Best Highland Poems
Written: November 06, 2023
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A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
His words like kisses, soft and light,
caress her rose-stained smile,
a heathered breeze on summer nights,
versed whispers to beguile.
With tenderness and silken brush,
sweet inklings of a scene
unfolds impressions, paints a blush,
she reads his thoughts between.
Upon his rune her heartbeat trips
through poppy fields in flower,
to golden sands where romance grips
in moonlit midnight hour.
The calming lilt of lapping tide
gives cadence to their love,
entwined as couplets, passions ride
‘neath liquid stars above.
Held apart by many a mile
mere dreams are hers this night,
his words alone caress her smile
with kisses, soft and light.
"without a care in the world the Grouse freely roam"
A quiet hush abounds amidst the scenic Highland Glens
Whilst saltire skies above silhouette a Golden Eagle against it's blue
Swooping shadowing heathers to return to soar above the Ben's
It's keen eyes in capture seeing movements amongst the mornings dew
For chicks it has to feed, from the heights down she flew
In quiet posture
Amongst the ruins of a croft
A Kestrel perches
Caressing the horizon
In awe, but so vigilant
On skeletal branches, crows a caw-
their safety in numbers allow
Highland whispers, echoes of innocence
Noble virtues of man, bereft of insolence
Highland whispers... life's pristine existence.
On the Isle of Skye and Raasay
In eighteen fifty one,
The English Government army
Cleared Scotland's daughters and sons,
Cumberland burned their villages
To ensure cultural disappearance,
Was this Highland subjugation ?
Or Was this a human clearance ?.
There was a ban on tartan
And breaking the law you'd be libel,
If you spoke the Gaelic tongue
Or read a Gaelic bible,
With potato famine and poverty
And without the tartan regalia,
Scotland's most precious resource
Sailed for Canada and Australia.
40,000 cleared from the glens
Left clan chiefs to the land,
Turning them into landlords
And into an upperclass band,
Some crofters came to the meetings
To discuss the so-called fair rent,
Only to be tossed on boats
Like sheep being sent to their death.
But despite these human clearances
And loss of life by the ton,
They've had their final say
You could say they still have won,
The new world is heavily populated
With those of highland appearances,
To ensure we never forget
The highland and human clearances.
In the vast expanse of a mountainous highland,
A pretty damsel joyfully waltzed around,
A carefree lass, in the laps of bountiful nature,
Until A Prince trotted by, and magically found.
The Prince wandered for hundreds and hundreds of miles,
searching for the maiden he saw in his dream,
Stunned and astounded was he - was she truly real,
The ethereal girl he searched for, was in front of him!
From his favourite royal horse, promptly he alighted,
didn’t hesitate a moment to reach his decision !
This was his enchanting beauty - body and soul,
How could he miss the angelic fragrance, and the vision.
Besotted with her charm, the Prince came closer,
Kneeled in front of her, she speechless with emotions,
“There is the Rose inside my heart” he declared- “red
and trembling,” “I found you to offer my devotion”!
March 24, 2023
Inspired by "Rose Inside My Heart" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Checked by HMS.com and Rhymezone.com
wailing banshee
screams through cottage -
morning brings calm
I entered the hotel dining room and sat at my table for an early breakfast, watching the rain pelting against the windows, overlooking the River Clyde. Conversation was limited; more audible the clinking of crockery and cutlery. The tour leader walked in and his booming voice cut through the gloomy atmosphere as he assured us that the trip was still on; the weather forecast was encouraging.
a senior lady
takes second helpings...
her bag bulges
When some time later we went out to board the coach, the rain had just about stopped. Outside the air was cold. Being people of little faith, we had donned jumpers or cardigans over our light clothes and carried raincoats over our arms. It was unwise to be caught unprepared. The tour leader was no exception!
crossing a bridge...
two honeymooners
sit on separate seats
The trip from Glasgow to Oban was calculated to take about two and a half hours, but with planned stops along the way it was going to take longer. We took our first break at Loch Lomond. The rain had stopped completely, but the clouds still hovered ominously overhead. More stops at Crianlarich and Kilchurn Castle followed. In the meantime the sun was making feeble attempts at making its presence felt, and sure enough the cold air became warmer.
the sky, reflected
in large puddles...
harebells and toadflax
When we finally arrived in Oban the clouds had dispersed, the heat increased, and thick clothing was discarded completely. A meal and a boat trip to Seal Island saw us all in high spirits.
On the return journey our luck ran out again. Clouds and rain accompanied us to the hotel, but it did not really matter. A nice warm shower and a decent meal was something to look forward to.
unpredictable
four seasons in one day
I juggle saijiki
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Haibun Contest sponsored
by Debbie Guzzi
Placed 4th
© 17th August 2017
~"~ Our King of the Glens ~"~
~"~ In proud defense of it's realm ~"~
~"~"Majestic in stance ~"~
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland-4.php
Thriving we're amidst Highland Heather
Below azure skies, cotton wool clouds
Hearts in touch baring poetic souls
As we rival nature sighing aloud
Bare back pages await to be scribed
Words forming sentences by finger quills
Continual grammar practised on thighs
Whilst imaginary links ink their spills
We can only appreciate why we're here
Below canopies of green forested leaves
Absorbed by a wanting to write our lives
To fuse our us to continually conceive
For thriving we're amidst Highland Heather
Below azure skies, cotton wool clouds
Our hearts will never be able to say enough
As we rival natures beauty, we're avowed
A Top A Highland Hill
A top a windswept highland hill above Locheil land
Clansmen gathered roun and shook the princes haun
They raised the standard high cheered till they were hoarse
Followed the flying heron across the highland gorse.
