It’s 25° C clear
but she’s gone.
The outlines of her shadow, hoping
that they’ll have a chance of putting them into use
in the fashion world.
She wears a black, backless dress
with a plunging front.
The soft contours of her breasts are revealed
through the mirrors on the walls.
On the front page a gazette
her cat walk
rushing down to the battle.
Here, you’re making the neighbours squirm.
Here, you’re making their claymores shriek their hatred.
That’s why your body sags against the bar in fatigue.
You’re trying to remember your voice.
Remember, your phone rings again.
It’s a voice you’ve heard,
that incandescent panic spread through the hall.
They’re marrying her.
They’re scarifying her for their day’s events.
You’ve made me interested in how she’s thinking
& you can’t control this with your beard.
Your gaffe is all there.
You gaze with gratitude.
Hey there!
Marching man.
Got a machine gun.
In your hands.
So, you know
How to run.
Stone cold.
Burning gas.
The fife with drum.
And claymores blast
You won't cut or run.
When time comes to stand.
The total Bad Ass.
Knows that they can.
American soldier.
A marching Man.
Tak oor grund from beneath oor hurdies
Burn oor birches aside the lough,
Besmirch hard fecht fur freedom,
Dictating oor days tae come,
No from the pint o a gun,
Fae laws an promises broken.
Lees an lees spout forth like watter
Lives expended as if they dinnae matter,
Feel the Jacobite spirit again,
Ready tae fecht like scotsmen again,
Like warrior poets risen from the glen,
Fae the mists o the past remember,
Oor freedom wis wun sending Edward hame,
Yon wis the past a new war begun noo,
No wi claymores ,targes an guns,
This time its ideals an Eton buffers,
Those who wid sell oor birthrights
Tae mak us slaves an servile peasants,
Using stealth ,treachery an unco ither weys
Rogues they be crooks ,cheats and thieves
Seeming beyond reproach wi things hidden
Frae us puir mortals aye they wull dae us doon,
Sic a time as this tae fecht fur whit is oors
Naw mair begging fur aa few scraps
Fae a table fu wi guid things ,
Scraps urny fur us we ur free loons
Burthit free an deeing we wull be free,
Ur ye ready tae rise yince agin?
Andrew P mcintyre 14/09/2020
Bountiful beings
we chisel our existence
essential claymores
Sixties Secret Agent
In black and orange inks
some wag had stenciled,
"no need for tests -
for use on dinks".
Gung-ho. Can-do.
Make war, not love.
You hit puberty, and find
you're the biggest kid on the block.
Time to throw some weight around.
Buy yourself a Glock.
Damn this forest.
They don't play fair.
We'll catch 'em in the open
with our phosphorescent flares.
We invented cocaine drinks,
electric chairs, chop suey -
let's have us a little think:
claymores, napalm, hueys.
If only we could find a way
to murder all these trees:
if all this life were scalded, flayed,
and shriveled till it dropped away,
poisoned, sickly, palsied, grey,
then Charlie, skulking somewhere
out there
would show up in our lenses' stare
and we could bring our guns
to bear.
So. Get it done.
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
Pipes wake mountain glen
Unwrapped claymores driving men
Peace scatters shattered
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