The near voice hight me down the slade
All searing whisper and the spluttering cascade
What's yonder in turf with a rolling heyday
O dearest love,is it you lying in this brae
I strove to see you from the lone mountain peak
What adrift in you,be daring and speak-
Like a flageolet that overtune the breeze
And a sweetest gilded jelly of buzzing bees
I knocked on the door; your heart of chamber door
Ever;evermore you were my dories oar
Coveted I and loved you with a love;ever
Tell me once,you felt my very heart but not never-
Consent me to linger in your magentaish garth
And we'll ever,be ever part our tepid hearth
Shall I compare you with the plenilune of evetide?
What lingers in you, be daring and confide
Shall I compare you with Helen before I adiue?
Be daring and speak what swathe in you
I woke up the owls time,in the lurid lighting of moon
Pendulous stars and the cloud of maroon
A lady with a viol croon; dances the nox
Odours of opiate from the nearing phlox
Smelt by the lethe;quaffed the nectar
Time within time,how can you alter?
Trottoir we walked to the willow garden
No more fonder merely it's nature-harden
Startled at the stillness of swinging rope
Once we wont to loll and part our hope
Yore the songs of thrushes and harebell; dreary
Scarcely I felt,I ever felt your clench so weary
Sullen brae upon the droughty day
I pass over,over the mountain way
The comply of yours was a good resting tavern-
Then of me,now merely the voided cavern
Day within day,how can you be so far?
I see you in the silvern Luna with a fare star
I woke up the owls time,in the drizzle of summers June
Dances the nox; a lady with a bassoon
I should not wish for crowded grieving
When they solemnly carry me through.
Yourself alone, your shallow breathing;
A solitary tear shed by you.
Neither want for friends or family;
Nor do I wish for psalm or bland qouth.
Might this which holds all that's left of me...
Prompt a stifled sob to that choked throat.
When leave ye, then, this final setting,
As the cold Sun sinks beneath the brae,
Know now without remorse or fretting...
Loved you, I, than more darest did say.
Come admiration in lush
The pleasure that make you blush
Of becoming dear to your crush
I need to talk to you
It signals the pit to woo
Which one endlessly pursue
J wish this is to Him your mind
The pleasure breed loyalty to find
No bluff in the faith admired
Think of the panic
That gives in without manic
Even not minding how acerbic
Toast His distress
The holy protection on the cross
That delivers your peace
The deep breath
Which activates salvation's birth
Via his brutal death
What is right
Easy but seems tight
Earn never without fight
Who live without life
Jesus' salvage cum strife
Thrive not without thinking afterlife
He is the way
On which you find brae
Follow on cum grey
He gave out His best
Fight and beat your chest
To never rest till you rest
For there will be no grace
After the earth's race
Hugged by your own trace
You've been searching for a craftsman to build you up with clay.
So I'll sculpt you with my love as I sit upon the brae.
I'll gaze up at the sunshine and talk to God; I'll say,
"Just what were you thinking when you molded her this way?"
Did you know that she—had breaks along her back?
Or when she feels sadness—her heart begins to crack?
Do you know her head—was hollowed far too thin?
There's too much room for thought; she keeps it all within.
Her feet have chipped from walking, her eyes—they see too much.
She doesn't even recognize she has the magic touch.
You could've made her stronger, at least along the rim.
Or maybe even built a smile; you could've shaped a grin.
You should've added color—a little sunshine too!
Maybe then she'd take the chance to see what she can do.
For now, I'll just keep sculpting;
I'll fill the cracks with love.
I promise not to change the girl or change what she's made of.
I’ll just soften out the sad parts, so that she can shine.
And one day she will know —that she was made just fine.
SORRY JAY TOWNSEND HENRY YOU NEED TO CONTACT THE OVAL OFFICE AN ASK TRUMP IF YOU COULD IMPERSONATE HIS FAMILY MEMBERS HERE IN AMERICA I AM QUITE SURE HE WILL REMIND YOU THAT IMMIGRANTS CAN NOT IMPERSONATE AMERICANS AND THEIR FAMILY MEMBERS CONTACT SPECIAL AGENT PAULA BRAND YOUR SPONSOR AND SEE IF YOU COULD BECOME HER JAY BRAND JAY HEIMBACH OR PERHAPS ONE OF CIROS DAUGHTERS BECAUSE YOU WILL NEVER EVER EXTORT MY IDENTITY HERE IN AMERICA THEREFORE CRAWL BACKWARDS TO MARTHA BRAE RIVER YOUR HOME IN JAMAICA YOU ARE COMPLETE SCUM YOUR MOTHER TONI TOWNSEND I NO LONGER FEAR YOUR DEATH THREATS STAY AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND AND I STAY AWAY FROM OUR FAMILY YOU ARE DANGEROUS VERY.TO DISABLED AMERICANS
Time is that which you cannot flee
it flies faster as you grow gray;
what once was twig is now a tree;
grown tall and wild upon the brae.
You once moved faster than the wind,
the daring, dashing youth that flew;
and as to time itself; you grinned
it’s ticking, it meant naught to you.
Time now flies such as once you did
ten sunsets now do pass as one.
One last bravura from your id;
hope you enjoyed the flight, and fun.
An escapade sweet as a marshmallow day
when tangerine dreams fed our evergreen stream.
Our magnet attraction neath radiant ray
did butter the air where the breezes did teem
in whirly-wind-roses anointing the brae.
