This world is full of noise,enough to burst,
your mind and destroy well being lust,
noise from traffic on ground and air,
from telly,s ,radios and everywhere.
Gies a break we aa bellow,
makin mair noise for fellow,
humans who walk the same path,
work it oot dae the math,
as oor cousins wid sey across the watter,
haud oan a meenit ah heed yer call,
whits wrang wi noise does it really matter.
Aye it does my fairweether freends,
caises pain in yins lugs and heid,
those wi issues hate this aa the time,
produces anxiousness and depressed need.
Get tae the wids trendies cry,
wildlife an trees wull help ye fly,
even in the daurkest realms of root,
tae mony bodies causing mair noise.
Jumpin in secluded pools delighted shouts,
or faaing fae the heevens oan broken sheets,
flapping ,twirling adrenalin urging,
Bikes hurtling alaang secret paths,
get oot the wey comes the noisy cry,
Lets shoot the craw and leave this place,
seek oot the spots tae find yer solace.
“Gaun an bile yer heid” he bawled oot,
As he stood in the middle o the cobbled street.
Tae nae yin in particular.
Did he vent his anger.
Fu as a whaulk he staggered and swayed
Wan pin rooted tae the graun,
Ither yin moved like a dervish,
Gaun naewhaur fast.
He should of been hame
Wi his wifie and weans
But naw he insisted
Wi a wee refreshment wi his pals.
Jist a hauf an a hauf an a wee blether
Pittin the world tae rights.
But man the craik was brill that nicht
Whit a pity it ended in a fecht.
Nothing though like the fecht
He wid huv when at home.
His wifie stood livid at the door
Tears a dripping ontae the floor
Weans moaning and bawling
Nae dinner again old mans supping fu.
Setterday nicht in Glasga toon
Lying sprawled an fu unner the moon,
©Andrew P McIntyre 2015-05-28.
Ma boatie sailed ower the mist covered sea,
I searched an sought for your hidden shore,
Shrouded in mist frae ma searching eye.
You left in a red mist o yer makin,
Stormin aff afore ah could stoap yer flight,
Heid strang defiant an unco deaf tae protestations,
Awa back tae yer hame doon by the wild sea,
Broodin an frettin yer wrath ready tae explode,
Watchin the mist conseal yer shore.
Selkies an sirens kept silent at nicht,
Feart o yer mad writhings an screams,
Even the Coileach hid hersell away ,
In daurk caves inside o hills and bogs.
They were loast in the wids,
Whaur only fae Ghillie could see them oot.
Doon rushing burns kelpies would scream,
Rending the nicht to quiver an moan,
Whaur travellers wid shiver in tavern rooms.
Ah heard the moans an gripes in the mist
As at last ah fund yer shore wi smooth saun,
Whaur ah beeched ma little boatie,
Unner the licht o a bricht shining moon.
Upon yer shore ah staun an cast a look
Ower the saun toward yer hame,
An wunner if ah was tae blame.
Yer loast tae me forever in time,
Ne,er again will ah call ye mine.
Andrew mcintyre. 28/12/2020.
Growing up in govan as a wain
We didny have much in they days
But we'd wid never complain .
We were happy way wat Yeh geed
Nae body gret or yed get a slap on the heid.
Aw the games we aw used to play
Up n doon the street
We're aw the maws wid gather up n meet.
Gossiping gossip aw day long
N still be gabbing till the next morn.
Wed make wee dens down in the ally
Tin cans on out feet so we'd walk silly.
Play kick the can n one man hunt
And brittish bulldog doon the front.
Our kids now dont no how to play
Way too many computers n their
Hitec ways .
Am a lass fae Govan
There a wiz born n breid
When a wiz wee a wiz playing tig on the dykes
N a split ma poor wee heid
Fae Glesga to Fife
Wiz where we went
To a flat in Methil
That ma maw goat fur rent
To skool a went like
A scaredey cat, didny know wit ti expect
2nd year it the high skool
Wiz a bit eh a pain in the neck
Home eckie wiz the class
A wanted it to be fun
Skool went well n a started wurk
Tull a wiz cooking a bun
Am a mammy eh 3 noo
Bit wit kin a say?
A replaced the telly
Nae mare tumbles in the hay
Ma weans are getting big fast
Aw gawn ti skool their self
But if a dont shake ma **** now
A might get left oan the shelf
Wur in RE an the nuns are gien
oot sweeties, fur getting the kweschins right.
Three oota three, then she’s askin mae who Jesus’ mither is.
‘Ah doan’t know sista,’ ah tell hur.
She isnae happy an tells mae tae hink aboot it. So ah dae
an ah wurk oot Jesus wis god. It wis a trick kweschin,
‘he didnae hiv ah mither.’ Ma
sweet stoats aff the side ae ma heid.
She’s spittin in ma coupon fur a name, an
diggin hur digits in ma neck.
‘Ah doan’t know who Jesus’ friggin mither wis!’
Miraculously ah float tae the front ae the cless. Ma haun’s oot,
bit ah doan’t hink shill hit mae wae that big stick. Thwack!
Ah look doon it the bloody gash through ma puddlin
eyes, ‘yoo’ve broke ma haun’ ah croak,
then turn roon an boak.
Tak a swally wae mae will ye?
toast tae a life goan past
tae a wee lassie pure et last
Am no gonie lie
ets time fur her tae die..
So swally doon yer whisky son
goat a joab tae be dun
we'll fuk her err
wack er roon the heid
til she's deed
shes a bonnie wee lass nae
mare
stubborn at the most
unfortunate moments
and quick with a
flabbergasted wit
he ambushes me from
the alleys in his mind
from behind
where four strikes
are uncommon
and frequently
commented upon
let's try to ignore the
inane flattery and take
into consideration
three screwdrivers deep
the fantastic premise this
is situated upon
apart-heid
has rendered my fat
and substance unfit
avocados are for brains
still, lavender for calm
we come together
in spite of
differing points of
perspective
expatriated breaths
gasped and sighed at
in the dwelling I somehow fancied
as a home has suddenly become a
jail/reformatory/pilgrimage
a complex and refracted
reflected gallery of smiles
and countenances
not discourteous
simulateously entertained with quips
and the locking of eyes
with the neighborhood bulldog
he arrives again
with breath like linament
stale tobacco and promises
we bicker and yell
no promise as of yet has transpired
above a certain hell
of vacuous emotion