Poem Blog 32 -"Poems for Sharing"

 Ode to Glendhu bothy ( for Richard *)

Far away from civilisation and the nearest road

stray voices blend together in this lonely abode

a silent plume of smoke twists on forever higher

frozen in cadence from the wayfarers fire

bothy of the seasons in the river of time

away from the rat race and the ugliness of crime

though the artist's brush paints a melancholy scene

you can see  where the pathway to peace has been

there were nights of purgatory but you loved every minute

but joy is retrospective so you were pleased that you did it

watching your fortunes change  from darkness to light

even if sleep eluded you throughout the night

the craggy hills stretched out ahead to play their hand

while the happy seals play on the fringes of sand

consoled by remoteness and divorced from reality

living testimony to how life was meant to be.

*Richard was a real character who we met at Glendhhu bothy and later outside Scourie shop. He completely radiated the spirit of Highland bothying. A real inspiration.

in the far distance...

getting nearer...

and nearer..

Glendhu Bothy - that's Richard on the chair.

Brian's boat

All summer long Brian's boat lies on the shore

the desire for mackerel impelled him to catch more

through caravan windows dotted  amongst the heather

greedy eyes beheld his return in blue july weather

but the delerium of time lurked behind the clouds

and thunderstorms would rage before the night enshrouds

gazing back at the untamed beauty of the beach

tantalisingly close yet forever out of reach

even now the north wind contours the treeless land

and waves of cobalt blue still disperse on the sand

An Tealach's castellations still gnaw against the sky

though the river of time just passed us all by

now just a mere pastiche of a time long ago

all that camaraderie is nothing more than an echo

modern families where the old ones were before

and Brian's boat resides on the shoreline no more.

Firemore beach c.1995 can you spot Brian's boat?

The mist is lifting

Go drop your anchor into the ocean deep

only in your own heart is where you will weep

at times a biting coldness may grip your skin

as you helplessly watch your own kith and kin

                                                                                       but the mist is lifting

summits come and go in a glittering shine

traversing the ridge that you thought would be fine

though time has fashioned us into what we are

the right words can soothe even the deepest scar

                                                                                        the mist is lifting

some poems might rhyme although your words might not

half idealised and the other half forgot

will the spirit of love emblazon your soul?

Will blue clear days help you reach your goal?

                                                                                       the mist is lifting.

Musings on the summit of Ben Stack

Ben Stack... so quiveringly a hill

from the distance, a mere cluster of pastoral tones

on the ground, waves crash in a neat and controlled violence

behold the early morning spring sunshine

soft warm colours clasp your hand

a stiff breeze may escort you to the well won summit

but eventually its presence will no longer be necessary

therewith a surge of colour clashed like cymbals

Ben Stack.. so dauntingly a mountain.

Distance

Like writing a letter to a long lost child

sketching a landscape so free and so wild

where the sea stretches out so cold and proud

and the lochan strewn headland cries out aloud

constantly close though they never meet each other

like a permanently estranged sister and brother

the track could well run out before the end of our days

as we dream about reaching those unfathamoble bays

when the coastline radiates its soft tinted charms

fishing boats will slumber in the sea's peaceful arms

in timeless desperation I look back once more

as the Artist touches up the peninsula's shore.

An Cànan na làr - the language of the land

A is for àlainn in the lovely Motherland

bòidheach is a beautiful lochan fringed with sand

C is for coibhneil  because the weather can be kind

its anger always passes and her clouds are silver lined

dath is the colour that clothes the hills at dawn

èisg are the fish that wait until the line's withdrawn

feamainn is the seaweed that gathers over time

giving a sweet scented air that ruffles the sublime

 my heart's in the Gàidhealtachd my heart is not here

iongantach is amazing and as free as the deer

lochans like sequins are dotted all over the moor

detached from this system like 'the old man of Storr'

mheanbh - chuileag, scourge of the Highlands so they say

how neonach or strange people should see it that way

in ògmhious that's june, they reclaim their land

hence the Highlands are free of commerce's greedy hand

P is for piòb-mhor and bagpipes reach the heart

a'rànaich means crying, you will be when they start

Ben Sgritheal is sgratheil a terrible and mighty peak

with views to die for in the wilderness you seek

T is for tuathanas, there is the odd lonely farm

lenition has softened the tone, that's why it's so calm

U is for uisge-beatha the single malt in your hand

as you reflect on the grandeur of this beautiful land.

You may have noticed there is no letter 'H' that is because in Gaelic this letter triggers 'lenition' or 'softening'  so I decided to use that to poetical effect thus adding a layer of quirkiness.