Their scent, my surrender, romantic the scheme,
exotic the fever and dance with a flame.
Ah, rapture of capture! The wooer’s end game.
In yonder glen where thistles bloom,
'Midst heathered hills and meadows groom.
A lark ascends with lilting cheer,
Its song a ballad sweet and clear.
The haggis grazes on the brae,
As daylight wanes at close of day.
Auld tales of kin and bonnie lore,
Whispered by the river's shore.
By yon bonnie banks, auld and grand,
Lovers stroll, hand in hand.
Beneath the moon's enchanting light,
They dance to tunes of Highland night.
Oh, gentle winds, oh, rugged glade,
Where Burns himself might find a shade.
With every verse, a heartfelt plea,
For love, for land, for liberty.
Every day of May is a merry hay day
Every Mayday speaks of the labor's way
Every way of the day of May may say
Every day of May is a merry hay day
Every hay made in May rests on the brae
Every hay, by storm, may go often stray
Every day of May is a merry hay day
Every Mayday speaks of the labor's way
1 July 2021
Sullen would be onset of grey, indivisible-dawning;
Soon, lifting mist dissipating beneath the brae.
Comes then a gentle heat arising with the morning...
Thus the remaking of another new, glorious day.
Sun-kissed slopes now aglow with purple blaze,
Vast moorlands slowly stirring from quiet slumber;
Clamorous whaups, hanging above the veiling haze,
Burbling down to disappear into the tangled tundra.
Together, paired oystercatchers pipe in rapid flight;
Skipping wheatears explore dry-stone walls.
There, old Barjarg, aglow in Junes vibrant light,
And I awakening to the hidden otters whistling calls.
Oh! to stroll once more upon the Cree's hallowed banks
Inside the sanctuary of her jealously guarded hills.
When tramping through the myriad of dew-drenched ranks
That had across the sheep-strewn meadow spilled.
If I but could joyfully follow the meandering course,
Again, of those rocky, gurgling, opaque, amber waters.
Thoughts, such as these, that surrender to a remorse...
Nought but wistful memories that provoke to taunt us.
Majestic, barren, rock-cropped braes ascend—
Arrayed, green-clad, in heather, gorse, and fern—
As mid-day, misty, dark’ning clouds descend
To cold-embrace each soaring tor and burn.
From heights unseen a torrent cascades free,
Unfettered into deep Ben Nevis’ glen;
Then onwards toward Loch Linnhe and the sea,
Through sodden bog and brackened, stone-strewn fen.
Though hidden from the eyes of those below,
Ben Nevis’ surly brow is sought and found
By those who brave the rain, the sleet, and snow,
To scale the cairn that marks its highest ground.
And there, amidst the cloud, God reaches down
To touch and bless fair Scotland’s Highland crown.
brae=steep hillside
tor=rocky peak
burn=hillside stream
This sonnet is one of a set of five sonnets written while traveling through Ireland and Scotland in June 2019. This sonnet was inspired by my climb to the snowy summit of Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the British Isles. The poem is included in my book, "Mostly Sonnets," published by Dunecrest Press and available for sale on Amazon.com.
I rambled once, riding my bicycle
on a foggy day of winter.
The fog remained suspended long in the atmosphere -
so impatient I to go out,
for such a weather decades not seen.
Going farther and farther,
excited seeing the veiled country
on a lonesome village road not seen before,
the fogs dissipated; evening sun appeared
giving a pleasant apricity .
The countryside was calm, and gentle -
sprawling paddy fields, brown with stubble,
on both sides of the quiet, and peaceful road.
To the east, they stretched to the foot of the distant Blue Hill;
a grove of trees in the middle,
mist resting still at its foot,
while a few clouds seen floating above the brae,
top and above the idyllic blue hill.
There, a moment, I longed to sit
by the paddy field under the tree,
branches wide spreading
with a maiden of my imagination long ago.
(PUBLISHED IN THE INTERNATIONAL POETRY ANTHOLOGY - It is Still Poetry)
The Windy Month of March
Along the road I strolled
With my bonny Chlo
As cheerful as a lark
In the windy month of March,
When the wind doffed
My bunnet off.
Down the Brae I dashed
Whilst my Chloe did laugh
As I chased the cap
Across the Haugh
With old Sol brimming
Warmth upon our being.
Underfoot of strides,
Upon grasses and sedges I tramped,
Past daffodil blooms and thistle pricks
And briars in the heath,
And when I reached to grab the brim,
The wind would blow it away again.
We were happy as plums under the sun,
Me and my Chloe walking along
With hands embraced.
“She’s my lass,” I’d proudly say
On an otherwise perfect day
Until the wind blew my bunnet away.
Finally, the wind quit,
And I retrieved my bunnet
Whilst my Chloe had the fits
To see upon my head it sits,
Stretched o’er my ears, stiff as starch
In the windy month of March.
What is it then that holds us in its grasp
For fear has fled and love too long denied
Restrains itself within the hour of taps
Binding itself to latent tears uncried
For time will pass among the stoic stones
Count cadence for the passing hood and scythe
As leaves of broken dreams that hang alone
Cling to failed promises of coming home.
So does the weathered scarf of tartan pain
Conceal the graying edge of times disdain
Soft colors bleeding through the moors and brae
Inflame the sunrise wish to come, to stay.
For those who rest beneath this solemn earth
Are those who bore the colors, gave it worth.
John G. Lawless
1/31/2020
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