Long Kilts Poems
Long Kilts Poems. Below are the most popular long Kilts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kilts poems by poem length and keyword.
Scotland, My Home
Scotland, my home, where I was born and bred
Where the saltire flies high above my head
Where the bagpipes sound and the kilts are worn
Where the haggis tastes and the whisky warms
Scotland, my home, where the history runs deep
Where the brave and the bold their freedom did keep
Where the clans and the kings their stories did weave
Where the legends and the lore their magic did leave
Scotland, my home, where the culture thrives
Where the poetry and the music their spirit revives
Where the humour and the wit their charm displays
Where the friendship and the kindness their heart conveys
Scotland, my home, where the beauty shines
Where the mountains and the valleys their splendour define
Where the lakes and the islands their serenity show
Where the flowers and the wildlife their colours glow
Scotland, my home, where I belong and love
Ye are the treasure of my life, and the gift from above
I cherish thee more than words can say, and I'll always be loyal to thee
Scotland, my home, ye are the best of me
Working on the ancient rocks I traveled across Scotland,
on way to Edinburgh I crossed the rolling Highlands,
trailing the serpentine road built on rocks and debris,
fenced by the unbroken lines of birch and pine trees.
Dressed in elegant tartan kilts the enthused bagpipers,
moored at road edge played the captivating Celtic music,
while in the winds blowing with blue mist from the glen
the colors fluttered on the backside pleats of their kilts.
Roaming on the rhythmic undulations of the moor,
the sprinting reindeers framed a splendid sight.
From beneath the shroud of the mystique mist
the legendary monster didn’t appear in the Loch Ness.
I couldn’t have covered the whiskey trail faster,
Scotch gold in dashes of small pegs went to my head,
enticing me to be suffused with the pristine imagery,
and to fondly remember the beauty of Scotland.
____________
March 17, 2021
Contest : Scotland-One Rule
Sponsor : Julia Ward
Bagpipes in short high sounding squeals
that loudly play to the ears appeal
some haunting distant melodic foreboding malaise,
stretching across an isle of green-blue ways,
freed open and gingerly
along the lochs and rivers Clyde, Tay, Tweed, and Dee;
a glistening jewel of history unshelved
with ghosts, monsters, fairies, and elves
upon the southern shore of the Bay o' Skaill swells,
over the West Mainland parish of Sandwick's silent bells,
the Neolithic village of Skara Brae - indelible granite white
Orkney's most-visited ancient relic sites;
islands set apart where the Scottish bagpipes sing
of the clan's immortal heart on the wing;
the lull and lore of older memories fades and wilts
like colors sewn within the Tartan kilts
Glasgow and Edinburgh ring truly filled
as kilts swing in the whistling wind unstilled,
"We’re a’ Jock Tamson’s bairns!"
cries aloud in wails and shrills of Scottish yarns;
come ye rustic castles and pastorals
listen to the swish and swirls, legends rural,
in the rush of bagpipes and flaring kilts
along the cobblestones of Donegal dark silt
and all the island shores gleaned
greetings from the Scottish lore imaginings.
Julia Ward's contest
Theme of Scotland
3/17/21
Against those throes of untimely demises that Hormel chili should usher in surprises, or so the weapon goes to the kiln where kilts affray melt ire still, but beside the moon, that heavenly crest shan't ring new tones, the silent rest, whereupon one green stamp made this here, reap and commala like times past my dear, where one thing never finds Ms. Garland and another may leave her, is it simply constructed or beaten and beleaguered? I beat the metal hot and strong, but saintly serpents proved them wrong, the energies aglow like fires unkempt, the hearth and mantel heavens lent them and showered the earthly with cures galore a poor poet's boy, Aurora's demure.
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.
Lightning strikes with thunderous clap
A thickening fog rolls into the bay
Ships stacked with dead on their back
Set ablaze so they can sail away
White waves crash rocks with sound
Death ships burning fill the background
Men stand still on ridges overlooking
Play pipes for dead soldiers spirit bound
Tall red flames melt through the fog
Release men's souls to fly away
To seek far realms of Scottish Gods
Widows will cry loud this day
Clans in kilts that flap in the wind
Watch ships float further from shore
Men with their pipes stand in the cold
Above the waves on the Scottish shore
Women in black will harvest their tears
Gather their children, they'll have no more
Their lives now poorer filled with fears
In villages along the Scottish shores
Pipes will be played in haunting sound
Songs will be sung and stories told
Memories of sacrifice will endure
In villages along the Scottish shores
5/23/17 Contest Whitsun Premier
Gray are the lives that matter,
departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven;
‘silvery-gray,’ as the dead are said to say.
Paris was built gray; in summer,
the trees and the umbrellas upload color.
Yet only a few poems surfaced
they were too young to survive for long.
Edinburgh is gray, gray are the plastic rainhats.
Damp kilts gamely fly a little color
beneath a waterlogged pewter.
Words once penned
had to be tied together
so they would not sink.
Shanghai flakes its red and gold,
rises into cloud-scraping silver
that gilts the gray Huangpu river.
The girls are silk flowers
in designer Nike’s.
Gray are the wharfs and waterfronts.
Young silvery laughter turns poems
into porcelain teacups.
It is good to write
for the dead
(the dying have their own poets).
The deceased travel no more
but reside in a living-space
in God’s backlot, where all those
who do not fit into extant poetry
spin a grey alchemy
into a colorful language
which they then send
to places
no one ever writes about.
“Is Fashion Modern?” MOMA* asks
And so, in its new show,
The items on display are there
To let us know it’s so.
A pair of Levi’s, baseball caps,
Bikinis and berets,
A Wonderbra, dashikis, kilts
And suits from prior days.
A Rolex watch, Adidas, Nikes,
Mao jackets, too,
A leotard by Danskin,
Polo shirts (but not J. Crew).
Lipstick, flip flops, saris, Speedos,
Ties, stilettos, Spanx,
Jumpsuits, hoodies, Snuglis
(For which new moms owed their thanks).
My friend and I did reminisce,
While strolling the exhibit,
About the clothes like those we wore
When age did not inhibit.
*Museum of Modern Art (NYC)
Edinburgh, Scotland is where the Union Jack is unfurled.
This city gave a rock and roll gift to the world.
Dressed in tartan kilts and scarves were five talented boys.
During the seventies, they gave countless teens great joys.
They recorded a hit song that to many sounded just right.
This number one record was the memorable "Saturday Night".
Some other hit tunes that followed would play.
With personnel changes, the Bay City Rollers are still around today.
They are still wearing their tartan kilts and scarves by the way.
I thank wikipedia.org for valuable information I obtained to write this poem.
Paris was built gray, though in summer,
the trees and the umbrellas upload color.
The architecture spills over
into gay shades of silver and pewter.
Edinburgh is gray, gray are the plastic rainhats.
Damp kilts gamely fly a little color.
The stonework is granite gained,
and in late arriving Spring
color creeps up the hilly streets.
Shanghai flakes away in gray
a lacquered gray
that gilts the Huangpu river.
The skyscrapers are creamy
and blush in the sunlight.
The girls are silk flowers
in gray designer Nike’s.
Nowadays,
those who world-travel no more,
and those stuck in their own mud,
spin a grey alchemy into colorful words
which they then send
to places
worth writing to.