at each man's bordering on tides
youth turn to old age with the hanging
klepsydra over each man's head:
like that ingenuity of bernard gitton;
for each will have to relinquish his
sway of the status of being a res cogitans
and claim the status of res vanus
(after all life is accomplished, the book-kept
wet ink of the words the end forever-more,
as words preceding the last have dried up
to worthy status of boredom and study
and gained entitlements of lost mr. but gained dr.):
so that many more will come in our stead,
but as i see it, this won't be hard -
relinquishing the status of a thinking thing:
since so many people still act petty and treat
thinking moronically: pyramid of homicide
and theft and all that, which jingles
for Mammon to give out displacing rewards
of coin neither gold or silver, but attired
with a figurehead of authority of gems
embedded in a crown, hidden in william
the conqueror's white tower.

was a time when black chattel
was inheritance
like cattle,
like silver and gold

herded and sold
on auction blocks
to the highest bidder

going once,
going twice,
sold...

to the cotton king
and his kin
from florida’s keys  
to the lochs of kentucky

wealth flowed like the Mississippi
filling white wells with prosperity
four centuries
and more

as seminal droughts rained
cyclones of poverty
on the black side of town

no gold
would be handed down
to the kin
of booker t and harriet...

only slivers of hope.

~ P

You know that I won
Some say I clear lost
Their whines so exhaust
Wrong man they just crossed.

How wrong they all are
Fools to a man
When I've only began
To work out my plan.

Just wait and see
The Don at his best
When put to the test
I’ll make them all stressed.

First up I'll sue
Reverse the dumb vote
My win then promote
Un-float their small boat.

That all said and done
If not quite enough
I may tweak the math
Then get rough and  tough.

Call up our fine troops
Coerce the weak judges
Then when in my clutches
It's me or coarse crutches.

I think that will do it
But should I be wrong
There's a place I belong
The land of the strong.

A country of Lochs
Of moors and steep hills
Abundant in stills
Real folk with few frills.

That land I can buy
In fact much I own
And Celt to the bone
I’ll claim Scotland's throne.

A great fallback plan
Melania as queen
All day she can preen
Unspoken just seen.

Once king I can rule
Play golf and write laws
As a man without flaws
Days filled with applause.

My plans fully set
I'll ponder and see
For whatever will be
Yet I’m ready to flee.

Take it from me, the things you can see
The wonders your eyes will behold
Mother Nature did good in this neighbourhood
It’s a landscape of riches untold

The lochs and the glens, the Munros and Bens
They are stunning you can’t disagree
Rivers Clyde and the Tay and the Forth and the Spey
The Findhorn, the Don and the Dee

All kinds of rocks, have been turned into brochs
Into castles and bothies and cairns
If I had a say I would choose Skara Brea
As a great place to show your wee bairns

From clear waters great *****, great meat from the coos
That both share the rich fertile fields
So too the deer, with venison premiere
And the sheep produce great woollen yields

The fishing’s fantastic, there’s salmon (Atlantic)
Grayling and pike and big charr
I’ve so little doubt there’s superior trout
That I’ll not tell you quite where they are

We think thistles divine and we like the scots pine
The heather is gorgeous in flower
There’s gorse on the ground. Scottish bluebells around
It’s what young haggis prefer to devour

We have eagles and kites and owls through the night
Ptarmigan.  The grouse are widespread
If you don’t fancy that, there’s a breed of wild cat
And lots of our squirrels are red

Both at midnight and noon it’s like Brigadoon
The landscape is magic caressed
Every plant, every hill is possessed of good will
And the nice beasty that lives in Loch Ness

I could tell you more, but I’d just make you snore
But believe me that’s far from it all
If you’re still full of doubt come quick, don’t lose out
‘Cause we might rebuild Hadrian’s Wall

When you visit the Highlands: go to the place with enough mountains to widen the eyes.

Scotland’s precious: Cairngorms.
Many a traveller comes along for these sights.                                                          ­                                      

Rolling grass fields are its skin, the trees its hair and bristles.      
Look with your eyes, and feast on the banquet of wild all around; all you can gaze.                                                            ­                        

On the top of everything are white tops that hardly melt.  A touch of winter left behind.

If one has enough patience, you may see a beast, big or small.                                                           ­                                                 
Squirrels in the trees; nuts. A herd of deer: does, fragile and docile.                            
Or perhaps a buck, strong for his herd.              
Ruler of the sky: the mighty eagle,                                                   
who catches his supper from the water.                                        
Lucky enough and you may find a wildcat; a rare find.

Bogs are what soak the land,                                                            ­      
as are the bonnie lochs, ice cold water from which mysteries emerge.

I was once
Both a Scottish Laird
And a Lady of the lakes
Due to a mishap at birth
Well, we all make mistakes!

Ive now changed my name to Nessie
I'm a lairdy lady of lakes, and lochs
I now curtsy, with a bow
Wearing sometimes cutey kilts, and mini frocks

In my early years, i tossed the caber
And had my highland flings
But my heart, and soul weren't in it
During my time, as a changeling!

by Jemia