Objects
Objects devoid of
definite shape are
responsible, with the loyal aid of
tree roots, and to
bagpipe music, for the
breakdown of
the
Western Roman Empire (467 AD).
a baboon backbone
playing alone the bagpipe
a cool monkey style
A giraffe who was new
At the Aberdeen Zoo
Heard a bagpipe askirling one day.
He tracked down the player
And offered to pay her
If she kindly would teach him to play.
He gazed at the piper,
A Hebrides viper,
As she uncoiled and let out a sigh.
Then she hissed, "Listen, dearrie,
I'll answerr yerr querry,
But you're nae gonna like my rreply.
Yerr legr'rr like stilts,
You'd look funny in kilts,
And that just would'na sit well wi' Scots.
We'rre quite snobbish and swell,
And know perrfectly well
That plaid dinna fit well wi' spots!"
In the crimson dawn, a tale unfurls,
A scorching day, the heat unfurls,
Lost in a haze, my mind unfurls,
A journey from haven to infernal swirls.
Amidst this chaos, a mosquito takes flight,
Brandishing a bagpipe with all its might,
"Ma nagan dance nachna," it cries with delight,
A whimsical tune, dancing in the twilight.
As it pierces my skin, a crimson stream,
Blood freely flows, in trust's realm it gleams,
The mosquito soars, in a whimsical dream,
Over countless worlds, where wonders teem.
In each verse, a story intertwined,
Of a day's confusion, where thoughts unwound,
Of heat's fiery grip, with no respite found,
Of a mosquito's dance, with melodies profound.
From haven to hell, the journey unveils,
A symphony of moments, where the soul prevails,
Through confusion and heat, the spirit sails,
In a mosquito's flight, imagination exhales.
So let us embrace these tales surreal,
The ebb and flow of emotions we feel,
For in the dance of life, they truly reveal,
The beauty of moments, both raw and ideal.
Louis Macneice 'BAGPIPE MUSIC'
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I long to traipse across lavender heathered hills
and look across the North Sea as a winter wind chills.
Again, to dwell in a cottage, nestled in a green glen
or traverse Scotland's burns, I yearn. Do ya ken?
Years ago I sat upon Loch Lomond's misty banks
and to the beautiful Highlands I offered my thanks
for rugged terrain, lowlands and plains, and Aberdeen.
Haunting bagpipe songs, leaves me feeling serene.
My heart longs to wander free as I stand and listen
to gulls over the Hebrides while Atlantic waters glisten.
There's a stirring deep within my heart and my soul
to wear my clan's plaid and upon Ayr Beach to stroll.
January 5, 2023
Take Me There Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Margarita Lillico
Arthur's seat sits hidden by the cloak of night, his head up in the clouds.
Princes Street lies empty, no royals, no life, no crowds.
Nelson stands neglected, having made a monumental mistake.
Charlottes' going square without new books to articulate.
St Giles has closed his doors to weary pilgrim seeking refuge.
The Palace has lost its money, its reputation, its gold.
Up at the castle, the one o clock gun,
sounds to mourn Edinburgh's loss.
For all I hear, tonight and every night,
is the pitter patter of the rain.
It marks the tears of old Edinburgh town wondering,
will I be loved again?
Where be the Scottish man in kilt with bagpipe sash?
Or corner street drunken birthday bash?
Edinburgh weaps the soil untrodden,
those lost of late shan't be forgotten.
May we once more run wild with glee,
old Edinburgh town, the land of the free.
5.15.21
On the Isle of Skye, water runs down the Cuillin mountains into waterfall streams
It's a beautiful and tranquil place
Where the local fairies live, play and dream
A red-bearded Scotsman walks from his village
He carries his beloved bagpipes in hand
He heads to the magical Fairy Pools
To play for the fairies hiding among the heather stalks growing in the lush green land
Clad in a kilt of dark blue and green
They know it's their friend that's come to play
His emotional bagpipe songs are the only things
That make them emerge from their hideaway
The fairies love the skirl of the bagpipes
It brings their soul delight
Their tiny wings flutter with joy and elation
While they surround him in flight
When he's finished playing, he reaches into his horsehair sporran
Hanging from his waist
To feed the fairies bits of wild-grown raspberries
They absolutely love their taste
He will come back to play for them soon on another day
They love their friend in the blue and green kilt
With his beloved bagpipes and the songs that he will play
One legged evil brownie with a lopsided top hat
Was tired of crab legged crone thinking she was all that
Her feather and sword gave her instant jurisdiction
Her thought her followers fell under some addiction.
