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.
Learn your lesson, Dyson,
and surely don’t think twice, son.
Sure, Scots pipers flounce and flirt,
not all guys look good in a skirt!
–The poetic form Clerihew is featured at Poetic Bloomings
The winds chill leaving remnants
of September’s sour breath lingering.
In the hollow, the animate search
for the place to settle, to join in their
sedentary brethren’s hibernate states.
Rivers and streams convey their coolness,
a restless meander through valley
and hill. The trees are still holding
the foliage foisted upon them, barely
releasing the palette presented.
The sound of October’s afternoon
sings like an anthem; a stoic hymn
to nature’s wonderment. But, there
is a resentment in the fading of the light
as night comes earlier and the days
are an endless play, friendless in a way
that lonely hearts can attest. At best
October is more appreciated in decline.
A case of mind over decayed matter.
Through the clearing there is hope.
But it seems months removed.
Fabled and legendary,
nary a blighter who’ve claimed
to have seen you, means you any harm.
There is a beauty and a charm
behind your myth. Boggy waters
upon the lough host your presence
you are the essence of grace imagined.
If your truly are, you are by far mysterious.
We are delirious with your fever, Lough Ness deceiver.
Away from the grind,
a mind at rest and loving
It is rejuvenation I am after,
and so walking off in the pursuit
of mystic pipes and a search
to debunk the dreaded
Lough McIllwain Monster
seems to be my solitary quest.
A journey unplanned
but well taken, forsaking
and social kinship
for a sip of whiskey and
nothing else over which
to concern myself.
Holidays always end.
How unfortunate this is so.
A made-up melody,
random notes from the back
of his throat. Uncle
didn’t bother with words
when the beauty of a song
lived in his heart. Many nights
on the lough we waited
with baited hooks and star-filled
skies. Angus closed his eyes
and his lips to begin
this hot air symphony all his own.
Old folk songs taught by his
GrandDa keeping the fish at bay,
and drawing me closer to the ancients;
descendents and ancestors alike.
Songs that dance in the shadows of my memory.
My times with Angus were laced with love.
Windblown and grown throughout the valley,
the sharp burrs wave in rhythmic rolls.
In the quiet evening the rush is heard;
soft as a whisper, sharp as a whistle.
If you listen you can hear its calling,
enthralling and even. In the bushes and stalks
it talks to the shadows of my Scots ancestors
long interred; the rush is heard throughout the dale,
in the thistle’s tale its whistle wails.
Hands joined as we trek
across the lea to our quiet place.
Her face rings of porcelain, possessing
a heart made of same. Its beat
is strong and rapid, as mine
responds in kind; breathing heated
and shallow, hands trembling, but sure.
It is a fine Aberdeen eve,
with Emmaline as companion.
From the marsh the sound
of a reptilian rendezvous
punctuates the star filled night.
Dare I stop to steal a kiss,
from the fairness of one who owns
every loving thought of mine?
Dare I do, a kiss, then two;
love’s treasure sating my longing soul.
Rapt in the embrace of emerging emotions,
Emmaline replies not. Her only music
is a pulsing heart and her sensuous sigh.
She and I, nigh in the night.
placid and serene,
a reflecting pool
of my magnificent Scotland.
Heritage and tradition,
a proud and noble condition.
I stand upon the shore,
a sentinel to the wonder
of the sweeping skies I am under.
The sun begins its ascent
and my contentment nears completion.
Bellows drive my incantation,
a gentile melody to bless this new morning.
And suddenly, these pipes are distracted,
an act of heresy to this heart. A wail
of unknown origin from the water’s edge,
The loud splash of a trident tail submerging.
Myth and legend appears alive and well.
‘Tis swell a day to be alive and well.