Best Laird Poems
If Only I Had Known
What trouble you were bearing,
But how could I,You just didn’t feel
you should be sharing.
If Only I Had Known
That you had become so sad,
I would of done all I could
To help you not feel so bad.
If Only I Had Known
I would have brought my warmth within your space,
I would have been gentle and caring
And would have left happiness in my place.
If Only I Had Known
I would have slipped my hand within your hand,
And would have giving thanks For the time together,
As we walked across the land.
If Only I Had Known
I would have wanted to help make the hurt go away,
To help you be more at peace for,
the rest of you stay.
If Only I Had Known
As you walked out the door,
That my Dear Friend would
not be here forever more.
If Only I Had Known
That when you said Good-Bye,
Only you knew then,
You were about to die.
If Only I Had Known
Even though you thought it best
To spare me the early pain,
It now takes all I’ve got just to keep myself sane.
If Only YOU Had Known
My Dear, Dear Friend,
That if you had told me,
I would have been there for you,
From Beginning To End.
Randy Laird
Love of my mother's Scotland knows no bounds,
yet she, like me, was destined far to roam.
Her wistful music of the isles surrounds
my everyday, her voice so soft and low.
Sweet songs of love, and yet forever sad,
with veils of deepest melancholy clad.
A lonesome piper plays a slow lament,
or, boldly rousing, urges men to war.
From kith and kin they were so often sent,
their mist-clad hills and glens to see no more.
Or else to unknown futures overseas,
a greedy and uncaring laird to please.
Today, as Scottish hearts still strongly beat,
proudly as ever do they wave their nation's flag,
untrusting of the powers that would deplete
their unity, their centuries old resolve,
to be a sovereign nation once again,
"O Flower of Scotland" their heartfelt refrain.
Hear Me, O Muse, no moos or cluckings, muckings or horns of fog
Do sound the clamoring claxons of the bardics that be written by William McGonagal o’ the Bog,
That Laird of Lamentations Disastrous, that Scot Wha’ Hey Nonny Nonny,
Laureate of the quite awful woeful grueful stuff that happened a-when Goode Queen Victoria was stuck-in in Buckingham and Balmoral and the rest, recall ‘em, of her palaces oh so very bonny,
All about bridges steel a-budging, assassinations most foul all gone kerplooey,
And many and other suchlike things dire. And then that tasty poetaster who be
Known far and near for all his poems fair about domestical bliss most sweet a-cloying,
Edgar Guest, good ol’ scrivener of the everyday, of pathos and bathos does he sing,
Garden paths and bubble baths and let’s not be forgetting the good ol’-fashion verities,
A poet to speak for everyone no matter who or how finicky, he’s.
Let’s round down to an even three with Rod McKuen, syrupy-treacly and saccharine,
Escape from thought and subject and technique and all things stern or black-and-grim,
As sure as roses are red and violets are blue
And God made the little green apples red but once in a while green too.
I swear I cannot live unless I’m able to read them many times per diem,
At work, at home, in bed, or sometimes while at my BM.
Don't lie to me. Don't half-truth to me,
like some craven jar, wide of mouth and
full of capricious weather. And never sing
to me tunes not of your own making
I am not yours to pawn, as a wastrel parts
with heirlooms hard won.
I may be your grey, but I am not your palette.
I may be your shoe, but I am not your sole
You may try to stand me next to many,
but I stand alone, tethered to stark
isolation.You gift me a nuance of cheer,
like a catcus gifts colour to a desert,
only to rescind it and fortify it beyond all approach.
My only light shall come from giving. As receiving of
you brings me nothing but shadows within shadows,
where light remains an unreachable horizon
Each charitable memory may be owned by you, but they
shall never be ascribed to you. They fly tainted upon the
wind. You demand my will, my beating existence, like the
Laird demands his tithe and insufferable Prima Nocta
So, I choose supplication as my sword, lest my tempest
rage beyond the pail and call false my humility and mild manner
Let yours be the kingdom of hubris and jurisdiction, as
mine shall be to serve and tender. For, one day I shall
rightly inherit that which is mine.
So, don't use me, don't bruise me, nor bring me down whole.
Don't cut me, don't gut me, nor rip out my soul.
For I am Pax. The Kiss of Peace and witness to the Crucifixion.