The Butterfly Man

in memory of Tim Harvey 

We agreed to meet in yesterdays sunshine

splendidly compatible and utterly composed

down at the edge of Little Scrubs Meadows

the Butterfly Man's prowess soon to be disclosed

I never knew him long but he taught me so much

he could point out many things that nobody knew

illuminating some hidden facets of nature

he knew the woods so well that he'd never walked through

but the woods are a lonely old place in winter

a shade of green seems to be forever lost

that kindly warmth has gone out of the sun

and the gentle grassy floor is gripped by the frost

like a Butterfly he had his moment of glory

now in compulsory service on some faraway shore

we will agree to meet in tomorow's sunshine

and I'll spend some time with the Butterfly Man once more.

      the Butterfly Man in action.

A brief chat with a Pigeon

"Just think for a moment, if  you Pigeons were rare

and Nightingales abounded everywhere

that friendly togetherness would surely be gone...

ok, you messed up statues but you never harmed anyone"

"you still wouldn't see Nightingales they're far too fleet

yet us Pigeons spend most of the time on our feet

we all flock together and support each other

maybe you could learn from your much maligned brother"

"a Pigeon isn't really that much different from a Dove

yet you idolize them and smother them with love

so we'll continue to strut around without a care

and I will sing these words aloud in Berkely Square!"

well, Seagulls are about as common as Pigeons - and they're more photogenic!

An t'amadan (The fool)

dedicated to ............. *

You know it's going to get harder as you grow older

always having one eye looking over your shoulder

but you still have that look in your eye and self -assured grin

though the ones that tried to help you got under your skin

you needed to be trusted by the people that you lied to

but that disgusting confidence, anyone could see through

when you lose control you'll reap the harvest you've sown

eventually ground down and all on your own

fettered to yesterdays where no solace can be found

too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around

happy with your own warped perception of reality

as the bad blood turns to stone in your cold personality

but you know the stone will take you down in the end

because you refused to repair what you promised to mend

dealt a bad hand, born in a house full of pain

now on the road to nowhere with nothing to gain.

*no-one in particular. 

Had a little help from 'Dogs' by Pink Floyd.

The Wall ;-)

Golden Flowers

If only I was an Artist

I would paint pouting blooms of golden flowers

preserving the sunshine of our youthful hours

over riding all tongues to speak to the heart

the prose of creation embedded in my art

If only I was a Composer

I would caress the petals with every note

create impressions with every bar I wrote

harmonies in vases as soft as cotton

melodies in gardens that will never be forgotten

If only I was a Poet

I could choose the right words for what I wanted to say

like chyrsanthemums in autumn that don't fade away

the moment may have passed but the memory lingers

as long as the pen remains between my fingers.

Chyrsanthemums literally translates into English as 'Golden Flowers'

For a Hypochondriac

dedicated to*

So many phantom illnesses they  come and they go

how long will they linger, it's impossible to know

it could be one thing , there again it could be another

but good Doctor Google is closer than a mother

a self diagnosis always provides the answer

a fiery sore throat has just got to be cancer

a headache causes me to lose my sense of humour

or it could be because it's a malignant brain tumour

ibuprofen might head off the imminent heart attack

but wont stop the kidney failure that's giving me a bad back

I  had to change doctor again though he wasn't a bad bloke

but he didn't understand I was heading for a stroke

I may have had covid a thousand times before

yet that persistent cough means I've got it once more

the test came back negative, that was a real blow

why don't I just cut my losses and take a placebo

winter is approaching, I can't wait until it's through

some people get colds but I always get the flu

the saying goes 'sweet is the nut but bitter is the pill'

but my wife says I'm a Hypochondriac and that's making me ill!

*no one in particular.

The Old Village Shop

A blurred rainbow hangs motionless in the silence

strains of Gaelic psalms buffet up from the waves

I visited the old village shop this morning

people come and go but the story's still the same

many ships have sailed off into the sunset

but their brightness still sparkles like pouring wine

I visited the old village shop this morning

local issues coalesce on the counter of time

innundated with nostalgia but petals soon vanish

reach your hand to the blossom before it's gone by

I walked past where the old village shop used to be

and met an old man who had the rainbow in his eyes.

Some whimsical meanderings and well hidden parallels. At the time of writing 'Mathers' shop in Durness is alive and well but blossoms go suddenly. 'Rainbow vision' is an optical malady synonymous with old age. The shop owner an enigmatic gentleman called Ronnie Mackay is now 84 years old! His beloved late wife was called Iris.