A,wa tae London toon wi hopes held dear in heart
O pitting Cherlie oan a throne whaur he richtly belonged
Dreams o highland jacobites tae rule oor blessed laun
An nation free aw europes stifling haun.
As so aften happens dreams die oan a wrang move
And at Derby juist nor o London toon
It wiz decided that we would go forrat nae mair
So wi turned an heided hame wi hairts ower sair.
Goerdie boy sent his airmie chasin us
A the wey back to scotias verdant green
Up an doon , doon an up aw ower the place
Till at Drummossie moor we met them face to face.
Oor clans were weary and tired oot
But charged intae them none the less
Their guns ripped through oor ranks ripping us to shreds
We scattered , whit was left, to oor wee bit hill an glen
Cumberland , the butcher boy chased us yince again
Tae oor ancestral hames reducing them to ash
Murdered those who fought and lost and innocents alike
Even the auld yins infirm an ill still biding in their beds.
The craws they feasted well oan highland blood an guts
Plaids an kilts an a, were hidden in the straw
Oor prince he hid awa n,er tae return tae us
But were er we be wi toast him wi oor cups.
Andrew P McIntyre November 2011.
He was a highland laddie
Grew up in the great glen
Played shinty for Fort William
A man amongst men.
He played the highland pipes
With heartbeat rhythms felt
That pumped his blood within
While wearing his clan's kilt.
Fishing at Loch Linnie
Would stir his Gaelic pride
As he viewed the heather
His Lassie by his side...
...he wakes up from his dream
And yet his dream lives on
To prove his Scottishness
And confirm where he comes from.
Snow lies thick on the highland ground
Blood red sunsets most nights are found
Capercaillie perched high in the Scots pine
This fairytale landscape, I wish it were mine
A fresh highland wind brings buzzards on wing
At ground owls hunt and song thrushes sing
The water is now losing it’s wintry chill
And soft green shoots emerge to thrill
Summers here and the air is getting hot
Blooming marsh orchids display all that they’ve got
Pikes out hunting and deer families roam
In this beautiful place, these creatures call home
The heather now takes on it’s autumnal bloom
Stags roar in the misty mountain gloom
Pink footed geese inbound from the iced splinter
Small mammals gather rowans to prepare for the winter
since becoming housed here since this year
july first two thousand and seventeen,
tubby more precise where
with thee missus, amidst bucolic environs,
(one could don underwear
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
trees abundant with leaves of grass spare
zip cone: one nine four seven three,
this resident doth not find *****
disproportionate amount of time,
he spends never to overhear
the mostly soundproof walls
inside apartment b44 assigned midyear,
one bedroom living social space
gives ample opportunity to assess linear
ratcheting asper elderly folks inch along
chronological space/time continuum
fragile as jasperware
many experience diminution
of vital sensory organs, and oft time cannot hear
even without television blasting away,
no doubt harboring anticipatory anxiey sans,
grim reaper's unannounced visit they fear
their non verbal body language
(when aye espy and stride-rite past,
an old lady or man riding shot gun
securely strapped in wheel chair,
shuffling back where buffalo used to roam,
or trudging to common all purpose gathering place)
speaks volumes analogous to a frightened deer
when caught blindsided
within bright lights of an automobile 'ere
unsure which way to go, and dashing out in the thick
of evening rush hour traffic,
lacking notion, the figurative coast not clear
subsequently doe ting bucks killed, where birds of prey
thence loftily circle gracefully
gliding within upper atmospheric air
page number two:
upon scrutinizing what doth appear
as a hollowed out existence induces me to de clear
to maximize utilizing each precious moment 'ere
before each major metaphorical cog and gear
frankly zaps, this dude looks like a lady,
cuz ah ma longish bedraggled hydrogen peroxide tinted hair
me haint give a rats ass
what rumor mongers relish, and behind me back jeer
Since old people lack for purposefulness tis unlike to leer
that one day (fast as snap of fingers), lack of being ambulatory t'will be near
and upon limitation in physical functionality, aye aim to app pear
motivated to partake of mental exercises just sitting on me rear.
What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt?
Is it Fruit of the Loom?
Is it nuthin'?
When it's cold does he cover himself with a quilt?
How much good Gaelic blood has been spilt
'cause he buried his Wee Willie up to the hilt
In a fair colleen's warm married muffin?
Author's note: Dear reader, after reading Linda Alice Fowler's delightful limerick "Kilt Atilt", I felt inspired to go into my archives and dig up this old chestnut.