Best Bagpipe Poems
Stay a little longer
come closer to my heart
Breathe dew breeze on my neck's nape
do not yet depart
Play for me bagpipe music
Blindfold all my starving fears
Let the dulcet tones of your voice
give us back those harvest years
Make of the citrus moon a ballroom
Hold me firmly from both hands
Lift me high to touch the star-sky
Show me how young peasants dance
Let my soothing fingers trail
across your caloused sun -soaked skin
In purple fields Come chase me
in that place our souls have been
Take me away with you
where this world is out of sight
Where unspoken thoughts and heartbeats
are enough to blaze the night.
Clans, Ilks and Tartans
Woven into threads of red and black,
Girded by grids of white,
Distant plaintive bagpipe memories
Of sunset over Kilmaurs –
A crest that bears a unicorn
Touches royal roots
As a poet’s tribute to a patron lost
Watches neighbors Campbell and Montgomerie
Then looks out on the seas from tidal lands
Of Ayrshire in flings and reels with swirling kilts
When explorer’s feet recall on new world shores
The mew of seagulls soaring –
Politicians, engineers and entrepreneurs -
Over Fork Over – Cunningham, a clan of auld.
Blocks of green and wine
Stripped with blue
Look back into the heather
Covering highland hills of country dances
Where spring wanders in hunting kilts
Beneath clear cerulean heavens,
Boldly enduring;
A crest that bears a coronet
Of storied noble and knight
Whose melancholy legend
Whispers in glens and gloaming
Of standard bearers for a king
Watched by Ogilvy and Stewart
Lindsay, a clan of auld.
Like sunlight bouncing off of autumn leaves
In crimson, golden amber, umber greening hues -
A sword dance of squares and lines in twirling kilts -
Near the sparkling waters of Loch Lomond;
Clan neighbor Graham and cousins MacCammon
See the crest adorned by a coronet
Prize of battle;
The wind remembers
Tiny windswept island Clarinch -
A battle cry of Clar Innes -
Campaigns of kings and exiled queens –
Chieftain’s seat sees a president and prospector -
Hence the brighter honor – Buchanan, a clan of auld.
Cousins of the same ilk
Bear the names of families -
Of highland lands
And lowland memories -
Seaside and mountain territories -
Kilts wearing colors interwoven patterns
Born of clans with
Tartans telling legends and the stone of destiny,
Plaids dancing at the piper’s hand,
Ancient names, though maybe hidden, still live –
Cunnyngham, Lindsey and MacCammon
Of Buchanan –
In Celtic refrains like iridescent whispers
Woven through clans of auld.
This is the story of my Scottish heritage through the mottos, the tartans, the history and geographic references to the clan homes.
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
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
I whispered lightly as a rose
To grease my oily bagpipe,
And sniffing with her hairy nose
A dwarf flew into sight.
‘Pull down your flabby chopsticks, man.’
She ordered like a waiter,
And lowering my name to Stan
Got on all fours to cater.
‘I am Dame Doris Chucklebum.’
She laughed but half an inch.
‘I like things that are rarely done.’
Then stroked me with a pinch.
‘Take back thy sweaty chollocks, love.’
I pleaded like a pro,
And with a hefty boxing glove
Took on the lady so.
It lasted less than half a tick,
Less if you counted slow.
And with a little knowing trick
Fled fleeing on the go.
‘Come back! Don’t go!’ she wept with ploy,
‘I’ll change like Whitney Whopper.’
Enjoying but a little joy
And playing with her chopper.
They’re mournful at a wake or when
A person’s laid to rest,
Yet there are those who say their sound
Is something to detest.
But line them up and hear them played
By marchers wearing kilts
And suddenly you see the green
And hear those Irish lilts.
Oh, it’s a joy to witness
The St. Patrick’s Day Parade
And watch the bands from every police
And fireman brigade.
The pipers always lead the way,
Their plaintive notes on high;
The green-clad crowd applauds
As all the marchers pass them by.
I wouldn’t want to listen
To a bagpipe every day,
But on the 17th of March, I’m glad
I get to hear them play.
We are going on a trip to the British Isles
and Channel Island of Guernsey and Normandy.