 

Moments in time (Haikus)

bonds don't just happen

friendships are melded through time

then you can trust them

misunderstandings

they disentangle themselves

then you understand

when hatred dissolves

is when you seize the moment

and peace prevails.

On Handa Island

Like a million puppets hanging in the air

plundering the depths of the ocean below

hovering like angels and swooping everywhere

then back to the cliff face with their precious cargo

faint luminosity of the distant mainland

detached from humanity it would certainly seem

alone without a care kicking up the soft sand

the embroidery of stars still softly gleam

early one spring morning at barely six o'clock

a storm peters out like a song runs out of words

an outline of a person on a far distant rock

the only human being in a universe of birds.

Handa island, now a bird sanctuary, is a curious wedge shaped island. You land on the beach, contour the land without seemingly gaining any height - but then the next thing you know, you're peering down 400ft cliffs!

Ode to Midges

Down in the bay where the air was pure and bright

in the 'simmer dim' when it doesn't get dark all night

wildflowers in the dunes bow their heads in the breeze

it's a garden of eden on highland days like these

but then the wind dropped and Abaddon broke forth free

they came up like an army, over land and over sea

in your eyes and in your ears and in your face like rain

crawling over your skin and driving you insane

please carry me away to a lonely mountain ridge

whatever the weather but just away from the midge

just then Wisdom said "why do you them despise?"

"I can discern there are things that you don't realise"

"midges deliver us from commerce's greedy grasp

hence the empty glens and coastlines that always make you gasp

they keep the Ghàidhealteachd pure and keep the mountains free

so don't disturb the midges, please.... just leave them be".

Sat listening to Schubert 

(a short prosaic essay)

What is it that makes Schubert's music so beautiful?

Is it the intervals? The melodies? The lyricism? Who knows,

maybe it will always be an enigma

yet in today's transient world of virtual reality,

is it not nice to have some tangible warmth in your heart?

Schubert was no stranger to tragedy

therein possibly lies the secret

the undertow of strained emotions are a heavenly pathos

the String Quintet was composed on his death bed

it could have been composed by angels!

like a Chinese lantern on a gossamer of ethereal mist

a Schubert melody is something very special

transporting you into a glorious place

easy to relate to and amiable

yet at the same time has the power to make time stand still

the sweetness of a perfect mountain vista

where every single blade of grass is in place

and every lochan sparkles like a silver shield

this is transposed into symphonies of sublime peace and refinement

like an iridescent bird flying into a vermillion laden sunset

but his sun set far too early

bequeathed to the ultimate tragedy of a young man in his prime

nobody is immune to tragedy

so in this minimalistic and transient world

does not  his music talk to us in a wonderful way.

Broken hearts can mend

Caught between the present and the indelible past

and the happy times that you really thought would last

joyful faces looking back over the years

whoever would have thought it would have ended in tears

all your summoned strength couldn't stop the crying

in spite of your efforts to keep on trying

on occasion the pain  might not have seemed fair

always standing on the edge of despair

isn't it sad when a child's toy gets broken

as the calming words of a Father are spoken

but then you are the one left out in the cold

as a plethora of lies gradually unfold

sometimes the weariness on your face, it shows

don't forget there's one above that knows

so take some advice from your closest friend

stand firm and walk tall, broken hearts can mend.

When

When the sun has lost the will to fight

and darkness slowly fills the night

then it will be time for us to retire

and tell our stories around the bothy fire

when the mountains  are vanquished by the mist

it's almost like they don't exist

you ask yourself are you really here

when hills with wedding gowns reappear

when the mist lifted like a stage curtain

it seems now your pathway is certain

when you open wide the bothy door

how can your heart possibly not soar!

Remembering Frank (1928 -2023)

So why was it that Frank meant so much to me?

Well my job isn't about windows but people you see

I couldn't re- write the script for a million pounds

over thirty odd years so much laughter resounds

it's an honour to mourn and even feel sad

for such a doting husband and wonderful dad

there you were rumaging through the garage of time

of old school joinery from when he was in his prime

he glided across life's dancefloor with such youthful spry

but eventually the ink just had to run dry

as we put into perspective our veils of sorrow

until we embrace Frank again in the vale of tomorrow.

Poems for sharing

I do not procure any praise

I don't need any acolades

I don't need to put my poems in a book

they're on the net if you want to have a look

I don't need any comments, well ... maybe two or three

all you have to do is love what you see

whether they get read or not I don't really care

all I ever wanted to do is share.

KTDA, Marky x.