Forgiver of your sins in the present and yet to come.
You may own the earth, but I await your soul
Long ago
In a far away land
With stags in the glens
Salmon leaping so grand
This ancient Kingdom
With its lonely King
Longs for a maiden
To make his heart ring
No crusades
No battles no wars
His reason-ability
What do we want to fight for
The only war he faces
Is raging in his heart
To seek his chosen maiden
For his life to start
With his entourage they travel
To tour his Kingdom so
Through heather bloomed glens
Over mountains graced with snow
Many miles they have travelled
All in need of rest
Up ahead in the distance
A manse house, we're timely blessed
On the door his footman knocks
As it opens with a creak
What can i do for you
Bow, its your King your about to greet
They settle down for supper
Roast hog and venison pie
The King enjoying their welcome
Twas not the food that caught his eye
The Laird of this estate
Had two daughters, lovely named
Carolyn and Lorna
Blond haired and red head flamed
The one that made him smile
Was the way she looked at him
This blond haired gorgeous beauty
All curvy shaped and thin
With the politeness of a King
Would you like to walk with me
As they strolled around her garden
Talking of all that they could see
They talked of ancient mariners
The roamers of the seas
Adventurers, they would seek
To show new worlds to see
En captured by her knowledge
Her smile, long blond hair
Is it the politeness of a King
To be in awe and sit and stare
They head back to the manse
To retire for the night
Both lying awake in thought
Something here, clicked tonight
Now many months have passed
Visitations to and fro
The King to her dads estate
This blond to his castle so
Then on one sunny day
As they rode through his Kingdom's glens
Enjoying this place of beauty
In his cloak, some thing full of gems
In the presence of his lands
The King goes on one knee
My dear darling Carolyn
Will you marry me
Yes my darling King
I will marry you
Today we are engaged
Tomorrow, this precious join of two
They head back to his castle
Through his glens and rivers of blue
For on their day of marriage
The Kings heart at peace and true
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy2.php
Gang awa frae tha Glen
Tae a fearsome place;
Where tha darkened souls
Hae na gleemps o’grace.
Where tha work must fit
A new tongue and race.
Gang awa frae tha Glen for a wheel.
“Tis for certs He has ca’d
Ye, and ye must roon;
Tae a land o’ plagues
And o’ blastin’ sun,
Where tha rule o’ richt
Hae just sceerce begun.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, Robbie, chile.
There be muckle tae ken
O’ tha people’s need;
O’ tha crops that thrive,
O’ tha life they lead;
O’ tha daily thirst;
O’ their warfare, greed.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, and be wise.
Tho’ tha ship be worsted,
Tho’ tha trail be long,
Tho’ tha beasts be awful,
Ye’ll arrive anon;
And commence tae cant
Tha sweet Gospel song.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, in His love.
And ye’ll spot tha dee
When it starts tae click.
As they bring their young,
And they bring their sick;
For o’ Jesus’ kind
They ken nae sic lik..
Gang awa frae tha Glen, tae be used.
An’ it’s nae sa muckle
That their needs ye know,
Whuch’ll fan tha flame,
Cause your strenth tae grow;
But tha confeedence
“Tis your Laird says, “Go!”
Gang awa frae tha Glen, ‘til you’re gone.
(Robert Moffat, Pioneer Missionary to South-west Africa)
Note: The story is told of the early day in the mission of Moffat when his camp was confronted by a prominent chieftain. The man demanded to know the purpose of the missionary’s visit and the authority who sent him.
Through an interpreter, Moffat advised that he represented the greatest of all Chiefs and that he was bringing news and help for the best in life. The native said that he would kill Moffat and his chief. The territory was under his absolute control. He brandished a menacing spear. His retinue stood at the ready.
Calmly Moffat loosened the breast of his jacket. Striding to within inches of the man’s face, he pointed to his own heart and said, “My Chief lives here. If you intend murder, do it now, for I will not be held back from my purpose.”
The other’s jaw dropped. His spear hand faltered. His bluff had been called. The two would soon become fast friends.
