"skirl" poems
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where
The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.
Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.
She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC
My vast heart views panoramas,
Of wide depths, open to oceans,
Sorrow has broke no thing alone,
A pink starfish legs under waters,
Arms ever sinking into wet sands.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
My soul, washes up, for granted,
Untook leftovers of the beached,
Endlessly salt dry things all alone,
Holey shells, driftwood, seaweed
And half buried, one pink starfish.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
My vast heart views panoramas,
Of wide depths, open to oceans,
Sorrow has broke no thing alone,
A pink starfish legs under waters,
Arms ever sinking into wet sands.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
My soul, washes up, for granted,
Untook leftovers of the beached,
Endlessly salt dry things all alone,
Holey shells, driftwood, seaweed
And half buried, one pink starfish.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
After the milking's done,
Farmer gone to house and bed,
Rag-tag tabbies, half-breed furs,
Assemble by the milking stool
Yowl a bit, then settle down to purrs.
Rosined up, a straw-boned bow
Emits a violinic fiddle's skirl,
And one by one the mousers
Stand on twos to take a matted floor.
Come, let us see you pirouette,
You puissant pouncers.
Lightly spin those furry toes;
Sheath deep those claws to put
Perfection in your prances;
Balance on your tails, and spin;
Exercise or exorcise in cattish dances
The feline feelings you are in.
Dance happily and furiously...
Or sinuously and slow...
Whatever moods mouse-
Murderers can feel or know.
Enjoy the dance, ye half-breed cats.
Never mind the jealous schemes of mice,
Nor terroristic plots of leagues of rats.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
The man strides to the marching
drums, blood hot for the boiling
fray, beside him marches kin and
friends, comrades all for the ******
fray. On roll the marching drums, pipes
skirl and trumpets bray, all to the sound
of stomping boots, all to the waiting
fray.
Now, hark to the trumpets sound,
loud and clear in the morning air,
foemen sighted, foemen there! Out
from the town exceeding fair. Now
comes the faster beat, and comes the
sound of running feet, as men roar with
joy and fear as they rush headlong in
the morning clear, as they run to the
speeding fray.
The man lies on the trampled ground,
and listens to the wrenching sound of
the groans and screams of tortured men,
dying there, on the ****** ground.
Away above, beyond the clouds, and over
the buzzards circling, there through a shining
rent, the man near death a vision sees; an eagle
high, balancing, above the fates of Lords and
men. As his dying breath escapes his lips, and
darkness comes to take him home, the man
hears a distant sound; the eagle calling down
farewell, down to the twisted, ****** fell,
above the loud, tumultuous roar of men
survived from the ****** fray, crying all in
joyous voices, "Victory! Victory!"
Bittersweet the memory.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
If shield
wilt with
skirl this
time unfurl
hitch that
neither me
nor they
made it
wean just
latent spoor
soon did
wade with
ingenious ratchet
mired gore
with ulterior
indebted in
renewable bonds.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…
contentious times burn heterodox.
The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;
Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.
Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl
escaping from God’s music box:
a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks
the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.
We chasten the imploding West
for ****** Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)
but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.
His enterprising doctrine rocks.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
strong blusters of thronging wind
blew through the town's streets last night
whirling with a forceful might
as heard in their skirl
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC