Remote

lost are the lines of a deceased Poet
still lies his anguish still lies his despair
mottled indifference of time can still show it
wasteland trees still seek mercy in it's lair
past structures of life are still rooted there

the Celts always said that the sea was blessed
yet writhing waves consumed all of their words
laying their secrets in perpetual rest
no more the barefoot Drover with his herds
beneath an undertow of restless birds

where once was a wave of misty arching smoke
and forgotten tongues that whispered through the heather
no longer the sound of the Corncrake's croak
beyond an earthen floor as shiny as leather
when the peace of the night fell like a feather

hear the lost joy of the Fiddlers reel
as Islands glisten in their perfection
tranquility of time is still the keel
for piles of disintegrating rejection
to add to the Highlands poignant collection.

Whilst walking in the remote Applecross peninsular I came across the ruins of an ancient settlement, their summer shielings were now piles of stones! I marvelled at how people could have possibly existed in this harsh terrain, in this and the following poem - Seascape, I've tried to convey what life could have been like.

piles of disintegrating rejection

Seascape

salt sea breeze under a mackerel sky
Morag on her Hobby Horse made out of wood
she continually keeps asking her Mother why?
My Daddy was so kind but still had to die
she'd dive in the sea and bring him back if she could!
Mother's pain is as deep as the ocean floor
tears have fallen till she could cry no more
she sits on a rock with Morag in her arms
as the sky and sea meet on a golden thread
tho neither Mother's touch or silvery charms
could raise her beloved Father from the dead.

hot in the fields but cool in the shade
Mairedh plays on the fiddle her Dad had made
as the violin cries her Mother sings
thinking in prose about greener grasses
while sowing pink ribbons for her pretty lasses
she's an astute Mother she knows all things
spinning lifes thread on timeless wheels
Seagulls shining under a happy sun
seeing her three girls on the beach baving fun
but she knows what pain is and how it feels
she needs a lasting balm that soothes and heals

Eilidh on the shoreline dragging in the kelp
shouts up to Morag to come give her some help
(they would never give their Dad any chelp)
impressions in the sand as they walk along the tide
under sweeps of wind Mother follows their voices
down to the point where there beloved Father died
that collection of jagged rocks still rejoices
the foamy surf laughed at their sombre meeting
silently atrophied by a driftwood greeting
his vessel was no match for the Minch's cruel force
no one saw the girls cry, except their Mother of course.

reaping the corn was never quite the same
hauling it to the kiln that Father had built
in the biting rain their spirits would wilt
but the sound of crashing surf dispelled any blame
Mother's making butter then she'll make some cheese
but life's not good, the Kelp work is on it's knees
clouds start tumbling down from gunmetal skies
Father only went fishing for his family to eat
kids went down to help him but there's no one there to greet
the cruel sea rubs her hands awaiting his demise
through the storm you could hear their deafening cries

trying to till the land with hoes and spade
as darkening clouds roll over the moor
the age of the 'lazy bed' is nearly outplayed
their destiny awaits them down on the shore
Mother prays fervently to the good Lord above
that one day her Children will all fall in love
inside the Blackhouse the fire burns bright
eldest girl Eilidh, like a Nightingale she sings
the image of her Mother who knows all things
but the chain was broken on this land's dark night
the wind picks up again as the Children sigh
to the crescendo of Mother's last battle cry

as the misty black smoke of truth upward fell
children in Eilidh's arms inconsolably weep
the impact of doom was impossible to tell
and now to be kicked off their land to make way for sheep!
A land to rack and ruin as they board the Liner
leaving their land to it's woes and it's cares
over the ocean to North Carolina
the Children kneel down as one to say their prayers
sailing close to the edge of what could be viable
they did as Dad told them and read the from bible
He said "it tells you how to be good and how to be brave
and shows how the dead one day will be raised from the grave."

