Long Bagpipe Poems
Long Bagpipe Poems. Below are the most popular long Bagpipe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bagpipe poems by poem length and keyword.
One legged evil brownie with a lopsided top hat
Was tired of crab legged crone thinking she was all that
Her feather and sword gave her instant jurisdiction
Her thought her followers fell under some addiction.
Her flag-waving ways were annoying to Buggy B Biff
She smelled like a cadaver for he had caught a whiff.
She was beyond ugly with twelve ruffled hideous boots
He put on his spurs, gun belts, and plaid bagpipe flutes.
She was stirring up the women. He saw his own wife!
Who was screeching and screaming, holding a silver knife.
He crept up slowly to Creelah, the crab-legged crone.
All he wanted her to do was to leave the women alone.
Bam! The trigger was pulled before he even realized.
He had shot the old skeleton dead, he quickly surmised.
The women stampeded the stage, and kicked him to death.
The last thought he had was, I should not have taken the meth.
On the Isle of Skye, water runs down the Cuillin mountains into waterfall streams
It's a beautiful and tranquil place
Where the local fairies live, play and dream
A red-bearded Scotsman walks from his village
He carries his beloved bagpipes in hand
He heads to the magical Fairy Pools
To play for the fairies hiding among the heather stalks growing in the lush green land
Clad in a kilt of dark blue and green
They know it's their friend that's come to play
His emotional bagpipe songs are the only things
That make them emerge from their hideaway
The fairies love the skirl of the bagpipes
It brings their soul delight
Their tiny wings flutter with joy and elation
While they surround him in flight
When he's finished playing, he reaches into his horsehair sporran
Hanging from his waist
To feed the fairies bits of wild-grown raspberries
They absolutely love their taste
He will come back to play for them soon on another day
They love their friend in the blue and green kilt
With his beloved bagpipes and the songs that he will play
Arthur's seat sits hidden by the cloak of night, his head up in the clouds.
Princes Street lies empty, no royals, no life, no crowds.
Nelson stands neglected, having made a monumental mistake.
Charlottes' going square without new books to articulate.
St Giles has closed his doors to weary pilgrim seeking refuge.
The Palace has lost its money, its reputation, its gold.
Up at the castle, the one o clock gun,
sounds to mourn Edinburgh's loss.
For all I hear, tonight and every night,
is the pitter patter of the rain.
It marks the tears of old Edinburgh town wondering,
will I be loved again?
Where be the Scottish man in kilt with bagpipe sash?
Or corner street drunken birthday bash?
Edinburgh weaps the soil untrodden,
those lost of late shan't be forgotten.
May we once more run wild with glee,
old Edinburgh town, the land of the free.
5.15.21
Stay a little longer
come closer to my heart
Breathe dew breeze on my neck's nape
do not yet depart
Play for me bagpipe music
Blindfold all my starving fears
Let the dulcet tones of your voice
give us back those harvest years
Make of the citrus moon a ballroom
Hold me firmly from both hands
Lift me high to touch the star-sky
Show me how young peasants dance
Let my soothing fingers trail
across your caloused sun -soaked skin
In purple fields Come chase me
in that place our souls have been
Take me away with you
where this world is out of sight
Where unspoken thoughts and heartbeats
are enough to blaze the night.
