Best Skirling Poems
Look deep within these loosely-woven layers to find
primeval land with ocean, sky and wind entwined,
skilled hands and eyes of generations gone before
and peat smoke mingling with a sea mist on the shore.
In old and intricate design you may well sense
a solitary piper skirling a lament,
or view the purple heather blowing on the hill,
or hear soft-spoken memories echoing still.
Some bold and joyful as a vibrant summer’s day,
and others tinted as an autumn bride’s bouquet,
some speak of wilderness and yet untrodden ways,
some melancholic strangers to the sun’s sweet rays.
With insight woven and a clarity of mind,
the rhythmic textures of the land we see defined.
With colours of the seasons, each piece of cloth unique,
of planet Earth and nature’s harmony does speak.
Revered now far beyond its island home,
a homespun cloth of gold it has become.
Ambassadors for Scotland, yes indeed,
that’s whisky, Robert Burns and Harris Tweed.
I was a torpedo, skimming the surface
of the green summer sea; I was a mountain,
touching the clouds at the summit, where
Frozen ice-pools lay. I was a crumpet, soaking
the butter of chat and cream tea. I was a musical
note, a skirling pipe, causing a dance in Firelight. I
Was a lover, loving in a plush hotel room, every day.
I was a massage, muscles bending, relaxing, in sweet
scented room. I was a cinema goer; drinking the flicks
With Milan, De Niro and Munro. I was a free man, away
from work, and bosses and targets too. I was a beach,
with white sand and too much drink. And, like the
Torpedo; I was a poem I wrote; which skimmed the
surface and made me feel free.
15/4/2015
Written for the Vacation contest 15/04/2015
There was an awful caterwailing and clamour
as the pipes filled up with air and swirled
today it was for an orange march
playing the protestain songs of inflamitary verse.
Many were the songs and events the piper was called to skirl
one day it would be dirges the next for highland dances
where amidst the laughter the pipes sang their tunes
some were ballads of times long gone, others were clan songs
Once he had played for a royal wedding in Balmoral castle
now that was a grand occasion with the final dance of swords
pretty girls kicked up their heels showing the odd glimpse
of underwear neath their kilts whilst their sash's flew freely
Nimbly they stepped around the sword circle
high on pointed toes for all like ballerina's
and still the pipes skirled as the piper blew the notes
the bag wheezing with the effort and force of air
Red faced he played on for hours downing the odd dram
to keep his lips a-pucker and to fire his blood
until at last all were done and sat quiet around the fire
and agreeing it had been a grand Ceilidh as the piper rested.
The pipes now quiet and deflated stood in the corner
tomorrow at dawn they would again skirl welcoming the sun
as over the horizon it slowly crept darkness changing to light
until there it was in all its glory greeted royally by the skirling pipes
Ceilidh is a Scottish folk gathering where much whisky is downed and many
reels are danced made more joyous by a good piper skirling and tall stories
told.
Sometimes…
I feel emotions so deeply in my heart
That I almost wish I wasn’t Irish.
That sometimes to feel happiness,
Sadness…and yes…e’en pain
So intensely
That at times It’s a curse and
At others a blessing, a boon and a bane
To suffer such bittersweet pleasure
From music, poetry…and pain
Sometimes…
My heart aches
At the bright break of dawn
And tears rain down my cheeks
At the sight of the setting Sun.
