APPLE OF HIS EYES
Conceived in my mother's womb
A dust in the Potter's weel
With the blinking of my eyes
I behold a divergent world
Words, bah, bah, bah...
Melody to the ears of the listeners
Do you know how?
How I knew you?
I authorize your growth
I inscribed your destiny and the lines in your hands
To learn from the pains of life
Your tears making you energetical
Till laughter clouds your mind
Till your scars are erased
Do you know why?
Why I created you?
The bleeding heart
Lost hope
Your hands holds the key to live
Open the door to your heart
Why is your soul disturbed?
You are not a junk
Do you know how?
How I knew who you will be?
You are the Apple of my eyes
My spilt mortal
Created you in my image and likeness
The one who changes destiny
Your heart beat for me
When I was your lover
Apple of my eyes
Your first love calls
The rusty swing set
sings in the wind.
It hasn't seen much use
Since we were children.
Nineteen sixty is when it began.
My older sister Flo
is a mentor and friend,
she is twelve and I am ten.
We loved that swing set.
so, did our friends.
Weel never forget that
it was aqua blue then.
On the yard swing
We could Climb, fly, and glide.
Like a bunch of monkeys
on skating ice.
Little bobby jumped off tumbled and cried.
So, we all got lectured about circus rides.
When were together,
We all laugh and smile.
Flo met her Beau,
When she was nineteen.
And Many folks know.
She is due in the spring.
I see us in the sunshine
now and again.
And the rusty swing set.
Yet sings in the wind,
It's a long way to the middle
From both ends.
Ya gotta give a little to win.
These was need to stop, no spin.
Don't give a wit how it started, back then.
Only, that there all going to end.
So, Weel be committed,all in.
Or the killing will start again..
We wish it was so simple, but then.
It's a long way to the middle
From both ends.
When yins ye lou are taken awa ,
forever gang intae eternity,
ne,er will ye see them agin,
as eternity is far frae hame.
aye maybes yell see them float by,
in a clear day o sky,
ye can talk tae them when ist yer wont,
but ne,er will ye gain a reply or song,
the kirk it says yell get tae heaven,
where ere yon maybe hidden in cloods,
beyond yer sicht an hid frae hubble ,
an its freends o similar clout.
Oh me freends Eternity is an awfy lang time,
weel beyond oor een an sicht o mine,
aye this life is unfair tae cause sic pain an despair,
tae brek oor herts in a thoosand dauds,
must be workings o hertless gauds.
sae gaither in yer airms yer kith an kin,
tae ignore them aa wid be a sin.
Lou them dearly beyond compare,
dinae mak their hert sair.
Tae hae them leave withoot yer blessing,
wid be tae lose them fur ever mair.
Mak yer peace wi them at war,
offer understauning nae matter
how faur ye hae to travel.
APM 25/01/2024
Ten thousand years
One hundred lives i've waited for my loves to be found
8 trials i've long since passed
7 more as well i've long since beaten
1 trial of love i cannot pass
But i can't lose this one anymore’
I love you my loves
So don't close me out
I can't wait another 10,000 Years
I admire chang'e in her palace on the moon
But i cannot live in her cold palace
So let me in
Let me feel thorough weel or woe i may find
My loves you've won my heart divine
Come on, place bets and roll the dice, the gambler.
A near win is twice the size, the gambler.
They say what goes around comes around.
The wheel of fate rotates, rates rise, the gambler.
You feel tonight like lady luck is smiling
on you but it does not suffice the gambler.
You want it all! The gambling house, the dealer,
the weel of fortune and the dice. The gambler’s
schemes how to be a Master of the Gambling
for a long time ago entice you, gambler…
The Master of the Gambling shrugs his shoulders:
at last, he is as well a nice old gambler,
who just has cracked the way to end this poem.
Welcome to a fool’s paradise, the gambler.
A fearsome gale tearing through Torry,
Took young Dot and Tyson away.
She met a dodger, drunk and ned as well,
Stuck for words, whit wid she say?
Now, evil wis lurkin’ aroon’ the corner,
It wis the wicked witch o’ the North East.
If young Dot wis tae survive,
She wid hae tae beat the beast!
She finally got the witch’s burberry cap,
Which wid help her get aheid.
And all the little casuals happily sang,
‘Heymin! The wicked witch is deid!’
Dot wis noo ready tae find the ‘Big Man’
Her brain wis in one mode.
Noo, a’ that Dot needed tae dae,
Wis follow the Granite brick road.
She found hersel’ back in her hoose,
Bemused at far she hud been.
Now lookin’ at some weel kent faces,
So wis this a’ a dream?
Geordie is ma brother; some say he is a hero!
Me, ah ken better an’ his rating’s close tae zero!
He likes tae hog the flair wi’ jokes oh say dreary’
Efter twenty meenits we grow a wee tadge weary.
He has a better side but it’s hidden oot o’ sight,
An’ onything he says, Ye’ve guessed, he is ayewis right!
Ah’m no sayin’ he is stoopid, that wid be unkind;
Aw he really needs is a kick up his behind.
