~ 3-Syllable Footle ~
Eagles dared
Chiefs just stared
Mahomes stopped
By Hurts topped
Kelce contained
Few yards gained
Coach Reid kneed
~ Three-peat greed
Eco fuels at home are warmly cherished,
obligation calls and duly heeded,
in the past a smokeless coal,
allied to peat briquette the norm,
a less than ideal medley I’d agree,
I have this last briquette in camera folder,
on the day it was eventually disposed of,
an ahh moment if there ever was one,
Yet I cling to reminiscence round a warm hearth,
with my sister Jay’s wondrous glowing orb,
how she giggled so infectiously at will,
as intense vivid red flames leaped,
deep down inside we knew this couldn’t last,
a rubicon of sorts had now been crossed,
one final soiled clump of history,
that would resonate deep into late life mists,
our family clustered gaping in amazement,
at momentary flight of era toss on film,
an eternally preserved instant fetish,
some poignant flashback a capsule
“‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” —Lord, Alfred Tennyson
love at first sight at the ceilidh
dancing 'round peat fires gayly
lad and lass equally smitten
love's peat fire flame in Great Britain
unprepared for love's twists and turns,
ill-fated love crashes and burns
dark and cold was the night she left
leaving the lad crushed and bereft
the lad laments the lass as lost
methinks he should have count the cost
of jumping into love too fast
prudent forethought may help love last
Never played a game
i ever wanted to win
place the power drill against your chin
played roulette with some Russians
No grets grets(regrets for those unknown)
Peat Peat can i say that again
that again
oh g---------------------t said with a crooked smile
---------r_______a
---------------e
I see the ether shadows
rip themselves from
beneath the canvas page
And form t_________f in a shape you only see.
________h_________l
________e_________e
________m________s
All past mistakes mistook
Souled out of soul
A fool to be anything other
Look deep within these loosely-woven layers to find
primeval land with ocean, sky and wind entwined,
skilled hands and eyes of generations gone before
and peat smoke mingling with a sea mist on the shore.
In old and intricate design you may well sense
a solitary piper skirling a lament,
or view the purple heather blowing on the hill,
or hear soft-spoken memories echoing still.
Some bold and joyful as a vibrant summer’s day,
and others tinted as an autumn bride’s bouquet,
some speak of wilderness and yet untrodden ways,
some melancholic strangers to the sun’s sweet rays.
With insight woven and a clarity of mind,
the rhythmic textures of the land we see defined.
With colours of the seasons, each piece of cloth unique,
of planet Earth and nature’s harmony does speak.
Revered now far beyond its island home,
a homespun cloth of gold it has become.
Ambassadors for Scotland, yes indeed,
that’s whisky, Robert Burns and Harris Tweed.
They toiled with hands like tree bark
As they cut through rotted peat
Stacking it in heaps to dry
Did not have to be that neat
Just so long as the Westerly’s
Could dry out the peat bog water
So it could burn on winters nights
Was all that really mattered
And they could sit in warm habs
With hot broth in their hand
Another day’s work completed
And an evening’s rest began
Fine clothes for Sundays they were saved
So they could look their best
While thanking God in Heaven above
For this His blessed day of rest
When they could sit down at the pew
With Hymn book at the ready
To sing their praises to the Lord
With voices strong and steady
Then off to Pub to sup a pint
And wild stories for to tell
Of how they dug for peat so deep
They nearly ended up in hell
Eternal Sleep in Peat
At least a thousand years
since he lost hope
His features spoke, not of
the strangling rope
that robbed his breath,
but of a sleep, as deep as death
And peat preserved
is evidence, far sharper
than a photograph,
not yet invented,
his face, the same as one
who rested on his desk
to pause,
and not the drama, of
a flight for life,
(for crime or sacrifice,)
that brought him ,
an endless sleep
in peat
Suzanne Delaney
This poem is based on an image from real life that affected me profoundly.
When I was in Dublin a few years ago I saw a 1000 year old man
in a glass case Museum Display whose body had been dumped in a peat bog with a rope around his neck. Some say a sacrifice or an execution. I was amazed
to see the features were just like any 50 year old male you would see today. Most of the likenessesof people before photography was invented, were painted or sculpted images
and although I wouldn't doubt an artist's eye, I was never sure they could capture the real image of what people looked like back then.
Evening finds ascension
on a red grouse wing;
the brilliant copper sky
fades to twilight beam.
It wafts the weathered flora
of a season’s ending term,
as young skylarks soundly sleep
in the nearby bracken fern.
The purple hue glints playfully
on a steep highland muir,
with lovers lying blythesome
on the fragrant heather floor,
their drunk love on crescendo
with a piper's distant drone;
sharing peat-whisky dreams
amid the summer’s final gloam.
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