And many are the times that weigh
Heavy ‘pon this old poet
When the pen cannot capture
The words that caper capriciously
Through this ol’ sodden mind of mine
Sometimes…
The beauty and the sadness, the long dark tresses
And bewitching eyes of Irish lasses
The wonder and the madness
Overwhelm, defy and defeat an Irishman’s
Best efforts…in truth
Ne’er known in this life
Oftimes…
The skirling of the pipes
And the sad wail of the flute
Rend my heart with renditions
Of ‘Amazing Grace,’ ‘Oh Danny Boy,’
And ‘Auld Lang Syne’
Yet my pen is unable
And lies stubborn ‘pon the table
Unwilling to put my feelings to paper
Sometimes…I harbour passions
That elude my ability to describe
And sometimes…It’s just hard to be Irish…
A burden
…To be Irish and unable to write…
Ode to Autumn
Pumpkins on porches, crudely cut, ferocious faces
Wisps of white smoke melting into cold clear skies
Hands held as if praying, to crackling fireplaces
Odors of allspice waft from plump pumpkin pies
Cold swirling winds, skirling leaves in the lane
While a few golden stalwarts, in tall trees still remain
Clinging and quivering, making restless, rattling sound
In anxious anticipation of delicate descent to the ground
Haunting apparitions, appear the skeletal trees
To spook little kids into feigned, fun-filled fright
With witchy appearance, bare limbs wave in the breeze
Scarecrows wave back with ghoulish delight
Autumn leaves burning, aromatic auras so sweet
Crisp air numbs kid’s noses, toes and their feet
Once strutting Tom Turkey, now reclines in the oven
Exuding the aroma that everyone’s lovin’
Autumn’s a time of rich renewal
Preparing for change, in time so transitional
Mother nature shedding summer,s no-longer-chic green
and donning more staid, brown traditional
Summer, winter and spring are beautiful seasons
And in them I find much of delight
But Autumn’s the season that I’ve come to love
Because everything about Autumn…and Fall…
is just right
O! Slip in between! The Dukes of Darkness,
In this cold part of the year!
The Baron of Night!
The Baron of Wind!
The Baron of Seeds!
When the Copper Trumpet
Bells out, bright and clear!
And men brood the quiet,
Men who have sinned,
And recall their dark deeds.
Is it fear that breeds guilt,
Or is it guilt, that breeds fear?
I don't know!
O! Find ways beneath! The cloud-bearing, bronzed skies
In November, in the chill!
O, Brother, my brother!
And father of three,
A brother who reads!
In your hoary books
In the depths of your beer
Do you find solace,
And does Peace draw near?
I don't know!
There is a wondrous calling
When the falling flakes of snow
Come skirling through the afternoon
And bless me as I go,
And that calling's to remember,
All the ordinary men,
Who fought, December to December
That the world might live, again.
All the men who stopped a bullet,
All the men who fired one
And the women who remember one
They will not see again!
O! Arrive today! Returners home!
Who have lived days without cheer!
The untitled men!
The bakers and smiths!
The prayers of creeds!
Is it faith that bred courage,
Or courage that bled deeds?
I don't know!
(written with a grateful thanks, to all the Vets, to my father, 2nd Lieutenant, Douglas Fairchild, USMC, Col. Earl Hinners, Seaman Guy Hudson, and Master Sergeant Lendelle Adams, who have all gone on, now)
I have no more time left, for fleeing Sadness!
I have no time left for it, yet it comes…
‘Twas easy, once, to dive into war’s madness,
To hear brave pipes, and the beating of the drums…
I’ll not forget you this time, my Bright Darling!
We’ve loved a hundred times, now, and before,
A thousand times, seen the copper leaves go skirling,
And more times yet, opened and closed the door.
And now, I close the lid, and draw the blanket,
Consigning your sweet form to heavenly fires…
The door’s closed now, and fire is your anklet
For Heaven is not subject to our desires.
And so, my Love, although I go to war,
I’ll ne’er forget you, nor did I, before.
I.
The gales of Hell, they gust my soul;
I shutter up in vain--
Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain,
Shuddering as wind-tides roll.
Rattling rhythms wrack my soul.
The wind-voice screeches out my name
With banshee-clarity and tone
Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone
Lover who slew herself in shame—
Wind-wraith woman howls my name!
II.
The winds wax silent, shorn of sound,
A pall afflicts the land,
Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand
There my cerements are found
Rotting on the charnel ground.
I.
The gales of Hell, they gust my soul;
I shutter up in vain--
Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain,
Shuddering as wind-tides roll.
Rattling rhythms wrack my soul.
The wind-voice screeches out my name
With banshee-clarity and tone
Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone
Lover who slew herself in shame—
Wind-wraith woman howls my name!
II.
The winds wax silent, shorn of sound,
A pall afflicts the land,
Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand
There my cerements are found
Rotting on the charnel ground.