The Bichon Frise
The Bichon in chiffon looks so frou
That the crowd duly wowed has to coo
‘Til the dog starts to droop
And its owner to scoop
Some acutely embarrassing doo
The Border Collie
It was not Albert Einstein who dared
To think E = mc2
But rather a Border
Who brought cosmic order
One morning while out with his laird
The Bulldog
My Bulldog won’t frolic or fetch
His face may cause others to kvetch
But he’s gentle and sweet
With the kids on the street
And the ladies all think I’m a ketch
The Cairn Terrier
Cairns have been bred to hunt vermin
Be it Spanish, Australian, or German
Its body is wee
Though as tough as a tree
And as ruthless as General Sherman
The Chihuahua and Great Dane
Chihuahuas and Danes one surmises
Are extremes when it comes to their sizes
The one is so small
It is nothing at all
While the other is big and wins prizes
The Chinese Crested
I passed one of these down on Lincoln
For a moment I thought I’d been drinkin’
He looked so bizarre
That I stopped in a bar
To keep my poor eyeballs from shrinkin’
The Collie
To many a Collie means Lassie
The wonderdog faithful and classy
But on re-run TV
(Or is it just me?)
Do her eyes look a little bit glassy?
The Corgi
The Corgi is not one to hurry
Much preferring a stroll to a flurry
If you happen by chance
To invite one to dance
He’ll say, “Hey, I am not Arthur Murray!”
The Dachshund
The Dachshund’s a marvel on skis
Little legs that stop short of its knees
It can schuss like a pro
Making furrows in snow
(Though its privates are given to freeze)
The Dalmatian
Dalmatians are doomed to be stuck
In the seat of a fireman’s truck
When they’d much rather cruise
In a Jag that’s chartreuse
On a track that’s for testing your luck
***I personally don't indulge in "soothing weed"
but the Dutch and many others certainly do***
Amsterdam
Dynamic charm along many contradictions encompass Amsterdam
House boats festoon canal while tenants toast wine and love Edam
True blue blonds cranking bikes synchronize pace crossing a bridge
Stoned laird hears enlightened souls chant verse perched on ledge
Safe from surging water churches dominate rooftops ogling a tram
Finely carved architecture tower above bars serving eggs and ham
Cafes offer soothing weed dazzling each mortal with such privilege
Fueling dreams of nirvana minds invoke desire to sharpen its edge
Penned: 06/16/2017
12:34 a.m.
Aboard cruise liner: Vision Of The Seas
Docked in Amsterdam, Holland
His name was James Skene
He came from Aberdeen
Sent down to Edinburgh to die,
The brother of the Laird
Land and power shared
Everything that Scotland could supply.
But inward treasure captured mind and heart
The noose won't drag him and God apart,
So death where is your sting
When the edict of the King
Is naming God as a royal crime,
And the Covenanter's tone
Is God sits on the throne
Welcome to the "Killing Times".
The Privy Council told Skene to back down
But He loved and served a different Man's crown,
The sentence of the boss
Was death at Market cross
So that all the people then could see,
The covenant they made
Was a useless aid
If they thought that it would set them free,
He felt his life was not dear to him
Here are the final words of James Skene
"I lay down my life
For owning Jesus Christ"
He said as he looked up to the sky,
On a cold December Day
The wind and rope then played
Swinging to the tune of Martyr's cry,
Confirming what the world already knows
The blood of Martyr's make the harvest grow.
As each fatigued day culls my nature
Mine mind does Judas thee
And tinker pon the waves of hope
Muted Banshee
My blighted roots once writhed hitherto
Severed from earths comely breast
Mother natures contempt of me
Fair mumsy, she knows best
(Stark)
I adorn no vibrant leaves
Laird, wooden beast
Plucked till I stood bare
No blightsome shade for sibling seed
From summers wretched glare
(Raving)
With chestnut blight, my ashen crown
Looms remorsefully
And you my wretched parasite
Prefer to pick at me
Not with axe, nor barbarous force
Unjust chipping at my belief
Till I am lost and swathing
In painfilled cumbersome grief
(Mad!)
