Long Highland Poems
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THE HAUNTED HOUSE
While on a tour across the Scottish highland moor
one summer noon I stopped by a Victorian house.
Curious, I entered through the half-closed door,
a dark room filled with antiques I could browse.
In the eerie air before I could call out loud, “anybody in”
the creaking wooden door closed sharply behind me.
In the alarmed mind I pressed the panic button within,
for with all the doors closed the way out I couldn’t see.
I shivered with the creepy feeling of being trapped,
saw a shadowy figure appear in the murky hallway,
as if striding in air into the sinister room he stepped.
Saw his scalded fiery face before he turned it away.
Scared I wailed, “I’m sorry I entered”, as he came near,
“please help, open the door for me, out I should go”.
He looked at me, a single word I didn’t hear him utter.
He walked silently to the door in a floating stride slow.
How he opened so softly the heavy door I couldn’t see,
I rushed out in a breath to the open in flood of sunlight.
Before I could turn back quickly the door closed on me,
I couldn’t say “thank you”, the man was out of sight.
In nearby village I queried about the man and the house,
I’m told if anyone lived in the haunted house they’d know.
In the outhouse fire that took them a long time to dowse
the lone caretaker was burnt to death some two years ago.
August 22, 2018
Contest : The Haunted House
Spnsored by : Dear Heart
I've deleted this acrostic from the competition for personal reasons.
SORRY, J. D.
G lorious was the morning I climbed the Scottish highland
R adiant warmth of Summer's sun shimmered over the trail
E mblazoned with clover, near a forested Wych Elm stand
A stonished at the scenic vista, my lofty imagination set sail
T raipsing across the North Sea, I was Captain in command
E lusive was the tailwind on my adventurous nautical escape
S cotland clamored for my return, 'Make haste. Hurry home!
C ast your notions upon the wind. Your spinnaker, undrape
A nother day will you play, when in illusory flight you roam
P erchance invite another dreamer and don your Tartan cape
E mbark upon a getaway beyond the heathered hills of loam'
ADRIFT AT SEA*
sea-worn bottle,
bobs on a digital tide.
inside, not paper brittle with salt,
but luminous lines of light,
coded in metaphors and rhyme.
message tossed
into the sea.
unknown sender,
no harbor designated, no destination
on any map.
it drifts, a lonely vessel,
across oceans of indifference,
until…
a seacoast appears,
unsummoned,
unexpected.
my eyes, the sand.
my mind, the beach.
I pick it up,
this delicate thing,
uncorking the silence.
The words flow out,
a story whispered,
a feeling shared,
across lifetimes,
across the vacuity.
suddenly,
I am the address.
the recipient unknown,
FOUND.
the message delivered.
the poem,
HOME.
*Note: I posted this poem at Poetry Soup in June 2025 then deleted it (www.poetrysoup.com › poem › adrift_at_sea_1740391). This is my original poem and has not been plagiarized. Also, this poem was recently published in Highland Park Poetry’s Anthology titled MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE. I am blessed.
Agony, grief and particularly anger
roil these lovely bones
life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness
exempts those graced with darker skin tones.
Rather than raucously riot,
I craft emotions courtesy poetry
mine feeble attempt to agitate and protest
sublimated thru scathing poetic indictment
lame contrasted against violent protests.
Peaceable methodology,
(viz printed word) versus war
preferable mode to conflict resolution
opposed to explosive uproar
angry frenzied mob scenes as seen online, or
alternate mass communication medium
valiantly, yet vanely attempt to even out score.
Tipping point evincing breached injustices,
(whereby persons sporting greater melanin)
triggered spontaneous outbursts
(bedlam witnessed while safely sequestered
within Highland Manor apartment
unit B44 May 31st, 2020).
Innocent lives, particularly
those who proudly identify themselves
purportedly black targeted merely because
genetics crafted them darker hued skin
unwittingly and unfairly
site them in crosshairs
where strong arm of the law
indiscriminately takes their life.
Despite genetics bequeathing me Caucasian
(predominantly Eastern European - Semitic features)
with one percent Neanderthal man
thrown in for good measure),
yours truly dispirited,
dismantled, and disgruntled
née disenchanted linkedin
with *****sapiens.
Neither railing nor ranting
can alleviate injustice
visited upon heads and torsos of innocent
Americans, whose genealogy traced to
Africa, Australia, Haiti, Melanesia, Papua
New Guinea and South Asia.
Because they and/or forebears
hailed from areas with highest ultraviolet
radiation in the world,
subsequent generations automatically
serve as fodder stigmatized cradle to grave.
I revised a poem written
January twenty second
last year – two thousand twenty one
regarding gratitude for Medicare
Insurance to foot the bill
concerning ability to heal
courtesy immune system
undergoing toe till agency
or closest approximation thereof
impossible mission to undergo
one hundred percent protection
against contracting deadly illness,
viz latest epidemic impacting civilization.
Here at Highland Manor Apartments
Saturday January twenty third,
two thousand and twenty one,
I attest yours truly
received the first (of four)
inoculations to stave off
getting COVID-19,
thus mine poetic title
might not seem absurd.
Wednesday February third
and Friday October twenty second
same year as above
witnessed himself receiving
second and third injections respectively
to diminish vulnerability
contracting transmissible pathogen.
Today Wednesday April sixth
two thousand twenty two
poet of Perkiomen Valley
received the fourth
bringing him up to date
(or speed if you prefer druggist's lingo)
with Center for disease
control recommendations.