This sure should be quite a cruise. Here is my
first poem I am writing about it even though I
have not been there yet. Here goes.
Crabby Walking Though the Abbey
by James Thomas Horn before we
go bye.
Can't leave London without having fish and chips
Which originated from slick, sailing ships;
Could ride by restaurant in horse drawn coach
See beautiful women while wearing a broach.
Many smiling people everywhere we shall see;
Some may even be from upper high society
Who all have much money they can spare
Yet, still can seed noses held high in the air.
While we were looking did see a lovely doll,
And ended up having a big barroom brawl;
After we left and what soon was a little later
Americans were accused of being an instigator.
From it all we started having terrible cough
Maybe it was from riding get on and get off;
Over pages of those punished started to skim;
No wonder Tower of London looks so grim.
But, at last, lovely parade now had begun;
Women had fun wearing hair in a big bun;
After seeing hats and hearing all of the hype,
Wanted to hear band who played a bagpipe.
Saw some important people in front of a manor
And out in front of it could find a big banner,
But you could see me starting to get crabby;
Wife said we will walk though entire abbey.
James Thomas (Out of Breath) Horn
www.poetrysoup.com
www.story-telling-around-the-world.com
I haven’t sailed her rocky shores,
peered through her misty veils,
but clansman blood runs thru my veins.
Fore-fathers climbed her trails.
I long to see highlands and meadows,
the lochs and the glens and more,
to seek fabled Loch Ness monster,
part of exciting Scottish lore.
Is there some one resembling me
still living in this distant land?
Does he proudly wear his Scottish kilts
as he marches in bagpipe band?
The poems of renowned Bobby Burns
have appealed to poet in me.
My Scottish roots are calling out
to unravel the mystery.
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
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
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
THE LONGEST DAY
It’s an astronomical fact little-known
That New Year’s Eve nineteen ninety one
Was the longest the record will show.
The sun set in the west at Heathrow
As our plane to Canada took off, filled with zest.
The plane’s speed built up and sun rose again in the west
And it hovered above the horizon – did not deign
To dip till Edmonton, when it set again.
Hogmanay Eve 34 hours long: bliss for a Scotsman.
Over Iceland some guy in a kilt began
To stride the aisles playing a bagpipe low.
High over Greenland the malt began to flow
Freely from the baggage racks in the plane:
The racks are high, the Scots are higher again.
Dinner over Baffin Bay is a formality:
A slight slowing in the rate of alcohol hospitality.
The Italians wake up over Ungava -
It might just as well be Java -
And begin munching their salamis rather than
Have them confiscated by the customs man.
Bagpipes seem to gain in volume
Eight miles up, over Uranium City’s gloom;
And at last, as the speed drops
And the sun sinks behind the Rockies’ tops,
The “Highland Laddie” falls asleep,
And so does his bagpipe. Not a peep.
Plane is filled with blissful silence
As Canadian Hogmanay makes its entrance.
…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…
a baboon backbone
playing alone the bagpipe
a cool monkey style
SPRING SONG
When this lovely vale begins to spring back to life
Crocuses in blue and yellow unfold their tender petals
And reach wide-fingered for the warming sunshine
While the daffodils jostle for attention in the breeze.
The sleeping meadow grass is roused to growth.
My pastures are filled again with sheep calling their lambs;
And calves and kittens play with illimited energy, singing to me
In vigorous voices of gladness and joy and exuberance.
Their songs are carried on the warm fresh air breezing in from the sea
As I cock an ear for the strains of the neighbour’s bagpipes.
My lilacs spread out their new dresses of white and mauve, and
Young pared apple trees over my porch know that it is time to blossom into
Brides with white confetti littering their feet along my path.
The swallows are coming back from the south to rebuild their weathered nests
And the pruned cherry trees are coiled springs heavy with scented pink blooms,
Preparing themselves to pour their fruits into my waiting arms.
Through my open window come the bagpipe melody and scent of lilac
And the creaking of growth in the earth as my roots renew and deepen,
And I know that I am nestled in this lovely vale as deeply as my heart
Is implanted in my family’s growth and profusion.