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William Willis Poem
SPELLING TEST (there are over 30 words contained within this poem that are often
misspelt by the common man)
We all do on occasion temporarily misspell.
Amateur or connoisseur of language,who can tell?
Conscientiously piece together,peculiar bits of rhyme.
Manoeuvre letters gorgeously for others to refine.
Discipline and experience,all apparent to you and me.
Pronunciation not enough to spell linguistically.
Skilful realignment of the letters needs addressed.
Paralytic implications quintessentially expressed.
A ricochet of rhythm,sabotaged in a queue of verse.
Cacophony of tone with their spellings unrehearsed.
Is your spelling kamikaze,a haemorrhaging of ink.
A karaoke nightmare,communication on the brink.
So literary geniuses,i am all apologetic.
If my utterance is rabbled and my spelling is pathetic.
You see,many words i utilize in this poem i create.
Have been misspelt for centuries,the most common is
separate
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
Note-Barlinnie Prison-is meant to be one of Britains toughest prisons.However,times
are changing and many impoverished criminals see it as a roof over their head with
no need to worry about where the next meal is coming from.
It's Christmas at Barlinnie but Jimmys free now on the streets.
He's homeless and bedraggled and ignored by friends he meets.
Its Christmas at Barlinnie,all the cons are getting fed.
Three course lunch,tea and mints,full breakfast and fried bread.
Jimmys in and out of jail,a life full of crime and sin.
Less money in his pocket now recession is kicking in.
With no aspirations,a convict, thief and liar.
His family have dis-owned him, all their dreams now lie in tatters.
As mollycoddled prisoners,tuck into their Christmas treats.
Jimmy's bones begin to freeze,it's minus fiveteen on the street.
As mollycoddled prisoners,feast on a turkey steak.
Jimmy's bellies empty,there is no food there on his plate.
Distant moon in observation,Jimmy sleeps in cardboard box.
Drunken revellers,slamming shutters,smell of hot-dogs,hungry fox.
Fearful moon now glaring,as the night turns into day.
Jimmy's dreaming of Barlinnie,who says that crime doesn't pay.
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
NOTE-Right now Scotland is suffering it's worsed winter since 1963.The severe
weather has put the whole country at a stand-still.....
Polar bears in kilts, it's now minus fifteen.
Ice cube cars and wellies and our frozen windscreens.
Roads are all at grid-lock,schools are closed across the land.
Whole communities shovelling snow, all working hand in hand.
Where are our gritters and our snow-plough's, is oor salt in short supply?
All my poor winter pansies, bet your boots there going to die.
My snowman's got the flu, my sledge has two buckled blades.
And now i've slipped a disc out and i've broken three good spades.
People wearing earmuffs, snoods and scarves, no skin to bare.
But i am in a Glasgow Betting Shop, not in Moscow's Red Square.
My wee car's like a bobsleigh as it trundles through the snow.
My toes are cold, my bum is numb and my cheeks they are aglow.
River Clyde has all iced over, cancelled trains and frozen locks.
Leggings, gloves and thermal undies, woolly hats and soggy socks.
All my gutters have collapsed and caved in, my snowman's head.
And the birds, they are all starving, better throw them out some bread.
Penguins play the bagpipes, carol singers join in too.
Susan Boyle sings White Christmas in the icy morning dew.
Scotland.... Shivering to a stand-still, this winter really is a corker.
Stuff this vicious winter weather's am away aff tae Majorca.
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
Glittering diamond summit,was only one day away.
Genetic characteristics,now coming to the fray.
Evaluating patience and a knack for fearing fear.
Drive ice-screw into crevice with the summit drawing near.
Speculative Winter sun,in a mortuary of blue.
Everest conquered only,by the very chosen few.
Snarling pit-bull winds with oxygen levels low.
Bar-headed geese feed on climbers down below.
Months of seasoned snowfall,lies dormant up above.
Metamorphisising snowflakes,slide like a velvet glove.
Snow now starts to shift,on the angled valley floor.
The sound every climber fears,a deathly thunderous roar.
Snow is all around them as they swim to stay on top.
It hammers down the mountain-side and just doesn't stop.
Shovels,crampons,ice-picks now litter the terrain.
Hooks and pulleys mangled from the snows heavy strain.
Rejected by the mountain as they tumble to their graves.
This altitude has attitude,no fortune for the brave.
Bar-headed geese circle in the valley of the dead.
As hours go by the snow there,has turned a crimson red.
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
Note-It's Burns Weekend in Scotland and this is my tribute to our great bard.I will
be reciting this at a Burns Supper tonight.I hope you like it.
Our Scottish Prince, rustic rogue of rhyme.
Sainted, painted and pillored through time.
Yer cottage it stands, a tribute its true.
How the braw bonnie lassies o Ayrshire loved you.
A common man, wi a romantic notion.
Yer pen was filled wi frivilious potion.
A man o' men, wrote o' love and spite.
Blushin' girls cheeks an' satirical bite.
Scots tounge and dialect, that was straight fae the heart.
Ye wrote "A Man's A Man For A' That."
Yer poems appealling tae the worldly masses.
Yer ghost still lingers in drinkin' mens glasses.
Rabbie, the toast o' the town and the haggis addressed.
Wi' a wee dram o' whisky, we're now fully refreshed.
Yer words were like snow on a loch, stream or river.
Just a moment o' white but not lost forever.
