There is a wolf among us, Webrah, their clan leader stated.
The clansman looked around in disbelief.
Their shadows were eerily elongated
Enhanced and distorted by the council fire.
Names began rumbling in a mumbling way.
Scentar? Dragsphere?
The clan leader said I am as concerned as you
But no one knows who he is. We only know he is here.
To fulfill the prophecy? One of the younger wolf dwellers asked.
The clan began to nod. They had recognized the other signs.
Owl hooting six times on a Thursday.
Rocks mysteriously placed on top of each other without toppling.
I think so, the clan leader said.
Do we honor the pact? The whispering was fierce now.
It was agreed that whoever he was, they would recognize him as clan leader.
Webrah’s daughter came in, and stated she had been chosen. All were silent.
Had a woman ever become clan leader?
She showed them the mark of the wolf’s teeth.
It was on her forearm, the absolute sign they had been waiting for.
No one dared argue, though some were less than pleased.
Oh, failure, I see you crowded
camping in my sitting room
when I go to bed you are there
in my orchards you’re the fruits
Spouse conceives and produces you
my children ride on your back
in school they write on your face
when they talk you grab their tongue
Stealthy you jot ideas in my letters
and deliver them to my snaky bosses
my eyes see you in every book I read
no freedom of conscience for me
Failure, did your mother send you,
to come and make me shade tears?
don’t you think now you have a lot?
Go back to your people, spare me!
I am not your clansman, whatever
my roots do not lie in your courtyard
not one grave of my ancestors is there
go, carry your banner high elsewhere
My ancient Arabs know exactly how to tell a tale,
Of hardship, kinsman, outcasts, how to be so strong,
Withstanding weather, find your way, what it does entail
To fight a world alone, with nowhere to belong.
I like to think it is a metaphor, not an exact rendition.
A simile of sorts, no different from Bible or Qur’an.
A handbook, of how life can cast you out as clansman.
If preprogrammed molds don’t fit woman or man,
Shanfara found his way by choosing a direction,
Completely opposite of where his brothers rode.
He found his new kin amongst beings, all not human.
To him man does ascribe this still illustrious ode.
For you, my brigand poet, I write this loving poem,
You mean so much to me, like you I do not fit so well,
And am forever searching, But I am not seen as scum.
My su’luk, my traveler, I stay and have your tale to tell.
***
January 17, 2016
© Darren White
dawn resisting night
dew blanket lifting from moors
winter frost's clansman
Brian Johnston
April 10, 2016
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.
From a heather laden hill
A Scots king looks down
The march of his armies
In their blood, his enemy drown
His tartan clad warriors
The joining of the clans
MacDonald's, Fraser's and Stuarts
To every single man
With their claymores at the ready
Across the fields they charge
Five thousand Braveheart clansman
Patriotic hearts so large
They will never take our freedom
They will never take our lands
While a Scotsman breathes
We will fight with our bare hands
They charge into their enemy
Bloodied fallen, strewn
As blood rains everywhere
Wars red monsoon
Many hours later
The sounds of dying men
Boys among the still
Thought their time was then
On his heather laden hill
Our Scots king looks down
The march of his armies
Have cut our enemy down
We have driven them from our lands
They will never darken our shores
For if they ever return
They will fear the Bravehearts roar
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
Sword flashing fire flows
leap lurch land on pipe led toes
Down hill slicing foes
The title comes from Scotland's flower
The picture is a young wild clansman
with a shiny wet sword
led by bagpipes like a wind blown thistle seed
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