So whilst the heartwood settles near
And whilst I shed my final tear
Am crushed, lopped rooted out
Be ever headful, covet doubt
That even pon the vilest slope
Within Woolgather
Hush lullaby
Hope x
‘ Devonshire and Fraser … ’ 44th Senryu
Some Poems, Highland Fling
Kilt-Clad-Portrait, Scotland’s Theme
The Laird of Sweet-Dreams
Devonshire, The Dove
A Vision Of Light and Love
Highland, Speaks Well Of …
Together They Write
All Combinations Delight
Deep Thinkings, With Might
For: The Dynamic-Duo of Poetry Soup
James Fraser and Carolyn Devonshire – ( 2 Scoops)
You’re In My Must Read Group …
Your Poet-Friend,
The MoonBee
‘ The Highland Horse … Named Uisge Beatha’ ’
Hie’ Away, Hie’ Away
O’er Heather and Gorse
Strode A Magnificent Bay
The Highland Horse …
In the Cold Scottish – Air
On His Back, Kilt – Clad
By Loch and Highlands There
Rode an Aged–Tartan-Plaid
… Tied on a Back Braid
Long as the Russet – Tail and Mane
Were Bagpipes and a Blade
Bouncing as The Highlander Came
Proud, Scottish Warrior
Laird, of His Clan
Racing to His Sweet Moira
A-Riding and Raiding The Highlands …
… Hie’ Away Laddie
Hie’ Away Lass
The Highland Horse, Uisge Beatha’,
He’s Galloping Fast
Hie’ Away Laddie
Hie’ Away Lass
To Bar His Way is Risky
So Please Let Him Pass …
… In The Cold, Scotland Air …
Lilts The Tenderest-Low Brogue
… as down on Naked Knee
… The Highlander Proposed …
… Hie’ Away Laddie
Hie’ Away Lass
The Highland Horse, Uisge Beatha’
… He’s Galloping Fast
Hie’ Away Laddie
Hie’ Away Lass
Here Comes ‘The Whisky’
now Pour Me A Glass …
Hie’ Away Laddie
Hie’ Away Lass
The Bottle is Empty …
… but I Still Got The Flask …
Hie’ Away, Laddie and Lass
For: ‘ The Fraser ‘
he!he!he – show me your
Scotland, Highlander
‘ The MoonBee ‘
The drunk hogs the path where the public walks
Then hogs the air with his nonsense talk
His breath smells of ale
His eyes look stale
This Scottish male
In a Scottish gale
Just gets wet
Along with his pet
His unkempt dog
As white as the fog
Feeds him a chip
Gives it some lip
He thinks he is hip
And knows it all
That he's on the ball
Then staggers and falls
Can't walk but crawls
On his all fours
He doesn't care
This Glasgow Laird
Who thinks his world isn't fair
For tomorrow he will call into the bank
Take out some cash from the Governments tank
Then he can go back to the house
That will sell him more Guinness stout
And stand outside on the same old street
Where the cold will numb his directionless feet.
Christmas shopping in Glasgow. 6 drunk men hogged the footpath in the cold rain. They didn't realise all the people who could get passed with getting soaked.
Laird is a Scottish word, derived from "Lord". It is the owner of the property.
With some apprehension, he prepared to write;
with his muse’s dissention, there’d be no insight,
and thus, by extension, no joint, shared delight.
With her added dimension, he’d dared lofty heights.
In joyful ascension, they’d paired on long flights,
but now, in declension, grievance aired, all seemed trite.
It was his intention to square with his sprite -
Contention impaired him; he hated the fight.
Ego in suspension, to her laird, much contrite,
he sought his redemption, aware of his plight.
Their convention fared better than he thought it might;
his affections declared, they were once again tight.
Their shared penchant for flair soared into the bright light.
----------
something a little different - a monorhyme with two internal rhymes per line as well...
Why do these guys quit before seventy?
After achievements Life on Earth empty!
There was to be a Macgregor Laird:
Before sixty-one years to rest laid...
For my avid interest in History,
I could not but alight on his story
With its private message from Greatness
"No, Mystery, no Magic: Eagerness!"
What had he shrewdly done: John Beecroft?
In their Britain left behind a voice soft
To in far-off lands hold her goals aloft
While him Portugal, Spain and, sure, France scoffed;
In West Africa's Fernando Po
Seeing that The Non British did lines toe:
In Nigeria's captured Bight of Benin
Ensuring that his men got their Quinine;
I reckon in the close Bight of Biafra
Giving out British bags not of raffia!
I could have for John Beecroft my hat doffed,
Just that when I last tried a patriot coughed.