The Key

I asked my friend Wisdom for the key to the door
the key to the good land where violence is no more
I pleaded with Wisdom for yet a second time
for the key to the door to a land without crime
there's no door like this one,  I know there's no other
where everyone is your Sister and Brother
so I pleaded with Wisdom and pleaded some more
for the key to this good land where war is no more
so I then begged Wisdom one last time for the key
where every one is fed and there's no poverty
at last Wisdom answered be was softly spoken
"you dont need a key...
                                          the door is always open!"

Ambrosia's dance

Plummeting sunbeams on the sunset lochs
silvery shadows play tig on the rocks
machair dances in the soft orange glens
as traces of red are clear on the Bens
"walk through my dreams and my music so fair
feel the radiance of my long Golden Hair"
under the sweetness of that slumbering strain
Ambrosia's tears fell as welcoming rain.
Play on your harp those ancient lullabies
embrace Celtic joy as the newborn cries.

Dandelion Days

behold the Dandelion,
souvenir of childhood -
that you kept in your heart
but you never let it go.
Dandelion days ... float on by
we booked our journey but there was no destination
Dandelion clocks float on the breeze
in dreams I talk to you
in echoes of time we laugh
see the lonely footprints in the sand
hear a distant melody
a flute playing on rose scented air
our memories become more golden than before
then we realised our destination was in sight
Dandelion days .... float on by.

Sunshine

dancing through fields of everlasting flowers
singing in the laughing falling showers
the carefree joy that radiates from the sky
gives us inner strength to run with the spry
we know that bad things lurk in the shadows
but sunshine melts away fear of tomorrows
like boats of lilac on a timeless sea
bookended by a happy emoji
we were the sunshine and life was the rain
we know they'll be laughter, we know they'll be pain
there'll always be sun there will sometimes be snow
but together... we will make ... a rainbow!

Open your eyes

drink your wine and run free like a child
    galloping down lifes long thoroughfare of green
thorny patches live in brambles so wild
    deep in the undergrowth
          hidden and unseen

memories of lilac around towering trees
    where banks of flowers plead 'forget me not'
feel the melancholic early morning breeze
    before the bold sun rises
         and the climate gets too hot

lifes pressures keep on trying to wear us down
    bluebells are trying to lift up their heads
open your eyes and get rid of that frown
     beauty is every where
         charm lies in mossy beds

hear the mandolins playing up in the trees
      high over a lake of sweet sheltered dreams
hear the leaves crunch as you fall to your knees
    see your prayers ascending
               on fledgling sun beams

feel the relief as the pause button is pressed
        you feel small in the midst of great things
to be warmed from the inside out is the best
        leave your problems behind
                          as the Blackbird sings

the two of you realize " it's now about us"
    woods darken but you continue to climb
forget each other not in this palpable buzz
     before Autumns golden touch
                 etches in the lines of time.

Matchday

a perceptible buzz of excitement
a deep routed comraderie
an arcane niche of culture and tradition.

We all predicted the score
2 - 0, 3 - 0, 4 - 1, 2 - 2
not one of us thought we would lose
football was about winning not losing
football was about joy not sadness

Inside the ground the excitement began to settle down
it wasn't long before our hearts began to sink
they soon ran out of ideas
they weren't trying
they gave up
but the real kicker was...
they didn't seem that bothered!

For a brief moment I saw through the magic of football
I know football is just a bit of fun
but it always excites us
they trudged off
the final whistle was like the bell in a factory
it was just a job
a job they were maybe bored with and ready to move on

walking back to the car
we all concurred we wouldn't go again
but we did...

of course we did!

Broken Wings ( for Steve)

never give up
wheelchair bound
confined to the ground
but your spirit can fly
high up in the sky
a Butterfly can fly..
with broken wings

never give up
let your problem be your flower
you're never crying on your own
you've got the Truth you've got the power
so now you'll never weep alone

never give up
let me see the world thru your eyes
when we walk that 'golden mile'
see those dreams under paradise skies
when you give me that Butterfly smile

never give up
your heart is kind so you can fly
soar just like a Dove
flying high above
then chase the lightning out the sky
and heal those broken wings with love

never give up
you've got the heart, you've got the soul
there is one above who knows all things
keep on striving to reach your goal
a Butterfly can fly...with Broken Wings.

