Scotland Poems - Poems about Scotland

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...

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Let me recount of the mirrored alcoves galleries of brands Whiskeys deep gold many types of bottles into optic feeds Highly polished bar timbertops rich shining deep.' Varied Paper coasters to keep it pristene, bowls of cheese squares crackers at the side, the sent of a recent cleaning Greetings warm when you stepped inside.' The old Hearth with a brass...

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I gaze at the Highlands’ mountains and try to force myself to feel joy in its entirety. But I can’t. Look how beautifully the sun plays on the rocks like its pressing keys: white for light, black for darkness. And who am I? Darkness, light? Half-shadow? Twilight? I am a cloud....

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When it rains in Scotland, It reminds me of home. I see the scattered raindrops making their way down the window, if it were home, they would graciously enter in. When it rains in Scotland, It takes me back to that August afternoon 3 years back, the raindrops danced at the tune of love, it wasn’t home but it felt like...

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Raggle Taggle gypsy boy born somewhere different in the countryside, though not far from a big city. Hanzi, at the age of eight he used to live as a gypsy boy, going from here to there and everywhere. He has never had the chance to go to school, but he loved to dance, sing and playing the bagpipes. His father used to take...

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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...

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King Duncan wouldn't allow it Chin sweat and air conditioning Sending me into a linguistic shaming spiral Flavoursome mints and sparkling water Won't fix this wet nightmare Telling the steps to SHUT UP Sock sniffer Chemical bomb leather shoes Armpits oceaning Give me Nigeria Or the jungle Where the birds don't sing My wife has been reading The Return of the Native for ten years But...

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chill howls slit needles from firs and steer whimsy puffs to shade the moon like accordion blinds summer's last dying gasps just below the treeline snippity snap dragon spits sparks in the dark doesn't threaten me but don't want to be run down by a grizzly or chased by a moose just want to be here with Groot and 400 Conejos* you know all those stone circles in Scotland were...

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A bonnie wee place, Drummore. Just aff the Galloway Shore. A stoat and a fish. Their signature dish. A bonnie wee place Drummore....

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THE UK Poling, Patching, Nether Wallop, Matching Tye and Droop Plumpton, Lickfold, Puddletown, Westward Ho! and Throop. Hole of Horcum, New Invention, Boghead, Frome, Cat's Ash North Piddle, Staines and Pen*stone, Wash Dyke, East Breast and Flash. Six Mile Bottom, Mudford Sock, Wetwood, Wetwang, Hose Catbrain, Assloss, No Man's Land, Didling, Lower Rose. Blubberhouses, Giggleswick, Sheepy Magna, Splott Climping, Crudwell, Lickey End, Queen Camel, Picklescott. Bareleg Hill...

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A hero to a little boy, Smartest man in the world, so full of joy. Big HOUSE! Big beard. Big Family! Big belly!! “I love you son.” “I love you too, Dad”. A whole different place, Confusion wins the race. One night, a big fright. Discovery leads to recovery “I love you, I promise.” “I love you too, Dad” A fresh new family, A...

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seagulls surf the wind my escorts home across the waves streamlined gannets sacred isle in view ...

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Alexander Grey 'SCOTLAND __________^ | \\ // || | \\ // || ...

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"Despair is generally defined as a loss of hope. In existentialism, it is more specifically a loss of hope in reaction to a breakdown in one or more of the defining qualities of one's self or identity." Søren Kierkegaard St. Kilda is a World Heritage Site. Birds persevere; rock houses empty now. Last count topped one million resident birds. Sheer numbers...

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The grey skies shift to blue, and now a breeze is heralding a longed-for transformation. With rainbow colours Mother Earth is blessed and all the islands of the west caressed, reborn. Sweet Summer knows no storm....

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