A Scot had once been quite handsomely built
Now with corona did not fit his kilt
Ate all he could find
With more on his mind
Became rotund and his manhood did wilt
Isolation made the fridge his best mate
Yet now he wanted an illicit date
Could not find his willy
Rubbed on some chilly
No growth so he needed to loose some weight
But cakes and pastry were hard to resist
When he tried his knickers got in a twist
Spermatic retention
Or penile extension
For not to miss out on an overdue tryst
The doctor himself was a well endowed man
‘I must help this limp fellow if I can’
Grafted a bone-r
For the new owner
To cool it implanted a vacuum fan
Balls on fire complete with bagpipe and trumpet
He seeks out his most delicate strumpet
But before he can dip it in with pleasure
She takes from her bra a hooker’s tape measure
‘Size does measure but this I won’t lump it’
The surgeon was not a continental medic
Had stuck to feet and inches for the prosthetic
A small mis-understanding
Results fully pending
Outcome detachment on a scale rather epic
The patient was of course not very amused
And not just his Ego was blatantly bruised
A centaur with no application
‘Now I need an ablation’
But the healer threw a wobbly and refused
If I incise once more I have to cut at the root
Give you a mammoplasty you’d look rather cute
Without bothersome ********
No impotency detection
This is a soft solution you cannot refute
At least now flaccidity will focus your hunger
Voluptuous and curvy you’ll look like a stunner
Indulge in cream tart
And if you fart
There’s no one around to make a scared runner
29th April 2020
They’re mournful at a wake or when
A person’s laid to rest,
Yet there are those who say their sound
Is something to detest.
But line them up and hear them played
By marchers wearing kilts
And suddenly you see the green
And hear those Irish lilts.
Oh, it’s a joy to witness
The St. Patrick’s Day Parade
And watch the bands from every police
And fireman brigade.
The pipers always lead the way,
Their plaintive notes on high;
The green-clad crowd applauds
As all the marchers pass them by.
I wouldn’t want to listen
To a bagpipe every day,
But on the 17th of March, I’m glad
I get to hear them play.
I long to traipse across lavender heathered hills
and look across the North Sea as a winter wind chills.
Again, to dwell in a cottage, nestled in a green glen
or traverse Scotland's burns, I yearn. Do ya ken?
Years ago I sat upon Loch Lomond's misty banks
and to the beautiful Highlands I offered my thanks
for rugged terrain, lowlands and plains, and Aberdeen.
Haunting bagpipe songs, leaves me feeling serene.
My heart longs to wander free as I stand and listen
to gulls over the Hebrides while Atlantic waters glisten.
There's a stirring deep within my heart and my soul
to wear my clan's plaid and upon Ayr Beach to stroll.
January 5, 2023
Take Me There Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Margarita Lillico
Clans, Ilks and Tartans
Woven into threads of red and black,
Girded by grids of white,
Distant plaintive bagpipe memories
Of sunset over Kilmaurs –
A crest that bears a unicorn
Touches royal roots
As a poet’s tribute to a patron lost
Watches neighbors Campbell and Montgomerie
Then looks out on the seas from tidal lands
Of Ayrshire in flings and reels with swirling kilts
When explorer’s feet recall on new world shores
The mew of seagulls soaring –
Politicians, engineers and entrepreneurs -
Over Fork Over – Cunningham, a clan of auld.
Blocks of green and wine
Stripped with blue
Look back into the heather
Covering highland hills of country dances
Where spring wanders in hunting kilts
Beneath clear cerulean heavens,
Boldly enduring;
A crest that bears a coronet
Of storied noble and knight
Whose melancholy legend
Whispers in glens and gloaming
Of standard bearers for a king
Watched by Ogilvy and Stewart
Lindsay, a clan of auld.
Like sunlight bouncing off of autumn leaves
In crimson, golden amber, umber greening hues -
A sword dance of squares and lines in twirling kilts -
Near the sparkling waters of Loch Lomond;
Clan neighbor Graham and cousins MacCammon
See the crest adorned by a coronet
Prize of battle;
The wind remembers
Tiny windswept island Clarinch -
A battle cry of Clar Innes -
Campaigns of kings and exiled queens –
Chieftain’s seat sees a president and prospector -
Hence the brighter honor – Buchanan, a clan of auld.
Cousins of the same ilk
Bear the names of families -
Of highland lands
And lowland memories -
Seaside and mountain territories -
Kilts wearing colors interwoven patterns
Born of clans with
Tartans telling legends and the stone of destiny,
Plaids dancing at the piper’s hand,
Ancient names, though maybe hidden, still live –
Cunnyngham, Lindsey and MacCammon
Of Buchanan –
In Celtic refrains like iridescent whispers
Woven through clans of auld.
This is the story of my Scottish heritage through the mottos, the tartans, the history and geographic references to the clan homes.