Her flag-waving ways were annoying to Buggy B Biff
She smelled like a cadaver for he had caught a whiff.
She was beyond ugly with twelve ruffled hideous boots
He put on his spurs, gun belts, and plaid bagpipe flutes.
She was stirring up the women. He saw his own wife!
Who was screeching and screaming, holding a silver knife.
He crept up slowly to Creelah, the crab-legged crone.
All he wanted her to do was to leave the women alone.
Bam! The trigger was pulled before he even realized.
He had shot the old skeleton dead, he quickly surmised.
The women stampeded the stage, and kicked him to death.
The last thought he had was, I should not have taken the meth.
They lean upon one another
Teetering drunkards
Swaying in dependencies dance
Scrawny limbs clinging to frailties hope
There is a solemnity to their silent passing
An honor in their slow demise
An eerie bagpipe squeal in their movements
It is a privilege to sit among them
Listen to their ring bound stories
Breathe in their ancient scents
Disappear into their timeless moment
4/6/2020
in the front clapping and praising, high hands reaching.
former times held the lyrics of tambourine —
bells in a circle shaking, hitting thighs.
then there’s the ukulele — a small guitar,
held close in swaddle, fingers strumming up and down.
emotive feelings of sound as piano keys and chords
ride the path to your soul and the unity of chorus
with flowing robes — undulation of the Creator’s sea.
and the moment i followed my grandmother,
a bagpipe touting Amazing Grace —
the rich mahogany box levitating,
to her final resting place.
11/23/2018
a baboon backbone
playing alone the bagpipe
a cool monkey style
bang, back to me you come, twice, bang, bang, and bursting, at the seams with light and food and sounds like an old bagpipe, you parade my mind, you bastard, my big little baby, my mind, my baby, oh my, oh my, maybe with lies once tasty, and with patterns of behavior now shaky, blinded by sunlight but shady, these fantasies who rape me, or those who poorly rate me, and spit on my quality, they smile but shame me, time tells tales that take me back to you, you bastard, and ocean waters.. still blue
…To you…
If loneliness had a sound
What would that sound be
Could it be the sound of sadness
Or something heard
Quite differently
…To you…
Twould it be the sigh of wind
‘Pon the windowpanes
The hiss of sleet upon the glass
Would it be the low grumble
Of distant thunder from storms
That never seem to pass
…To you…
Could well be
The sound of a car door closing’
Shuffle of footsteps fading away
The whispered words…
That go unheard…“Don’t leave me now,
Please stay!”
…To you…
Could it be that silent plea
That screams from silent face
Or the haunting moans
Of bagpipe drones
That intone
…‘Amazing Grace…
…To you…
So many are the sounds
Of lonesome
One knows not where
To start
But to me you see
T’will e’er be
The sound of
…A broken heart…
I can hear them in the distance when the air is bright and clear
They bring back bitter memories of a long ago yesteryear
The whining of the pipes I can remember well,
As they set the cadence for the men, who marched into pure hell.
They were preceded by their banner - A Royal Scot Brigade –
These tartan clad musicians were never known to fade.
They always kept on playing as to battle they did go;
The weather did not matter - blazing sand or bitter snow.
When heroes of the clan are called and laid to rest,
A single piper can be heard filling a last request.
The one, who paid the piper, in our hearts, will ever be –
His place will forever be a part of bagpipe memories.
The whining still is heard and the wars continue on
And will be with us forever until the pipes are done.
Written by
John Posey
12/22/14
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