"scotsman" poems
A Scotsman's daughter named Nelly
Drew pictures of mice on her belly
That night in a dream
She squeaked out a scream
And woke with a tail in New Delhi
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
The way your body hugs mine
You sleep and you insist on holding me to your chest
The way you love me
I have never been so important to someone.
He is my Scotsman
I am his Spanish cortisone.
He loves me.
I love him.
I can't believe I'm so lucky
To find someone as special as you.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
In August, 1977, My wife, Karen, and son Russ, moved back to Texas after eight years of being away. Back to Dallas, Karen's hometown. A house which just happened to be next door to her parents was going up for sale. However, the owners decided to rent it to us, with an offer no sane person could refuse.
Now the neighborhood was a long- established residential area. The majority of the residents, like my in-laws, had been there from its inception, which made the move easier, for we knew most of them. But, there is always one, whose antics over time, become legendary.
Joe, a Scotsman to the nth degree. Every new years eve, at the stroke of midnight, he would appear on his front porch dressed in his kilt, with his bagpipes, heralding in the coming year with supposedly,
"Auld Lang Syne ". At least that's what it was supposed to be, but with bagpipes, how does anyone really know. He didn't stop there; never ceasing to take advantage to publicly play that over-sized vacuum bag, he would often welcome newborn children, puppies, kittens, etc.
The day the moving van arrived, there he was, out on his porch wearing that plaid kilt, bagpipes clutched against his chest. Except, there was an unexpected "twist." After every two or three bars he would stop and yell out, "Stay away from the moors! Stay away from the moors!" Some of the neighbors stepped out on their porches just to see what was going on now. Even the crew unloading the van seemed to enjoy the entertainment and it helped the time seem to go faster.
Within ten days after somewhat settling in to our new place, Karen and I realized that the "moors" of which Joe spoke, actually were the "Moore's" who were our next door neighbors. Needless to say, it was an interesting neighborhood. That could be "another story."
copyright: richard riddle-august 03, 2015
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
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
While climbing near mount Nevis
A Scotsman dropped a dime.
He leaped off to recover it
So fast he dropped his line.
He seemed to fly upon updrafts
And glanced off lumps of rock
He made it safely to the ground-
The rescue squad was shocked.
He had some bumps and bruises
And was sore in both his arms
But at least he found his coin
and didn’t lose his “Lucky Charms”.
Most folks who drop a thousand feet
Would suffer death or worse.
He rode a helicopter home
Most folks would take a hearse.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 9:13 PM UTC
Jiggle a notion of the Hieland brew
that swells from Scotland's crispy dew
To fill hearts a plenty with joy and song
Scot's Whiskey born wild and strong.
Swallow that liquid of golden honey
down your gullet to warm your tummy
Then know you drank the breath of Gods
a fiery brew you drunken sods.
Crisp as a cold wind against your lungs
Hot as the temper upon your tongues
Whiskey,Whiskey the Scotsman's drink
that lifts your spirits to the brink.
You'll find it where ever Scotsman congregate
Heiland Whiskey best drank straight.
-----Alisdaire O'Caoimph------
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
A purple carpet.
Sharp.
Spiky.
Cold shrugged off.
It's used to it.
The girls name's laid upon the grass.
That girl so lucky,
Feels the gypsy's pinch.
The lady peeks up the Scotsman's kilt, to see just what he's hiding.
(c) Livvi
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-turd
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
orange peel
foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
a tambourine tabernacle
with st. thomas ********* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
cunt's ouch
five multipliers mono
********
softy
doughnut
peach;
'bitch where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
steam;
choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin ************
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-dong of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Oh Ireland,
Calleth me home to thy green speculate tops!!!
Oh native Cherokee,
Calleth me home to thy sublime spiritual crops!!!
Oh native Scotsman,
Showeth me where William Wallace once conquered!!!
Oh Greece,
Take me where the statues breathe, where the poet's stay intrigued, by the white duned Villa's!!!
Oh France,
Ablige me with thy romantic of stories
Oh Switzerland,
Overcome me with thy natural serene stream's!!!
Oh England,
Take me to thy castles, ones of king's and thy Queen's!!!
Showeth me mine old ancestry's past
Infect me with thy knowledge
Oldened of years last..
Thy blood
Tis
Mine blood
Thy appendage is mine own
Thy home thou hast made me
Thy cloud's gloat the bloom!!!
I'm coming back
Oh lands of mine
Where stories of old
Doth mix with wine
So divine
Oh beautiful terrace,
Wherein thy fable's are mantra's
None to compare us!!!
