Category Archives: Poetry

Tempting Guacamole

Tempting Guacamole – 100 Word Wednesday.

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Dear Pips,

Please come back, I miss you, my darling Pips.
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely hips.
I love you and miss your gregarious smiles
I love you and forgive you for kissing Miles
Look, I’ve bought your favourite chilli tortilla chips
Because I know you love my guacamole dips.

Please come and trust me, my darling Pips
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely lips
I miss you, so let’s forget about you loving Jay
I miss you, see now, how my anger’s gone away
Look! I’ve spiced up your favourite tortilla chips
Because! I know you love my guacamole dips.

The Procrastinators

If and Only … Your friends in waiting.

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Glasgow Street Art

The Procrastinators

If and only are companions
They go hand in hand with fate
Like the dreams of millions
In retrospect, they arrive too late.

If and only trapped in meditation
Held back by dithering doubt
full of indecisive hesitation
In retrospect, just throw them out.

If and only may rule your life
with choices, hard to bare
what could have been was strife
In retrospect, do you really care?

Now if was your only thought
when you couldn’t make up your mind
of things not done or should or ought
In retrospect, if only you had more time.

Is She my Type?

Blind Date.

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Street Art in Glasgow, Scotland

They said she’s nice, so don’t be late
You’ll recognise her beautiful smile
And she’ll be wearing the latest Prada style
My nervous excitement, on a blind date

I saw her, gorgeous, laughing at the bar
Dressed in fashionable hugging stripes
Enchanting, attracting extroverted types
Like a prowling stag, ready armed for war

There is something about the fading light
That brings out an instinct in my mind
A sort of sublime emotional mating kind
That drives survival, but perhaps not tonight.

 

 

On a Wing and a Prayer

Three Line Tales – On a Wing and a Prayer

 

Over the world and in peace, feeling the quite serenity
of flying and softly floating free from earthly responsibility.
But all too soon, we’ll land on the insecure realities of insensibility.

A Cabin in The Woods

A Cabin in the Woods. 100 Words Week 7

 

 

Adam and Eve ran away from disapproval and family shame
Where people pointed since their unmarried love was a sin
They disappeared into the woods to start their life again
Where they built a cabin and a home for future children.

They built it far away from the well-trodden paths
By a lake with bulrush reeds and darting dragon flies
that hovered in the air with warm dog-rose scented wafts
drifting in the idyllic afternoons under the cloudless skies

Where behind the purple rosebay ran the bubbling brooks
They washed and bathed naked in the clear shallow pools
Guarded and watched over by a parliament of silent rooks
As they dried themselves slowly with white woollen towels

Alas with naivety of nature’s fruits, a mistaken death cap
was added for nourishment into a warm mushroom soup
As they peacefully slept, in their veins ran the poisonous sap
And in drifting dreams their souls followed a heavenly route

After fifty years, there were no records of the cabin in the woods
Or of the skeleton lovers huddled beneath a blanket of dust
The mystery became a myth full of folk songs with solemn moods
of young couples entranced by forbidden love and mistaken trust.

Fortune Teller – Aunty Rose

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Tarot Cards – Image from pixabay.com

Aunty Rose.

Tea leaves, tarot cards and a glass crystal ball
Aunty Rose has a special gift she can read them all
Holding hands in circles, she’ll speak to your lost friends
Relaying their sad voices with promises to make amends

One summer fete she had sat in her fortune teller’s tent.
Where Mrs Gilford asked, and then all her money spent
To know where her dead man Alfred had hidden his secret gold
Alas, thought Rose, how awful for this wife not to have been told.

They sat and pondered over Alfred’s wealth while sipping sweet tea.
And Rose swirled the leaves around in a glazed white porcelain cup
To form some shapes and symbols that would settle for her to see
The location of the treasure, but alas Aunty Rose had to give up.

Let’s consult the Book of Thoth to reveal the secret of his hoard
So Rose dealt the Tarot cards into rows across the table’s board
It was looking good dealing mostly cards showing golden jewels
But alas, the next was a row of snakes, then jokers and dancing fools.

Not to worry Mrs Gilford, said Rose, I have a mystical crystal ball
Let me gaze into its misty haze, and as the clouds of ether fall
they will reveal exactly the perfect place where to seek and search
Alas, all she saw was a scabby bird holding in its beak a dying perch

Next, Rose lit some candles and in the silence of the subdued light
She held Mrs Gilford’s hands and called to Alfred about their plight
A freezing chill filled up the tent and a ghostly voice spat and roared.
But alas, Mrs Gilford could not understand and declared Aunty Rose a fraud.

Oh this failure was a terrible shame that Aunty Rose could not endure
She pack her bags and said farewell, with no predictions for her future.
Then one day a letter came with pictures of Rose on a Caribbean beach.
And a view of her new home, a sixty meter yacht – ”Alfred’s Sweet Peach’

Book Week Scotland -Simply Read Too

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I had a book and CD launch today with the completion of my project for Book Week Scotland.

The book contains the transcripts of a collection of poetry and short stories written by Lanark Writers, which I published. The recordings on the Audio CD, which are the authentic voices of the authors, were arranged by the gentleman on the left, Mr Boom. He also composed the music and did the sound engineering. The result is a professionally finished piece of entertainment. Mr Boom is a TV entertainer as well as a sound recorder for local music groups and bands.

Here is an example of one of the poems; Villanelle for an Ancient Lover by Edith Ryan.

 

How did this lover get to be so old?

Who once was young and in his prime

In whom the fire of the love has not gone cold.

This ardent mate with passion bold

Whose days were full of summertime,

How did this lover get to be so old?

A lover with a heart of beaten gold,

Now slower, all he needs is time

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Life’s race is run, perhaps life’s story told

In fireside tale or ballad rhyme

How did this lover get to be so old?

I thought that he had split the mould

Eternal youth, an ardour so sublime

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Time’s etched his face with line and fold

And on his hair there’s frosty rime.

How did this lover get to be so old?

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

*****

Simply Read Too in Other Writings

 

 

 

 

 

Orbiting the Moon

Orbiting the moon.
Mother stood staring out of the open window
As I walked along the gravel garden path
She looked through me as If I was hollow
But I smiled and waved and saw her laugh

We sat on the veranda with jam and scones
She asked where I had been all these years
Were you travelling in space polishing stones?
I can’t remember, she said and wiped her tears

I showed her pictures of my growing family
My children as babies then going on to school
Who are these people? I can’t see them clearly
Oh yes she said, your father, the stubborn fool

We walked to the park and sat by the lake
She told me she was proud of her beloved son
The first Scots astronaut who promised to take
Her sightseeing, past Mars and orbiting the moon

Is it time to go? she said and held my hand
She pulled up the travel rug against the chill
How long will it take and where will we land?
She rested on my shoulder and slipped away
As I watched the sun sinking over the hill.

 

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Second Glance

Second Glance by Jan Train.

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Glasgow Street Art

sometimes

when people walk away

you want to call out

their name

just so they’ll turn

with a polite look

of enquiry

and you’ll say

something

quite inane

simply

for the pleasure

of seeing

their face again.

The Glorious Dead

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The guilty live with the shame of the silent dead.

All around the thunderous guns blew earth to hell
And the bullets tore the souls from the hearts of men
The heroes died, massacred, row upon row they fell
and for a cause that’s not so glorious now, or then.

Over those silent battlefields the skylarks hover high
above the swaying waves of blood red poppy flowers
and on the hour when sanity returned they heaved a sigh
and still they sing for all mankind that madness may devour.