The Kintyre Forum Poem ( First line)

[ionnsaigh]

Smell smoke acrid, catching yer lungs,
Lines of what, dressed in black,
Beating the kids, the kids back.

[ionnsaigh]

Stop, search the Black boy,
A hundred times a day,
The wooly hoody crew,
Black bloody beaten by,
Big brutal - the White screw.

[ionnsaigh]

Uprisings so few and far between,
Rare creatures, delicate visually striking,
Tender to a troubled mind,
Sparking hope, pushes fear,
Deep down from hence it came,
That long long winter, then the spark,
Shoots bang bang - in the salty Earth,
When sea's of Daffodils - replace the white of snow,

Things revolve - universal law,
It's what happens - in between,
For nothing can, repeat itself,
For there's nothing in between,
The face tells time, tic toc tic,
Through spring and cog, click clog click,
Should one be a master, the other dog,
Or shiny light - through thick fog.

[ionnsaigh]

The boy stood on the burning deck,
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[ionnsaigh]

The boy stood on the burning deck,
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Can awe Irn Bru an a Provi check,

[A Horse called Juan Face]

I stare at your photo from yesterday
Take me back to that distant place
Back where the river runs through the sun
And all our fears could be overcome

I wish I could sleep once more in the golden shine
And jump again from those vagrant heights
But I know that dream is sold forever
Like the secret past of a forgotten lover

I'll follow the waves out to the day
When whatever I thought I'd lost is replaced
When I can sit alone within her palms
And my skin is cooled by river spray

I listen to sounds I cannot hear
Flashes of places I can never be
Friends and victims all from the past
A movie scene soon to be recast

Nostaligia weans me from turgid gloom
Dependable, as solid as the womb
Hoping, drifting, so indeterminate
I can't trust the severed hands of fate.

[ionnsaigh]

The seed sown, secure in the rich brown soil,
Tucked away tidy, you await to burst forth,
To flower, atop the green tender shoot,
A golden crown dazzles, in bright morning sun.

Rich the harvest gathered, from the sweat of labour,
Knowledge and skill combine, twins of toil,
Taking two to tango, above this fragile earth,
Singing sweetly, amidst the ears o corn.

[ionnsaigh]

Lungs sticky, secretes,
Sticky yellow green mucus,
Pant gasp wheeze, fight for air,
Sucking sapping, deflates drowns,
Bronchial tube, tired and torn,
Body broken, bent and worn.

[ionnsaigh]

Bang bang, forget your vote,
Say goodbye to pencil,
The booth and card,
Counting votes one two three,
Kalashnikov upon my knee,
The bringer of Democracy.

[ionnsaigh]

Caked and cracked this broken Earth,
Baked Brown, brittle brush bush,
Heat hot, and scorching Sun,
Stand in shadows of Sirte
Without a hat, an long sleeved shirt..........

[ionnsaigh]

UK spy, the private eye,
Gaddafi sends him oranges,
One whole box, for one whole man,
Equates the cost of a tyrant,
MI6 or was it 5, or even number 10,
Who penned the thanks, for a thousand francs,
The cost of doing dirty.

[A Horse called Juan Face]

You choose the one that doesn't exist
As it's all you're strong enough for
Let him crumble between your fingers
Watch him drop through holes in the floor
He'll disappear when you need him most
But the blessed few still look down on you
Wave their gifts right in your face
And all the while you loved no less

Wrestle with your deities, bring them to the ground
There is always a pocket you can keep them in

All altars around the world are burning
Through the misuse and idolatry
Decay and yearning come together
Now you lean on wasted love

Fondle me with your hopeless soul
Worship me on broken knees
But don't be surprised when I let you down
Faith won't help when I'm drained away

[EMDEE]

The Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie

A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,
Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank;
An' set weel down a shapely shank,
As e'er tread yird;
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mear;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
An' fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting wi' your minnie:
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An' wintle like a saumont coble,
That day, ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far, behin'!

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh
An' tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollowm
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
In guid March-weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.

Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith an' power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,
An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer:
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep,
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a',
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

An' think na', my auld trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin,
An' thy auld days may end in starvin;
For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

[Martin]

....

[four eyes]

some awful poetry here people!