"scot" poems
.
*
Do I have a tongue,
Can I speak too?
In this strange world,
Am I a human too?
Do I have a heart,
Can I live too?
In this strange land,
Am I alive too?
In the midst of Oblivion,
I search my visions,
I once used to dream,
As a young teenager,
In Sea of Paro s
I try to remember,
The faces of people
I had once lived with
Father, mother, brother
Of all those people
I had once called family.
I came here as girl,
I am shared in the family,
I born plenty children,
I am sold and re-sold
In and around
To any men who
Can afford to buy,
I am kept but
Seldom married,
Each street have
it's own paro,
They all have
But the same story.
After some years
I cease to exist,
For the people
Who bought me
I am an old cattle
Who no longer
give them pleasure,
I am now a burden
A liability soon
To be shedded..
They don't throw
me though,
They leave me alone
In a small room,
I have become a mother
Of a girl or two
I have new family
But no identity
fits me ever,
When I come here
I became a Paro,
When my times up
I die a Paro!!
Paro is short for
Pardesi, a foreigner,
I am the girl
Bought for men
From another land
Into there land,
To born son's
For there motherland.
This is ordeal of
A soul that once lived,
Now it's just a body
With no role,
No fiction this
It's a real story
A reality of some
Distant land !!
That land for you
Is so very strange
Where eight young man
**** a pregnant goat!
And the strangest
thing is they
go away and
Roam scot free..!!
Soon the elders in the village
Will have a big meet,
They will give compensation
To the owner of the goat,
And free from the sin
There precious young boys
The martyred goat
Will also have new name,
And so it will soon
Be christened to
A new species of
"Paro"-
a first of it's kind
A Welcome from
an animal world!!
And so I ask again
Do I really exist?
What form of life
Do I have here?
In this strange land
Are they human too??
Does even a little atleast
A thing called
Humanity exist???
*
Sparkle in Wisdom.
1/8/2018.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.
And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.
Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.
And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!
Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, red, rose, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, melody, tune, seas, dry, rocks, melt, sun, ten thousand miles
Original Scots Dialect Poem:
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Hugh MacDiarmid wrote "The Watergaw" in a Scots dialect. I have translated the poem into modern English to make it easier to read and understand. A watergaw is a fragmentary rainbow.
The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season
I saw the uncanniest thing—
a watergaw with its wavering light
shining beyond the wild downpour of rain ...
and I thought of the last wild look that you gave
when you knew you were destined for the grave.
There was no light in the skylark's nest
that night—no—nor any in mine;
but now often I've thought of that foolish light
and of these more foolish hearts of men ...
and I think that maybe at last I ken
what your look meant then.
Keywords/Tags: Scotland, Scot, Scottish, Scots dialect, night, nightfall, rain, grave, death, death of a friend, light, lights, watergaw, heart, heartache, broken heart, heart song
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Do you want
to hear
a story droll?
About a dog
with a kind
soul
Outside,
that night,
I heard the winds howl
Inside
was the sound
of an intermittent growl
I opened the door and he
slipped out
Some time later, he
came back with a pout
Reprimanded he was
for coming back
with a muddy taint.
Remorseless,
head raised, he
stood there defiant.
“Okay, Scot!
Let’s see what you got”
He gently
dropped
his big scowl
and Out fell,
in my palms,
a baby owl!
Apparently he had
peeped far
from his tree hole
When Scot was
beneath that tree
sniffing a mole
Frightened but fine,
the owlet
was a bit choosy
So we went,
to put him back,
in his tree hole cosy!
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
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
I woke up from a dream, in which I met an old lady, who was such a *****
My grandson, who is two ate fish fingers from a plate, as he sat in the luggage rack at the front of the bus.
The old lady got off chuntering and muttering, that he shouldn't be eating fingers made out of fish, as he was sat on the bus.
****** woman picked them of and stole them straight from his plate,
Muttering, that it was disgusting eating fish fingers while sat on the bus.
"Listen here mate, that's wholly inappropriate", said I.
Somehow resisting the urge to punch her in the eye.
I cursed and cussed and I gave her my worst.
While my grandson, just sat still on the bus, still a little bemused
He's not used to old lady's pinching his food.
She got off the bus, after facing my daggers, just looks, as I don't often cook.
She had the audacity to steal his tea, apart from bits of verbal conflict, got off ****** scot free she did.
My grandson, he just looked up at me, after squishing the remnants into my knee.
My most expensive rain coat is now in need of washing.
I'm wondering now who'll be fitting the bill.
My heart melting grandson looked straight into my eyes.
At the end of this story, he's the perfect prize.
But he's still a little hungry, as she stole his fish fingers.