Hooever, he’s ma brither sae ah’m gi’en’ him some flack;
Ah’m share that when he reads this he’ll gi’e me plenty back:
Ah suppose ah really like him, weel jist a tiny bit,
Even wi’ his awfy childish doonbeat wit!
Ah should stope ma ramblin’s an tell ye somethin’ guid!
It isna really true that his heed is made o’ wid;
Naw, he’s truly brilliant….when he is far awa’,
An’ talkin’ oan the telephone he’s like a babblin’ Craw.
AYE FOLKS THAT’S MA BRITHER!!!!!! An’ ah love him!
My fingers are cold.
My heart is broken.
There is just some things that i was hoping i could say to you.
Because now we're through.
And there's nothing i can do.
To get back to you.
Because they've stolen you.
And now, i lay here in tears.
Without you near i've lost control of the weel and i'm lost on this long road.
There was no more deciet.
I followed your wishes.
Only to be torn by you and heald together with butterfly stitches.
Note-It's Burns Weekend in Scotland and this is my tribute to our great bard.I will
be reciting this at a Burns Supper tonight.I hope you like it.
Our Scottish Prince, rustic rogue of rhyme.
Sainted, painted and pillored through time.
Yer cottage it stands, a tribute its true.
How the braw bonnie lassies o Ayrshire loved you.
A common man, wi a romantic notion.
Yer pen was filled wi frivilious potion.
A man o' men, wrote o' love and spite.
Blushin' girls cheeks an' satirical bite.
Scots tounge and dialect, that was straight fae the heart.
Ye wrote "A Man's A Man For A' That."
Yer poems appealling tae the worldly masses.
Yer ghost still lingers in drinkin' mens glasses.
Rabbie, the toast o' the town and the haggis addressed.
Wi' a wee dram o' whisky, we're now fully refreshed.
Yer words were like snow on a loch, stream or river.
Just a moment o' white but not lost forever.
Was a Priince, died a pauper at only thirty seven.
Yer poems are read at supper-time in heaven.
So "fair ye weel and now we'll severe."
But yer memory will stay wi' us forever
POST HALLOWEEN
I’m a talkin’ bout them trick-er-treeters last night!
Dang kids cum up on tha porch –
Cum by the bus-loads
Up on tha dang porch!
“Trick er treet!”
Them dang squealee little voices!
Don’t trust none on ‘em
While maw’s a passin’ out nuts ‘n apples ‘n candee ‘n
stuff
I’m ridin’ shotgun a sittin’ on tha porch swing
I’m talkin’ bout a genyouwine 12 gage babee!
Oh it’s not a couple extree candees i’m wurreed bout
It’s them dang Jones twins
Honriest kids ever
An ya caint tell ‘em with the masks ‘n all
Weel tha brats knowed some better ‘n ta come
beggin’ on our porch last night
but this mawrnin whin I waked up look out tha winder
At first I thunk it snowed durin’ tha night
Nope!
Twas a charmin sight
Bout fifty rolls
O' my bonie lass o' Loch Ness,
Thou art so fair.
As the rays that melt wi' the sun,
And seyth fare-thee-weel to the moon bright,
on this half night.
Bidding my darlin bonie lass, o' Loch Ness
Aye goodnight,' twere a heavenly sight.
With hair of red, eyes so blue,
I bid goodnight, adieu.
This is based on a story about David 'Deacon' Brown The Open Golf Champion of 1886 at
Musselburgh, Scotland.
Davy wis a genius
at climbin' up an' doon.
A chimney sweep o' sure repute
frae Musselburgh Toon.
He won The British Open
in 1886;
Ah'm share awbody whae wis there
thocht it wis a fix!
The Championship Officials
had a player oot o' sync.,
So they thocht o' 'Deacon' Broon,
A player whae'd played the Links.
They fund him up a chimney,
Cleanin' oot the Lum.
They washed him an' they claithed him
An' filled his achin' tum.
The course wis fu' o' champions
linin' up that day.
'Deacon' mumbled tae hissel',
"Weel ah'm jist here tae play!"
He played his gowf wi' panache
an' beat them at their game:
"Ah'm the world's best chimney sweep
an' that is NOO, ma claim tae fame!"
Copyright Robert Cartwright-Davidson February 2009
that's newly sprung in June.
O, my love is like the melody,
that's sweetly played in tune
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wit' the sun!
And I will love thee still, my dear,
while the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my love,
though' it were ten thousand mile!
no sur,
eyez cant reed
massa sez we do hem harm
ifin we coold reed
eyez jus wana sos dem roos
on da whal wood maik sens
eyez turd fo getin whoopd
not nowin y
theyz ses thur b slayvs risin
gainst theyz massas
don sees how reedin is t blaym
massa mus b ryt bout dat doe
o lawd whyz eye n chaynz
eye dun no won haum
lawd wayk mee frum dis dreem
eyez n minz swer weel neva reed
if dat be wat u be needn
no sur
eyez cant reed
(Mr. Douglas turns his back and walks away)
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