Was a Priince, died a pauper at only thirty seven.
Yer poems are read at supper-time in heaven.
So "fair ye weel and now we'll severe."
But yer memory will stay wi' us forever
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
Indigenous forest so awash with trees.
Leaves strum a tune in the cool Autumn breeze.
Rustling rowans and galloping ash.
A rustic blanket for a well trodden path.
Plum tinged foliage,fleet of foot in the dance.
Melancholy movements has me in a trance.
Woodland dance floor with pine-needle skin.
Acorns descend hit the floor and join in.
Ancient great oak stands fearless and tall.
Watchfully presiding over each leaf that falls.
The seasons will pass and flowers will flourish.
All dancing their feet in Gods soil to nourish.
Drifting of herbs and bluebells in spring.
Come Summer,a chorus,the nightjar will sing.
Badgers emerging on mild winter nights.
Flittering bats in forest twilight.
Crossbills and siskins searching for fruit.
Goshawks and buzzards circle and swoop.
Indigenous forest,a landscape supreme.
Take the kids there tomorrow,its got to be seen.
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
Note
(Try to put your best Scottish accent on when reading this one)
Disguarded fae the workplace, rusted red distorted frame.
Mangled handles reachin' oot like a wee disguarded bairn.
Were ye pushed aroon' a factory,heavin' loads or liftin' grain.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Wer' ye wheeled aroon' all day in the snaw an' wind an' rain.
Yer tyre treed is bare noo an' has seen far better days.
You've been a mate tae many wi' the heevy loads you've raised.
Yer bolts an' axles aches an' pains are a burden o' yer past.
Manufactured in the 60s an' for sure wir built tae last.
After all yer toil an' efforts,the flickers gone noo fae yer flame.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Old wheelbarrow,a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Did you carry sand or rubble, did ye muck oot on the fairm?
Yer buckets lying twisted like a face that's had a batterin'.
As the rain hits aff your rusty hinge, i hear a pitter-patterin'.
Ye look like you've been there a while,as yon weeds make ye their home.
Wi' yer pal lyin' there down at yer side ,old flattened traffic cone.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life you came.
Your future's no' too bright but we all can say the same.
'Cause oor country's in a rut right noo and it's all hands to the pumps.
The pension age has risen and we're all doon in the dumps.
Old wheelbarrow i ponder,will i fix up yer old frame?
And work ye till you drop (again!) It's oor Governments main aim.
(Well done,good ascent! Pour yourself a wee whisky,now)
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
.................................................A
MAN
THE MAN
AN AMERICAN HERO
A TRUE COUNTRY MUSIC HERO
WORE BLACK FOR THE BEATEN DOWN ON THE POOR SIDE OF TOWN
WITH A RING OF FIRE AND A POCKET OF PILLS
A LIFE OF ROCK & ROLL AND THRILLS
WALKED THE LINE FOR ALL TO SEE
SOMETIMES SO IMPERFECTLY
JOHNNY,TO YOU LET US NOW APPLAUD
FOUGHT YOUR ILLS AND TURNED TO GOD
A VOICE LIKE GRAVEL AND THUNDER COMBINED
THE MAN IN BLACK'S GONE! BUT JOHNNY!......YOU WERE SO REFINED
SO THIS STAR I WILL PIN ON YOU
YOUR"RE MY SHERIFF
AND MY HERO
MISSING
U
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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William Willis Poem
Note
Pete Barnhill was befriended by the late great Johnny Cash.Both were around 13 years of age at the time.Pete learned Johnny his very first chords on the guitar.The rest is history......
PETE BARNHILL - MY TRIBUTE
Pete Barnhill was born with a withered right hand.
All his life he fought a crippling disease.
His old Gibson flat-top, could play a mean tune.
Incessant infiltration of the breeze.
As a polio child, he was teased at school.
Mass of metal worn on his right leg.
But a friend was made, back in those school days.
And a lesson we should never forget.
Pete taught Johnny
in a shotgun-shack
a tub-thumping rhythm like a train on a track
among the cotton-fields
in the Dyess land
where the folk were poor
and the dirt was manned
A bedrock for bedlam down that old dust road.
Playing Jimmie Rodgers tunes and the songs of Hank Snow.
That railroad rhythm, came from Pete's goldmine.
Hear that embryonic baselines now, on Walk The Line.
Kindness is a language, that the deaf can hear.
Kindness is a Language, that the blind can see.
When a gift is gone then another comes along.
Lessons learned from Johnny for you and me.
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2012
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William Willis Poem
Sad mourners packed the church today.
Poor Davie had passed away.
A Christian and a family man.
His life never went astray.
As a boy he joined the Boys Brigade.
Twas the makings of this lad.
Still youthful nearing 70.
Which makes his passing sad.
My dad knew Davie very well.
He worked with him for years.
Talked motor cars and caravans.
Great memories bathed in tears.
We sang him favourite hymn today.
Twas "Will Your Anchor Hold"
The minister did shed a tear.
As Davie's life was told.
That strong storm of death.
Has battered on Davie's door.
The family gathered round poor Grace.
Like anchors on the floor.
They stand "Steadfast And Sure"
In these wretched days to come.
Dark days of utter hopelessness.
Will blacken out their sun.
When these anchors slowly lift.
Their lives will carry on.
They will hear him,they will see him.
They just cant believe he's gone
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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