His Imperial Majesty's request

"With the summer sun pledging eternity
I was hoping you might come near to me.
Your Majesty, what brought you down to the ground
when your home is high up and canopy bound?"
"I swooped down to make sure that my Wife was okay
and spellbind the innocent with my white coiffe"
"I stalked your movements for the greatest prize,
Japanese silk under cobalt blue skies.
But Your Majesty, a question if I may...
where perchance is Your dear Wife today?"
"She's laying her eggs down in the Goat Willow
far away from where any ramblers go...
I too have a request in polite deference
never reveal my Wife's secret presence.
If you comply with my humble request
my iridescent purple will be at your behest!"


You Qualify as a Poet when...

...you realise that there aren't any rules. You create the poem you want to be read.
...you have a cycling accident or something similar but instead of bemoaning the fact     your injured, you write a poem about it.
...whilst watching a crucial football match your attention is continually interrupted by     the flightpath of a Butterfly.
...You only use your laptop for Rhymezone or an online dictionary and thesaurus.
...Your Wife is continually hampering you because you're not focused.
...you think in poetry rather than straight lines.
...you never leave home without a 'poem kit' - a small notebook and pencil.
...you get obsessed by details, colours and textures.
...you get emotionally involved with characters and situations that you've invented!
...you get to the end of this inventory- congratulations, you are now a POET!

Valedictory (for the O's)

when life threw at you rocks, with fearsome cries
you turned those big stones into Butterflies
as wet turns dry and dust slowly settles
the sticks they threw, you turned into petals

now a distant sea caresses the sand
as you rainbow your way to that new land
sweet tunes linger in the crystalline air
as time stood still on a wing and a prayer

on a distant hill some sheep safely graze
through the bonds you made in those happy days
like dew in spring over the first Crocus
your charming smile gave them a focus

the Oboe floats  on the Butterflies wings
from the energy that the  Bassoon brings
tonight when you sleep and put out the light
you know your future is clear and your hopes are bright.

Musings on my first sighting of a 'Purple Emperor'.

Southrey woods, a sylvan delight!
a proliferation of large and small Whites with a newly painted hue
a few pairs fly in such unison as if they're in a cage
and everything was good.

lower down Small Heaths rise and fall in yoyo geometry.
Over on the path a lone Painted Lady suns herself,
only recently emerged from her secret world.
Small Blues en passant like celestial confetti,
as a Hornet on pest control declares..
..everything is good

...but wait a minute, what is that!
a purple jet fighter of the Butterfly world!
He teases me, landing twice
demanding respect
opening wide it's wings
as if to say... can't you see what I am?
It is, it is, it is!.. It can't be.. but it Is! A Purple Emperor!

Like a fool I reached for my camera and immediately zoomed in...too late
missed it, should have taken a safety shot first. Not to worry.

So what was I expecting- an impromptu rendition of Schubert's Marche militaire no.1
                                            - a brass fanfare of immense proportion
                                            - every living breathing thing in the woods to give homage to
                                               His imperial majesty.

Well, an iridescent flash of purple was more majestic to me than the music of Schubert.

That articulate 'white coiffe' meant more to me than a brass fanfare.

And the thought of woodland creatures paying homage to anything paled into insignificance at the capture of Butterflying's biggest prize.



The Sweetshop

little girl standing in a Sweet shop
called 'the Poverty of the West'
sees happiness on rows and layers
chocolate tears are what she likes best

over in the East things aren't so good
famine caused by bloody civil war
little girl hungers for kind loyalty
now she thinks people dont care anymore

she stands transfixed in the Sweet shop
called 'forgotten victims of the play'
sees live footage on the Television
of good food being thrown away

in cavity made teeth the demons hide
back in the West where things aren't so good
colours of drumsticks divert their gaze
with words of smooth liquorice falsehood

they built a future with unsteady hands
and drew a line where East and West meets
they couldn't agree so the kids still starved
because the bigger Children wouldn't share their sweets!