And this silly bit of prose is just a pack of silly lies.
Made up as the result of a dream, I just had.
Here's hoping you enjoyed my tale.
It's pouring with rain and blowing a gale.
Probably the noise it drew me from sleep.
The times when dreams are prevalent.
When fantasy from dreams be inventive and put to wholly good use.
(c)Livvi
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.
Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.
Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.
Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.
Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
a tumblr full of rocks
a pour of ichiro malt
and a stir
gan bei
and
ichi
to the yamazaki and nikkas
i am in the land of the sun
i go down to the land of the dead
mei hi ko
anejo
casa amigo,
to my brothers in arms
jose, i must have my agave
cheers to the alamo
to the land of the prohibition
kentucky
yippee kay yay
bourbon,
spicy rye kick
spur to the horse
giddy up, giddy up
riding off into the sun
set to kentucky
derby
bourbon
ballentines
tom ford west
make your mark
with maker’s mark
bottoms up
and now i am staggering
vichi patia
better than grey goose
aunt jiin
and all the cult gin
navy strength and **** juice
getting rowdy
like irish bloke jameson
and that **** scot
macallan
and his gang
oiban, glenfiddich, and
glenlivet
I am livid
at that son of a *****
son of peat
another round
i am monkeying around
monkey 47
sun set
sun rise
*** on the beach
i see kings and queens
louis thirteen
i am going to sleep
pappy van winkle
100 years
like rip van winkle
don’t wake me
stir and not shaken
good night, mama
sweet havana
neat
a shot of don papa
i go to sleep
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night --
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the ***
Northumerland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"
And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
And the Guards came through.
Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We -- we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?
"Five yards left extend!"
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!
Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be,
How the Guards came through.
3.1k
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
for Mark Richards
It was a spur of the moment thing -
One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling -
The next offered a morning's sailing.
So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,
We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves
With steady and ample winds at our backs.
Boaters and tubers speckled the waters
While verdant foothills smiled assent
From every shore and horizon.
Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot
Toward the far off shore before tacking our
To and fro way back to the mooring ball.
In years past Mark had captained the Health works
For all the good folks of Pennsylvania,
But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller.
So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies
In a swift and charmed little craft
Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment.
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 26, 2022
Jul 26, 2022 at 6:29 PM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
oh such few words are minded,
no bravery apart
from the homosexuals
as skeletons in the chronicles of Narnia
being discovered among
the skeletons of tyrannosaurus rex
making a bed with its wheelchair able
paws - and the flag of the Cymru
fire-breathing turtles before excavation
and the myths of the mandarin too;
now tell me the sub-human plot with the
Normans when the anglo-sax reigned
to teach me to unlearn english
to avoid assimilation,
like you taught your former colonial subjects
to integrate and to alievate keeping assimilation:
which you taught to unlearn the mother's
tongue and learn a discrimination
against furthering the multi-cultural project...
which you taught to integrate and
keep at loss a sacred soul of never assimilating
akin to jew...integrate i must,
assimilate i care not for should i be totally
albino or asserting bleached with peace:
albino oder beteuern gebleicht mit frieden.
integrate i must to utilise the coinage
but to assimilate i must turn into a reggae african
with roots in the Caribbean than the Ivory Coast...
and god willing i will not claim to be
an arab's brother to settle karma over
uplifting the curse over Mecca with ibn Saud's
clock-tower; burn!!!
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
I pick up this book of Robert Burns poems
As my great-grandfather picked it up a hundred years ago
I put it down in exasperation
As I guess he put it down
Promising himself
As I promise myself
To give that sentimental Scot
(getting teary-eyed over a mouse)
One more chance maybe
1912
2012
The numbers swirl
As numbers can do
And I find myself
Talking to this man I never met
At a loss for small talk I just say,
“Hey, did you know I googled your surname and my middle name
And our roots are in the Isle of Wight.”
He smirked
Then took me out to his front yard
(If they had front yards back then)
Pressed his hand in the soil
Grabbed something
Hefted it
Pulled on it
And said to me,
“They’re in Texas now.”
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
Criminally minded politicians
acting saints
Evil doers getting praised
Innocent ones stuck in chains
The rich and ***** go scot-free
While the poor is severely punished
On the streets, cops ****
Skin color is still an issue
Several hundreds die 'cause of their religious beliefs
Drug overdose is on the increase
Gangbanging in the hoods still claiming lives
I hate guns
but a gun is not killer, humans are!