I'm coming in
By sailor's ship
On skyfall dim
A massive blimp
I'm coming back
Lineage of aisle's
Where golden dream's
Run many miles!!!!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
John James Stanley Whyte
why would you not
do what was right
man of the cloth
man of the sea
(at least in uniformity)
privileged hypocrite
evader of consequence
Doctor of Divinity
all that's divine
about you, is me
Used my mother
because you could
refused to acknowledge
you're in my blood
was it due to the class divide
that you found it so easy
to throw us aside?
Whenever she wanted
to punish me
she'd list the ways
I took after you
say I was created
in your image
say that your visage
was mirrored in me
that the nose I hated
was exactly like yours
and that was hard to take
She showed me a cutting
someone sent to her
from the Scotsman I think
or perhaps some local rag
from Edinburgh, where you were
saying you'd been bound over
for indecent exposure
from the window of your Manse
where you stood naked
though whether ***** it did not say
And she'd beg me
not to turn out like you
and I would ask
in my innocence
what she meant by that
"He's a ladies' man" she'd reply
and I had no clue
what she meant by this
yet even then
the idea of nakedness
sent a tingle up my spine
though I didn't like
what I had to show
felt it wasn't really mine
You had a life of comfort
while ours was hand to mouth
did anything ever stick to you
did your conscience ever twinge
did you ever even wonder
what became of me?
I'm not sure why I never yet
tried to track you down
perhaps it shows my utter contempt
or on the other hand
maybe I felt being rejected once
was once more than enough
and a second time would be
two more than I should take
yet at times I wonder
what fate had in store for you
because if your karma
didn't catch up with you
it sure as hell got me
Cynthia Pauline Jones 23/9/2013
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
From her neuroticisms
I derive my witticisms.
The soul wants to be,
Mind fights to unsee
The merry play before me
Who shalt thou ask?
Such an arduous task.
Do what thou wilt...
The honest Scotsman
Lay bare his kilt
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
I am aching
And skin
And bedsheets
And nothing else.
My hair is a disheveled sunset against a stark white pillow,
A flame that does not die down.
The intricacies of my fingertips
Have not been touched in ages.
Something inside me longs for the touch of another.
A melancholy Scotsman whispers lullabies
To the backdrop of an electric fire.
My heart knows not how to rest.
I want to feel him, I want to hear him,
I want to know that we're both alive.
A hand lay upon my shoulder today;
Tomorrow it shall be on a plane back to LA.
Please tell me what it's like to have someone who stays.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
I see you
Laird of Tanera Mòr
shaded scotsman
misty on the dock
I hear your skirling pipes
threading salted air
silent sound which cuts
and tops each bouncing wave
music on the bridge
between the living and the grave
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 5:00 AM UTC
David Grey "that poor Scotsman--"/Poet Andrew.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXV)
How dew lies silver in the valley, pale
Shafts through these naked boughs whose shadows' dense
Grey draws up silhouettes upon the sense
Of green lawns' soft new carpet to avail,
Half winking through the ghost of mists' detail
As trees' gaunt skeletons stand silent hence
In sheer calm's fragile note of light suspense,
And I could lose me here where dawn's eye'd hail.
But, no. Just take a fleeting gander, poor
Though thinner notice be, and while we two
Put on the eggs, make porridge, toast, or fer
All that I do, as Dad makes gravy, view
A Saturday? Roll 'cross my tongue what were
Sae almost hallowed ere, and say we knew?
01Apr17a
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
Mcdonald says
A jimmy wis lost
in Auld Reekie
'n' sae asked
a polis boaby
is thare
a B& Q in Leith?
'
n' th' polis boaby said
Na bit thare is
a D & E in Dundee.
We hud a roar
'n' Finch bought
th' neist round o' drinks.
A scotsman wis
in a taxicab
whin th' driver said
Th' brakes dinnae wirk
'n' we ur gaun
doon th' road
'n' ower th' cliff.
Sae th' Scotsman said
If ye cannae
stoap th' taxi
at least stoap
th' ruddy meter.
Ah laughed
bit he juist sat thare
wi' that straecht goup
o' his
smoking his ***
wi' care.
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 4:33 AM UTC
If you sit and listen
If you clear your mind and wait
Only then it speaks
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Upon a bracken hill I spied
An army of a heathen *****
Come to bury my clan and pride
Beneath this Scottish moor
Let the wind and rain lash at their skin
Like a thousand cat o nine
For they cannot bury McCloud
His father or his kind
With dirk in hand I lay upon
Heather and moss in bloom
Breath shallow and eyes that glare
Waiting for the pipes to play
The brave Scottish tune
No man shall take my land
Or forsake my creed
I am a Scotsman standing tall
For all that I believe
So do your best beast of hate
Come dine at your ill ment fate
And see how we here in gods land
Extend our fighting hand.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC