Long Scotia Poems
Long Scotia Poems. Below are the most popular long Scotia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scotia poems by poem length and keyword.
From the mid-1950's thenceforth
to the mid-seventies in the Great White North,
over the course of many moons,
there came from this country some really great tunes.
For those of us young at heart (or not-so-old)
we had Neil Young's Cinnamon Girl and Heart of Gold.
And when they were at their very peak,
The Band sang The Weight and Up on Cripple Creek.
Joni Mitchell, who was oh-so-classy,
sang about a Free Man in Paris and a Big Yellow Taxi.
And one of the finest songs ever designed
was Gordon Lightfoot's If You Could Read My Mind.
Back in those days, the Guess Who was on the rise
with hits like American Woman, Undun and These Eyes.
And, from Nova Scotia, you may have heard
of Anne Murray, who sang sweetly about a Snowbird.
From Montreal came Andy Kim - now he was quite a looker! -
who sang lead vocals for The Archies. Remember Sugar Sugar?
And, incidentally, he had one other big hit
called Rock Me Gently. Do you remember it?
Oh, and by the way,
there was another Canuck named John Kay,
a real nineteen sixties flower child.
He sang with Steppenwolf. You know Born to be Wild!
Ah, I remember the summers, when we all had lots of fun
listening to Sweet City Woman and Seasons in the Sun.
And I will certainly never, ever forget
a hit by BTO called You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet!
In the history of modern music, be it rock or pop,
a number of Canadians have certainly reached the top.
With the Yanks and the Brits, we certainly could compete.
With no mention of Canada, music history is incomplete.
I not sure I’ll renew my poet’s license this
year, most of the keepers have been kept
with the biggest ones caught, stuffed and hung
on the walls of tumbledown fishing lodges.
Although there are rumors, that the big one
Bishop caught and released back in 1946
still swims somewhere in the dark waters
between Nova Scotia and Massachusetts.
These days, Brautigan would have to wade
much further upstream to go trout fishing in
America as bass have taken over the lower
reaches, which have warmed due to climate
change, aided and abetted by ATV's SUVs,
Jet Skis and those monster Bass Boats
with their three hundred horsepower engines
which race across the waters in those TV Bass
Fishing Tourneys, even though I must admit I
I sometimes watch them in the channel’s free month.
but now I must paddle and haul my canoe over three
portages to find cool water and a bit of peace and quiet.
Then too, poetry isn’t what it used to be
with rhyme, rhythm and form relegated
to dusty archives in lonely libraries.
Nowadays, everything is computers and
online, with pen and paper abandoned, as
Instant Instagram Poets proclaim over this
“new” medium, spouting their infantile
insights regarding the mysteries of life
and love into an existential echo chamber,
leaving us unpublished old poets grumbling
in our garrets as we scribble by candlelight.
.
A square building called Gilbert's Cove Lighthouse,
built way back in 1904 high above the water;
it was home to a man, children and spouse.
The cove calm but it could get white-water,
the red beacon guided boats of all shapes;
keepers kept them from the underwater.
Often rain would crash down like thick white drapes,
the children would huddle in real dread;
for 50 years the family enjoyed dreamscapes.
It was a lighthouse- a home white and red,
in time, it fell to decay and boarded up;
a Nova Scotia lighthouse and homestead.
But, a historical group did a huge cleanup,
now, museum and tea room pick-me-up !
BEAUTIFULLY BOLD
The purple angel facing the sun, so fair to look upon
has a tenacious grip on the moors; it roots secured.
With its head held high, it sways at ease in the breeze;
yet for puncturing thorns, surely, it will be scorned.
Never trained for battles, its winter seed pods rattle
defying each foe, flowering even in spring's white snow.
Its sharp spines bring tears, pricks equals to a sharp spear
to Scotia a dauntless brave, for their land was saved!
Like a woman defending her virtue, to any, she is bold to face,
yet, the angel as a lion-heart. Her words full of art,
bloom despite the pain, a greater beauty she attains.
Where ever she may live, this heavenly thistle will thrive.
This humble weed will prosper in the rich faithful soil she seeds
before the sun she and Royal Scotland have plighted their troth
__________________________________________________________________
***Inspired by the painting Thistle in a Field, by Fidelia Bridges 1875
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
January 19, 2015
~~This a late post because I have no internet connection for almost 5 days...
“700”
We stood upon a windy hill
The sky a greying growling mass
Amid a motely gathering
Of Knights and weathered fighters
Warriors old who stood wi Wallace
And led by Moray,s standard.
They wept when both had passed
Now ready at The Bruce,s side.
Hearts filled with nationalistic pride
They brought their tools of trade
Sickles and hammers alongside
Swords and pikes and targes
To fight and die glorious nameless
For the taste of freedoms wine.
The cry of freedom echoes
From village to distant hill
As The Bruce roars out a command
Raising the sword from Wallaces hand
Towards the massed ranks of heavy horse
Floundering in scotia,s mud
The burn it flows on turned red
With warriors life and blood.