Swan River

Sunset Swan on a silver blue river
lonely gliding along a green corridor
                                                                                      undisturbed

the water's your home and you are the Mother
flap your gracious wings in the fractious wind
                                                                                      unperturbed

scripting destinies of grief on the water
your elegant neck fathoms the presence below
                                                                                         dont be shy

the Nightingales sing yet you have no voice
but when the end is near it unlocks your throat
                                                                                           tell me why

with the sun in your eyes, a constant disdain
oh modesty of silence you never complain
                                                                                        you had to die?

Harbour- dreaming is possible

fishing boats in the harbour look brand new
bog cotton floats on the emerald glass
the air sits still under the silvery blue
faint laugh in the distance as the years pass

under the cold sun our hearts were burning
letting rain wash away the pain of the heart
you have the power to stop the wheels turning
can those dandelion days too play their part

when Horses stampeded over virgin land
your eyes slowly moved away from the light
as time slipped by through your fingers like sand
you made a pledge with the worlds dying plight

tangled blue netting edged with orange buoys
the boats in the harbour still look brand new
I can't imagine the joy and the noise
if you came back it would be way overdue

dreaming is possible.

If Summer was a song

a speckled Thrush would end the night
                 emboldened in his songs delight

I would laugh with the sun at dawn
                chase Butterflies upon the lawn

I'd hum a tune without a care
                 as lyrics float on limpid air

hear the horn of distant Bees
                 feasting on flowers in the lees

come you Dragons with your Cellos
                 as the softening scenery mellows

I'd dance 'till the waves leaves the shore
                 the threat of Winter then no more

I'd whisper to the golden sea
                  and dream that you are hear with me

if only Summer was a song
                  I'd surely sing it all day long.

Achnasheen

Come on Children....
we're going to Achnasheeen!
you wont need any money
like other places we've been
there's no amusement arcades
or.. anything to do
but just for your convenience
I think they've still got a loo!

But you wont need to spend a penny
because everything is free
don't bother with swimming costumes
you can't even see the sea
there is a mountain somewhere
but it can easily be missed
as every time I've been before
it's been hidden by the mist

I'd love it as a house name
a sign above the front door
to remind you of the rain
as it siles down on the moor
that's what it means in Gaelic
literally 'a field of storms'
the Romans couldn't conquer it
in all their military forms.

so the world's your oyster
or the oyster is your world
but the tourists guide to Achnasheen
is the smallest in the world
there's a railway station there
you might think that that sounds funny
but we can't travel anywhere
'cause we didn't bring any money!!!

Standing at the edge of despair

standing at the edge of despair
where the air is clear and cold
dont dance near the edge when it is corniced
or sing a song on the devil's playlist

consider the wonder of jagged peaks
the sound of silence all around
pale complection of the weeper
dangerous reaction with the reaper

standing at the edge of despair
'sorrow' holds you in quiet limbo
but now is the time to open your fist
let 'sorrow' dance where tbe edge is corniced

contemplating the battle
through an inner tensile comfort
'sorrow' is hurled down the mountain side scree
behold...an innocent man walks forth free!

and finally... request slot

The myths and legends of Tezzachadnezzar

The battle took place on a gloomy October night
under the leadership of King Wally Sleight
Tezza's barmy army hide in Petriberg park
as Wally and the lads are kept in the dark
then the T.B.A slowly slip by unseen
camouflaged by the legendary Cade Brigade green
Walter and the lads have a game of Bezzar
then go head to head with Tezzachadnezzar.
The river was high but the volume was bound
but the 'holy writings' just could not be found
look! The volume disappeared, that gave them a fright
as Babylon fell - twice in one night
Iris' raise their heads in silent furor
when they realise that the Cade Brigade green is no more
Tezza hunkers down as the General pushes higher
guarded by the Meds and his rings of fire
doors carelessly left open as King Wally probes
and pushes to one side the walnut wardrobes
they say that his wisdom was greater than Aristotle's
yet he was no match for Tezzas massive orange gas bottles.

Thanks for reading...ktda, Markles.