Genuine trust is as rare as the Unicorn
Maybe the beautiful souls are yet to be born or they are long gone
What of the epidemy of baby mama and baby dads
Kids raised with no father figure in their lives
They’ve got to find their way in a world so evil
They end up been taken advantage of and
Many becoming parents in their teens
We live in a society
Where getting money is rated higher
than living with integrity
Who cares if someone is getting hurt,
so far my pocket is getting fat
The thoughts of a self-centered heart
Even the environment is suffering
Global warming
Plastics in the oceans
Tons and tons of trees are fell
Our rivers and seas are polluted
At the end of the day,
We all face the consequences
Computers are helping a lot
But also taking people's jobs
A lot are depressed
From spending too much time on the internet
Tortured by other's fake online presence
I bet you, the list goes on and on...
It almost feels like a curse
How do we save ourselves from ourselves
How do we separate the chaff from the wheat?
How do we redeem the beasts in human skin?
I guess it all begins with you and me
Nothing but love can restore our sanity
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 6:47 AM UTC
Have you heard about old Erik Satie?
He was quite slim and not un fatti;
Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee ****
(which must have given quite a shock
to his musical chums at the Conservatoire
where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire").
While sitting 'au piano' one fine day
At his Honfleur home so bright and gay,
Our Erik felt himself come over queer,
(le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière).
He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when
(that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes").
Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent
That certainly wasn't what I meant;
But there's no doubt he was a little odd
(indeed many called him an asexual sod);
For, although French, he loved not the ladies
(and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies").
Many piano pieces which Satie penned
Are rather silly and round the bend;
One was called "Prélude for a Dog"
(which he wrote whilst sur le bogue);
Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade"
Which some people think is quite avant-garde.
He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas
Which set him apart from saner fellers;
He had lots of velvet suits to his name
(and for some reason, they all looked the same).
But he over-did it on the ***** was often ******
Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
Or did the cliché use me? It infected my mind, stole my words, and left me linguistically bankrupt. Every dog has its day, and yesterday was most certainly not mine. But all’s well that ends well, unless the well is actually a drowning pool, or a rat graveyard. Only Time will tell-unless I cut out its tongue and use its guts for garters. But without Time we’re all Living on a Prayer seeking a Stairway to Heaven borne by our 99 Red Luft Balloons with nothing but Faith, like Major Tom we’re floating away. Will Another One Bite the Dust before the the finale of this Bohemian Rhapsody? Whatever will be will be, and I will set forth my Long and Lonely Hallelujah long locked in my Heart of Gold, because I’m getting old Under Pressure screaming “let me out”-STOP! Hammer Time! I may be Lost in the Supermarket, but Great Scot! I’ll get my guaranteed personality because in Nana-Land Anything Goes!
~
NM
12/12/18
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 1:12 AM UTC
As boys we sat atop a bridge
And saw the trains rush by
Steam flying out of funnel stacks
We watched them pass with a sigh.
The Royal Scot was a favourite
The Flying Scotsman too
But the biggest thrill we ever got
Was when The Mallard raced right through.
Such a beauty she was in livery
All blue and shining and bright
And to children like us in the fifties
She was such an amazing sight.
She was the four four six eight
And she ran on four six two
You couldn’t see her funnel stacks
For speed they were hidden from view.
They’d built her up in Doncaster
Through a wind tunnel she had passed
And when she flew along the tracks
You caught a glimpse and gasped.
Steam trains of course don’t run now
Except on heritage lines
But smelly and ***** as they may have been
They were a glorious sight in their times.
©JRW2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
She sat on her bed
looking out the window.
Hannah looked at
the fulling rain.
Her mother passed by
the bedroom door
and looked in.
Whit ur ye daein'?
Her mother said.
Looking at the rain,
Hannah replied.
Ye can help me
wi' the washin',
her mother said.
Do I have to help
with the washing?
Her mother stared
at her
Whit ur ye
waitin' fur?
I'm waiting
for Benedict,
Hannah said,
gazing at her
mother's stern gaze.
O heem th'
sassenach loon,
her mother said
and walked off
down the passage.
Hannah waited.
She'd was pushing
her manners close
to the limits.
Once upon a time
her mother would
have slapped her
behind for talking so,
but now at 12 years
old her mother dithered
and set her tongue
to work instead.
She eyed the rain
running down the glass.
She could hear
her mother in the kitchen
banging pots and pans.
Then a knock at the door.
Benedict no doubt.
Gie th' duir, Hannah,
her mother bellowed.
Hannah went to the door
and let Benedict in.
He was wet, his hair
clung to his head
and his clothes were damp.
Got caught
in the downpour,
he said,
shaking his head.
Hannah smiled.
I'll get you a towel
to dry your hair,
she said.
She got him a towel
from the cupboard
and he began
to rub his hair.
We can't go out in this,
Hannah said,
have to stay here
and we can play games.