...................................
Seven hundred years have flown
And as we stand again upon a hill
A choice has to be made
Whether to grow and flourish
To stay under anothers hand
Once again the banners fly
Under a greying, growling sky.
(to commemerate the 700th anniversary of Scotlands fight to be a kingdom)
Let’s hve haggis and drinks mi luve
Find de bes ina de ole land
Lay yu head on mi chest mi luve
Whilst wi dance musik wid de band
Dance wid de band in de Highlands
Backyard jig good fer de ole soul
Tickle mi nose with yu gold locks
Tigether wi bade ead to toe’s sole
Call Fionn mi Luve with his jug
Nice poems he read at de gate
Summon the Clooties with a mug
Aye, they will cum and bles dis date
We’ll sail de river on Loch Ness
Kelpies will protect our flanks
Goddess Scotia says we bless
Oh mi chamin' sweet Sidhe, tanks
Aye! Mi sweet luve; Boobrie will fly
He will fetch up the Salmon Ring
And a knot cross de land we tye
Red Caps our guard til cum de spring
Then wid haggis and drinks mi luve
Goddesses'pipes blow dem great songs
In the grey mist we skip and dance
Then like Boobrie we fly with doves
Scottish Mythical Legends:
1. Fionn is a Scottish magician, warrior and poet
2. Clootie is a Scottish name for the devil. The name originated from the word cloot, which
mean a division in the cleft hoof of an animal.
3. Kelpie is a Scottish water devil who lurks in lakes and rivers and drowns its victims.
4. Scotia is a goddess normally portrayed as an old hag with the tusks of a wild boar
5. Sidhe (Shee) is the Gaelic name for fairies in the Highlands of Scotland and also Ireland.
6. Boodrie is a wonderful water-bird from the Highlands. It haunts and protects the lakes
and wells.
7. Red Cap is a sort of short, stocky old guy with long gray hair and claws instead of hands
and fingers. He lives on the Scottish border and guard the ancient ruins of castles
Come visit us under pink tinged twilight skies..
among boughs borne under a song laden tree.
In fair view of land, meadows green coiling rise,
one hundred twenty counted souls, and me.
The older children play, running in sun washed petticoats,
hair pulled back in pigtails & ribbons, an untied shoelace floats.
Their errant hoops gone tumbling over a dew covered hill,
wonder if sun refused to shine, and not mourning them still.
How resplendent a vessel, White Star's ship of dreams,
carried their passion as coal fed fired boiler steams.
Only to sink 'neath the waves, irony in iron age..
On maiden voyage Ides of April, warned her last writ page.
To the new world go mother, father, sisters and brothers,
prayers spent all would reach safety of harbor's bustling dock.
America's shores promised in the letters of others...
went as sheep to the shearer in Reaper's growing flock.
To third class cabin dimlit, down three flights of stairs,
their mortal passage payed so high a forlorned cost.
Waiting their turn for grace, their last supper's prayers,
scrape of ice., gaping ocean roared, in darkness lost.
God bore them one and all 'way from the tortured deep,
to cold windswept mount where saints and survivors weep.
"Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling"
Hidden past the highway bend,
a bench clings to a shallow cliff
above a beach where banks extend
across the bay in sandy drifts.
When tides are low, the sea withdraws,
to flaunt the treasured ocean floor,
and anyone can walk across
the sand to reach the other shore.
With green paint peeling like old flesh,
the bench is baked in salt and sun.
Remember when the paint was fresh,
and in your arms I came undone?
From here, we watch the water snag
in grooves of sand like buried mirrors.
The sky is pink as sunlight fades.
Come close, my love, I need you nearer.
*This poem is based on the green bench (yes, it really exists!) at Sand Dollar Beach, located in the Rose Bay area of Nova Scotia, Canada
Between a sky of pale blue, streaked with white,
and a glassy sea of royal blue,
there lies a land of lavender rock,
where wind blown grasses grow in briny
patches around weather beaten houses
brushed in pastel shades of yellow, pink,
and green and blue.
A grey fishing shack stands on silts
beyond the waters edge,
deep in rippling reflections of itself
and the sky that shimmers across the inlet
to the other side, where a dory
tethered to a dock stacked high with reels
of blue and orange ropes and buoys,
rests peacefully in the noon-day sun, with me,
on these long cold winter nights.
~~~~~
emerges from burrow
sunrays fade through graying clouds
early spring crocus
2/1/2022
Groundhog Day (Pennsylvania German: Grund'sau dåk, Grundsaudaag, Grundsow Dawg, Murmeltiertag; Nova Scotia: Daks Day)[1] is a popular North American tradition observed in the United States and Canada on February 2. It derives from the Pennsylvania Dutch superstition that if a groundhog emerges from its burrow on this day and sees its shadow due to clear weather, it will retreat to its den, and winter will go on for six more weeks; if it does not see its shadow because of cloudiness, spring will arrive early.