Aforementioned stance toward death
(meaning taking preventative measures
to live healthy existence)
obviously avoid Saturday night fever
regarding desire Stayin' Alive
and most oppressive
when mine mental, physical
and/or spiritual yours truly
takes a (swan) dive
analogous where bajillion bees
swarm from their hive.
Linkedin with well known poem by and by
penned by Emily Dickinson, I didst decry
expressed her relief
to surender release
and amazingly gracefully die
"Because I could not stop for Death,"
she aptly crafted verses to comply
reverently, merrily, and gloriously accepting
cessation of existence well nigh
as does one garden variety generic goofy guy.
All natural catastrophes aside,
plus excluding thermonuclear war,
where civilization would get fried
nullifying idea viz,
let conscience be your guide,
nor no place to run and hide
left to grapple with dystopian quandary
(alternately titled...
whoops rites of spring
prematurely ejaculated).
This livingsocial mortal opposes
rigor mortis deadened waiver!
Great slabs of ice thrust
from Perkiomen River
competing forces did deliver
contraction and expansion
giving yours truly,
a frightened shiver
hurled with heft of Goliath
smashed into a bajillion pieces,
akin to alms giver
momentarily, sans freeze-
frame (courtesy J. Geils ghost)
suspended, hallucinated
me accursed and destined,
grim fate akin to drunk Mini driver
city, viz frozen blocks buzz
feeding frigid air, a sliver
of Ice Age dam axed
face of Paul R. Vortex
as he launched a
thousand shrieking banshees,
an narrow escape as I did quiver,
hence explaining thunderous crash heavily
argh...no time to mull
battering (ramming analogous to
more'n one angry red bull)
Highland Manor Apartments
little imagination needed
to envision skull
and crossbones harkened full
Nelson deathly hallowed
grip inescapable pull
aghast and petrified to brimfull
(of mine non hull
king manlihood down
to the last drop),
nonetheless didst cull
atavistic adrenaline
laden fight flight, never a dull
moment whirling as
a "FAKE" undercover agent
with an off humorous bent
(what, that might earn me ten cent),
plus considering myself civil gent
(yea, really no time asper hero to invent,
such as the unassuming Clark Kent),
ah...wishful thinking misspent
mere seconds to spare sought
shelter in makeshift tent
deep sea diving into blanketed warmth
this whimpering poet went!
Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
The heather weeps, a purple bruise,
Across the glens, the chilling news.
No bagpipes drone a mournful sound,
But sirens wail on hallowed ground.
A thistle bleeds, its prickling crown,
As innocence is stricken down.
Young eyes, once bright with Highland fire,
Now gleam with something dark and dire.
The steel they flash, a twisted boast,
A stolen childhood, dearly lost.
Each shadowed lane, a whispered fear,
Of blades that gleam and futures near,
Consumed by rage, a hollow pride,
Where youthful dreams have gone to hide.
Parents clutch, with hearts ablaze,
Afraid to loose in this iron maze.
The ancient stones, they stand and stare,
At broken vows and whispered prayer.
Can Scotland rise, her spirit mend,
And teach these children how to bend,
The steel to craft, the hands to heal,
And learn the wounds are truly real?
To trade the blade for open hand,
And reclaim peace within the land.
What a joy it would be to see you walk the Glens
On purple bloomed heather, on the lands of the Highlander men
To witness your aura, your smile, amidst the Ben's atop with snow
For no matter who stands beside you, being there they'll surely glow
Being there they'll surely glow, proud to be standing there
To your beauty they will look in awe, in wonderment, amazing stare
Whilst all around there grows, many ferns from a forgotten past
For no matter who stands beside you, your beauty will always last
Your beauty will always last for it's captured in many hearts
In wonderment amazing stare, from the Highlands you'll never depart
Now imbedded your heart runs free, to roam these Alba Glens
And this Scotsman chosen beside you, your choice of Highland men
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/lorena-2.php
Coffee beans, a world in a grain,
Roasted and ground, a caffeinated refrain.
Born in the tropics, where the sun meets the shade,
A journey unfolds from bush to brewed cascade.
In the highland realms where the arabica dreams,
And the robusta thrives by mountain streams,
Emerald hills with leaves of green,
Cradle the cherries, a ruby sheen.
Harvesters toil under the sun's warm kiss,
Gently plucking the beans, pure coffee bliss.
Hand in hand with the seasons they dance,
A delicate choreography, nature's romance.
From the fields, the beans embark on a quest,
To the roaster's chamber, where flavors manifest.
The symphony of crackles, a transformation in heat,
Awakening aromas, a sensory feat.
Medium, dark, or a blonde delight,
The roaster's art shapes the beans' flight.
Aromas unfurl, as flavors entwine,
In a fragrant journey, both robust and fine.
Grinding whispers echo in the morning air,
As anticipation rises, a ritual to declare.
Into the press or the espresso machine,
The grounds prepare for their aqueous sheen.
Brewing, a ballet of water and bean,
A liquid alchemy, a potion unseen.
Espresso, pour-over, or a steaming cup,
A daily elixir, waking spirits up.
In coffee shops bustling, a caffeinated hum,
Baristas crafting creations, a skillful strum.
Latte art blooms, a canvas of cream,
A masterpiece fleeting, in each sip's gleam.
Coffee beans, a humble seed's legacy,
A ritual, a culture, a worldwide legacy.
In each fragrant cup, a story unfolds,
A journey in every sip, as the coffee beholds.