The heart goes on. Long after
thoughts of her fade. It is said
that ’tis better to have lost at love
than to have never ventured.
The heartache is the same.
I can not blame her
for wanting more, but when one
is unsure, one teeters on the brink.
So, learn to swim or sink,
but in the end the tally is the same.
Life is the no win game. But play
as if your life depended upon it.
Believe in the heart; it goes on.
And you will be fine until you flatline!
Kairn, a daughter so fair and pure,
born of grace and beauty; demure
in her womanly wiles, her smile
can charm the monster from Lough Ness.
She touched my heart when she was born,
Kairn, a daughter so fair and pure,
giving me a part of her soul,
this gentle girl in full control.
Her mother’s looks and her father’s
way with words, both expressed in love,
Kairn, a daughter so fair and pure;
an angel. Sent from up above,
Blessing all that know her spirit.
And her voice, the way I hear it
fills all my days with joy for sure,
Kairn, a daughter so fair and pure.
Written for the dear heart of a daughter, Kairn Blythe McIllwain.
In the reel of the pipes
there lives a muse both mythical
and magical. Scots a’fore me,
most celebrated for their wile,
bring mirth to a worn and tired soul.
Any toll life may have visited upon you,
dissipates in the loving tones of kith and kin.
And within the notes played soulfully,
a transformation occurs. Within the heart it stirs
and love is aroused in the pitch and timber.
A prestidigitation in sound, musical and magical.
I’ve returned from more extensive travel to wrap myself in the comfort of a homespun holiday celebration. Happy Christmas to all.
Dyson Douglas and Iain Douglas,
brothers of different mothers; sisters
bearing together. Whether you can tell
or not, we’ve got a lot of commonality.
But the reality lies in our disticnt differences.
He is tall, I, verbose. His vacant stare, distant.
Mine closer to the vest, a chest full of white hair
matching the window treatments. He, a store-bought
couiffe (more handsome without). I bear the family nose,
he, our predisposition for the distilled beverage.
Ambition brings me closer to my dreams,
but it seems Iain dreams throughout. Not a lout
by any stretch of imaginings. Generous and caring,
I’m wearing the shirt off of his back. But, I have a knack
of romanticizing our connection. It’s for his protection.
Iain is ravaged; dementia his executioner. He remains
on this plane lost in someone else’s brain. His smile
takes the circuitous route to expression, brief as it is.
I am pained in the witness I must become, but feel
all the love for my brother, my comrade, my friend.
In the end, isn’t that what cousins are?
Daughters bring joy.
And any boy who dreams,
yea, even schemes to abscond
with my darling lassies
had better love and care
for their needs and welfare.
They deserve no less, the best
life could offer in petite packages,
the ageless continuance of my being.
Long after I’m gone, I will find life
in a grandson’s smile, I will delight
in a granddaughter’s wile; she will hold the cards.
It is hard to imagine their mother
in their genetics. No frenetic rant
comes forth from within;
it would be a sin otherwise.
The spectrum spans wide,
and I can not hide my exuberance
at their contrary existence.
Da loves his girls.
My ex? Not so much.
We carried a vision jointly.
We wanted a cottage in the countryside.
We wanted children and a dog.
We wanted to travel to far off places,
we wanted our faces to meet with every fleeting moment.
We wanted to grow old together and
we wanted our matching rocking chairs side by side.
But inside, a different story emerged.
I wanted the freedom to write my weary heart.
She wanted independence to placate hers.
I wanted to purchase more of a footprint on this old sod.
She wanted to wait and see how we worked out.
I wanted her to be happy,
she wanted that too.
She wanted the cottage in the countryside.
She wanted the children and the dog.
She wanted to travel far away from our union,
She wanted my face to meet her barrister.
We wanted to grow old together but
she wanted to keep her youthful arse far from that rocking chair.
I wanted to work things out.
She wanted to divorce.
She received the cottage in the countryside.
She took custody of the children and the dog.
She bannished me to a place far from her,
she wanted my face to suffer in pain.
She got everything she wanted.
Anyone wishing to purchase twin rocking chairs?
The birth of me blessed this place,
but all traces of existence have vacated.
A noble home; a country cottage kept
amidst the hills and briars with room
to grow and learn. The stoop unswept
and remnants of window hangings clinging
steadfastly to the narrow rod, t’were hung.
Songs that mother had sung for father’s joy,
or to her infant boy, linger amongst the cobwebs.
In my possession, but no heart for disposition.
Dreams of restoration to her former glory
have long since vapourized as eyes mist
and a wisp of her spirit fills me.
Once a beauty as was mother, but now
the only remnant of her who gave life
to this sad and rampant storyteller.
This fellow knows all that filled this place
now fills my heart to overflowing,
always knowing mum’s house was home.