Celt Felt
Red fog periphery
Thundering blood a counter point
Anger sharp clarity slows time to waken
ancestral soul fountains of spurting joys
Accentuated by the hard ball of regret
As she retreats to recharge
That sweetens the berserker rage
To drown reason in red
Storm seas of Scottish passion
Instantly free to destroy
Such are the ways of a very small boy
in a tantrum
Or the lord of a land
That he feels is his own
Later Regret with her dampening blueness
Will wash with wet teary frustration of feeling
To color and brush on the darkening canvas
Souring the day of a dour celtic soul
The grays and the browns of a daily existence
Painted tamed works o’er past’s living souls
Who wait in their darkening dry cracking prisons
For red hues of anger to free them once more
Stand at a fireside look into flames
Watch as your soul takes a part in the games
Sip on a whiskey while shaking the hands
Of kin who were here then talking in tones
Walking on lands that nobody owns
Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2006
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