I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of dream-crows take off all at once,
the clatter of their wings
a whole symphony played in just one moment.
Grandmother would speak in her Highland tongue;
sounds lyrical and melodic. As a child
I just listened not deciphering or even thinking,
absorbing only the sounds of her rhythmic brogue,
her Celtic chimes.
Mozart leaps up from a nocturnal reverie
stumbles around lighting candles,
lays his sleepy forehead on a keyboard
endeavors to recall a certain harmonic
overheard as the trills of Pipistrelle bats.
When my head swings from the pillow
I cannot find the pencil.
Mind mutely watches a cappella words
wander away from their musical roots,
silence falls out of nowhere into nowhere.
Categories:
pipistrelle, poetry,
Form: Free verse
My closed eyes have crashed
against an image;
I am a boat moored to a storm.
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
take off at once – they clatter – it’s musical,
it is an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment,
you hear it all but can’t separate the wing-beats.
My Scots grandmother (a natural born Celt),
would talk to me in her Highland tongue;
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I can’t now remember her wry wisdom,
not a thing,
I just recall the chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Gaelic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
Categories:
pipistrelle, poetry,
Form: Free verse
My closed eyes have crashed
against an image;
I am a boat moored to a storm.
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
all take off at once – they clatter – it’s musical;
1t’s an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment,
you hear it all but can’t separate the wing-beats.
My Scots grandmother (a natural born Celt),
would talk to me in her Highland tongue;
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I can’t now remember her wry wisdom,
not a thing,
I just recall the chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Gaelic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
Categories:
pipistrelle, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Moonlight Garden
Have you ever explored the garden in moonlight
noticed the shine and colour
walked slowly in the comfort of a quiet moment
stopping, every opportunity to listen,
encompassed in warmth, peace
Blooms newly cast, silent and waiting
resting there before the red dawn
A pipistrelle too busy to observe your tranquility
but, you joyfully wait before moving on
leaving a world painted in silver and black
An empty cup still warm in your hands
Categories:
pipistrelle, beauty, joy,
Form: Free verse
As sunsets fading embers glow,
Their shadows reach, to us below.
While earth she dons her night times cloak,
Moonlights soft shadows will evoke.
Dark phantoms creeping in the night,
From candles dancing flames of light.
That flickers with the evenings breeze,
Mischievous zephyrs start to tease.
Long shadows cast, the pipistrelle,
As vampire bats, borne out of hell.
And shades when spiders catch the fly,
Those candle flames do magnify.
Nights lurid scenes upon a wall.
Soon changing shadows will enthrall.
Moonlight is veiled by clouds of grey,
Their shadows dance the night away.
Aurora's colours, strobe the skies,
To herald in, mornings sunrise.
11/ 9/ 2015.
Categories:
pipistrelle, dark, night,
Form: Rhyme
I'm sitting by the river in the centre of Inverness
In a place we call the islands, beauty in capture finesse
It's late into the evening as I listen to the cold grey flow
So soothing in this tranquil setting, inside I'm all aglow
I take this time to pause and close my eyes and listen
For in my mind I picture the full moons rivered glisten
This winter coat instrumental resonates with echoing sounds
Pipistrelle bats and Starlings flock, the latter in roosting surround
Whilst in the distance canines bark in a language we can't even comprehend
The picking up of natures delights, in unlimited voiced transcend
As I sit through these melodic notes I begin to realise
That I am here to hear these sounds and every ones a prize
I'm still sitting by the river in the centre of Inverness
If you ever desire to sit beside me, please do, you'll be my guest
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/inverness.php
Categories:
pipistrelle, nature, placesriver,
Form: Couplet