Bedtime Banter

Always time for a wee Scots verse....the Bairns may be bigger now but come bedtime it'll be the same old story....

Bedtime Banter

Haw’ weans, yer startin’ tae nip ma heid,
Ye’ve hid yer tea, it’s time fir beid,
A’ ken that sisters like tae blether
But ye’ve goat yer maw at end o’ thether,.

Yer day’s bin braw, an’ yer homework’s swanky,
Yer nursery jumper’s come back manky,
A’ve let ye paint an’ get aw’ mingin’,
Splash in mud til yer claes were wringin’.

But noo it’s late an’ ye need yer kip,
An’ dinnae gie’s nae mair o’yer lip.
A’ get it, ye hid fun in the snaw,
But ye besoms ar’ drivin me up the wa’.

Aye, thir’s nae twa lassies could be mair bonny,
An’ sangs an’ hugs, a’ve gie’d ye monie,
But oan toberin’ ye, am startin tae swither,
A ask ye girls – dae ye no love yer mither???

Nae mair excuse aboot needin tae pee,
Ye ken, am gaspin’ fir some tea.
Noo, cuddle doon, waarm unner yer fleece,
Jist haud yer wheesht, an’ gie us peace!

Forest Song

Forest Song

If we'd but time to wander through,
The forests of our minds anew,
What fairytales would there unfold?
What secrets of our souls be told?

In whispered rustles mighty trees
May yet enchant their erstwhile leaves,
To tempt us from our narrow paths,
Lead us to glades where danger laughs

At timid eyes which dare to glance,
See hidden truths amid the dance
Which heaves and sighs and calls us on,
While we play deaf to nature's song.

For in that wood of soul-filled spires,
Which stretch and bend with sheaved desires,
Are many trees of light and hue,
No cloned or man-made avenue

Can capture hearts transformed with seasons,
Respecting not the need for reasons
To either bloom, or fall in turn,
Be evergreen, or yearly burn,

And yet be all, though none complete,
To choose one branch would yet defeat                                
Our spirits flight from soaring high,

Or laying still to watch the sky,

That filled with stars, yet loves the day,
Adores its rest but longs to play
In undergrowth of Autumn fruits,
Whose fallen jewels will send spring's shoots

To live again, though dreams be broken,
Hopes be drowned by strorms which soaken
Every wish we'd see come true.
We'll drink their power, and hence, renew

Sonnet No.11 - Not the beginning but the start of something new....

As someone who can remember typing up my first poems on a BBC Basic and saving them onto a 30 minute cassette tape that made pig squealing noises every time you wanted to load it....I reckon, bringing them all together 3 decades later, might be a wee bit overdue.

Obviously I have no idea where those early poems are but if I could find them, I would imagine that they would tell me as much about that time in my life as all those I am lucky enough to have scraps of, from my teens, through to the present time.

It took me a long time to realise not to throw away the ones I think are rubbish, because it isn't really the point whether they are any good or not. Poems are like a picture of the soul at that moment, a selfie of words, #nofilter

Of course, they are most valuable with the context of events and relationships. Sometimes that is very obvious given the date but sometimes not and probably there will be a few where I won't be telling!  Good poetry should stand on its own too however (which is why some of them, I am certainly not claiming as masterpieces!!!)

Where to start though?

The day I proved my English Lecturers wrong and they did the same in return. The challenge of being told I was not disciplined enough to conquer the sonnet form and this was why I hated them. Which obviously meant proving my lecturers wrong by entering the university sonnet competition and winning. Foolishly as it turned out because I had to fall in love with the form to truly "get it" and now I shall forever be drawn to writing sonnets in my head on a train, on my bike, in the shower, doing the dishes.....it's a curse....but this was the very first one and it will always be my favourite.

Sonnet No. 11

The joy which stops the battered drum that beats,

And deafens time with eyes that wash with truth,

Whose secret touch endures through winter’s sleet,

And warms forbidden sorrow, yet remains to me aloof.

These memories we reap from seeds of feelings cast,

In the fires of our dwelling, in those confines when we part,

And tastes the oak age breath of moments past,

That singe my lowland lips, but burn my highland heart.

Leave not my friend, but stay a while and dare,

Though guilt may later pierce and turn a wound so deep,

Abandon fear and reason in instants that we share,

That longings other than regret should cause my wants to weep.

So live, and in thy looks, live free.

That I may see your soul, and live in thee.