He rubbed his hair dry,
took off his wet coat
and stood by her bed.
What games?
he said.
Ludo? Chess?
Draughts? She suggested.
Her mother came back
to the door of the bedroom.
Ye swatch dreich,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict.
He looked at Mrs Scot
and then at Hannah.
Mum said you look drenched,
Hannah said.
O right, yes, I am,
he replied and smiled.
Mrs Scot didn't
smile back.
Dornt sit oan
th' scratcher,
Mrs Scot said icily.
Mum said don't sit
on the bed,
Hannah said.
Mrs Scot went
off muttering.
Where shall I sit?
He asked.
We'll sit on the floor,
Hannah said,
and play chess.
He nodded his head,
his quiff of hair
in a damp mess.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
William Wallace was a Scot
and worked with what he got
played the game of war
and lost everything, and more
Through history and beyond
Scots have and will respond
with mobs of battle spend
fighting unto the end
Ever in the mind
the tune, the song, reminds
where and what, you've been
fighting for kith, and kin
Down through the ages
past all the fools and sages
at every gathering, tattoo
the Scots are tried, and true
The song not just a sing
the possibilities it brings
every time it stays, as
Scotland the brave
and the black bear play
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Proem
After Sir Thomas recovered the Spear of Destiny and returned it to the Pope at the Vatican in Rome, he remained there for several months serving His Excellency, attending meetings, and recovering from several minor injuries sustained while recapturing the Spear that pierced the side of Jesus the Messiah. Sir Thomas could have stayed as a guest of the pope in one of their lush suites, but he chose the bare walls of a guest bedroom at the local Knights Templar castle. The pope then called upon him for his next assignment: Leave Rome immediately, by boat, again, back to Constantinople. “Head off a Scot by the name of Sir Robert Bruce, whom our intel indicates has a map and is currently on his way in search for the Holy Grail. Sir Robert is a stubborn ally. You will help Sir Robert, but convince him that the chalice of Jesus belongs here in Rome.”
Prior to shoving off the west coast of Italy, a few miles from Rome, Sir Thomas wrote the following message, and placed it in a bottle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dear sweet wife and babe within her womb
The five long years since I had lost you both
I prayed for inner peace despite my joy
Your both in heaven; worship Thee Most High
Because your love exceeds all life itself
My lips will glorify you ever more
I praise you for the rest; my living days
Your name I lift on high with my bare hands
Was on my bed that I remember you
I think of you the watches of the night
The shadow of your wings I cling my soul
The depths of which my sword shall honor thee
I yearn affections taste where two come one
The seed by faith that yields abundant life
Endures celestial kingdom's perfect place
It brings this missive to its endless oath:
To bless, release my restless heart that bleeds
Commit my swords allegiance to the Lord
To you Dagung the earth is smaller still
For every inch be searched to see your face
You disappeared, not dead but still alive
I feel the transom temper my resolve
For in this ship another search begins
The Holy Grail; Dagung I'll find you both
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Postscript
I toss the bottle through the wind to stormy sea
Inside the missive of a knight in love with thee
__________________________________________
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
There's something special about a named train,
the Mallard, the Royal Scot,
more romantic than a mere number.
Ours was the Red Rose, pride of LMS.
The London-Liverpool express
flahing North, four-thirty on the dot,
a sight not to be missed, exciting
street players of jacks and hopscotch.
She thundered through the blue brick tunnel,
erupted into the grass-lined cutting,
swallowed our footbridge in smog and sulphur.
The we loyal fans ran home to eat our spam.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
A master of characterization
After moments of gesticulation
Your characters become universal
Images play without dress rehearsal .
First created, an idealistic knight,
Who teaches the perfect techniques to fight.
Next danced a lad of ladies' desire .
Your words described me, "a lad of fire."
A counterfeit nun pilgrimed with the bunch.
She starved her dogs to have a second lunch,
Yet, you viewed her as whimsical and tame.
The way she faked, sung, and lied was a shame.
Still, I know this false Prioress today,
Characters such as this wont fade away.
The Miller modeled your retched Scot.
I too am Scottish, but retched I'm not!
Though we don't always view the world as one,
I have the faint soul of your pseudo son.
I too would flirt with the strong Wife if Bath,
And roam with the pilgrims down that God path.
Master at comic irony, you are
The church was corrupt, relics in a jar
Or a pardon for an extorted fee.
Friars with gifts for girls could not trick thee.
Twenty four of one twenty were finished,
But the affects will not be diminished.
They say you're number two in history.
For people like me, that's a mystery.
In a quill duel between Shakespeare and you,
You'd leap to number one, Shakespeare to two.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC