Category: Poems

The Hawthorn – Kilbirnie auld cemetery poem

Daniel 2: 21

Upon the leaf of hawthorn green appears a drop of dew, with spiders webs reflecting frost upon the bush´s hue.

And comes an Angel staff in hand, reflected in the drop, where Lord and Lady Crawford lie, with sticks and lollipops.

As the sun does take a turn, the whited ground turns green, the Angel walks towards the gate and light shines in between.

And as the dew dries for the day, a sign that autumn comes, as well as days where dew will stay till sunset has begun.

And as the Angel´s shadow moves along the back kirk wall, acid rain from steel work days the people do recall.

Her sandals bare, they leave a trace of markings in the clay, where snowdrops rise beneath her feet on snowy winter days.

And to the gate she slowly walks, her staff upon the ground, with every turn a splash of white can surely here be found.

By the sign of service times, a smaller crack appears, a line upon an ageing brow brings a grandson´s fears.

And as she leaves, our minds are changed but not filled up with fear, her coming speaks of life more meek with passing of the years.

#Poem For Our distant Cousins

Romans 8:17

In every year thats passes by, there’s friends from overseas, visiting a little town with dreams of family.

Perhaps Place castle some will say, or found in Walker Hall, perhaps a line of great descent, behind Tianna Falls.

Walking streets which long since gone, with hopes of names or face, wearily they pace around to find the slightest trace.

And when we ask about the task, the answer’s never clear, identity or Grandpa’s home or memories they hold dear.

Still there is a waiting wealth, which passed through every line, a joyful welcome and a smile to all who take the time.

And legacies of golden bowls surrendered long ago, exchanged for joy preserved in time, for future folk to know.

Heirs of joy, and stewardship still, which lasts beyond our peers, kindness, smiles remembered still throughout the passing years.

If today a search does come to wanton lonely minds, think not of watches or old clocks to search for back in time.

Instead to know their sense of joy, is shared today by all, a random act of kindness do, instead of searching halls.

For welcome, joy and happiness was theirs and ours today, there is no forgetting acts of Love which fall on minds today.

Make your mark for future lines, by random acts of good, remembered more by other folk than silver, gold or wood.

Rain at Jock’s Burn, Kibirnie

(John 5: The Pool of Bethesda)

An angel clad in white winged robes with hands upon the pool

A surge of water gushes forth, clear, transparent, cool

Children watch upon the bridge with raincoats, darkened caps

My mother calls me not to fear, the bridge’s missing slats

Like needles dropping in the stream, rain pierces to the ground

Raising thoughts in Children’ s minds with every plopping sound

And as the Angel, golf course walks, the clouds clear with his step

Revealing brighter thoughts for man with every place he treads

By Crawfurd’s castle, blue skies clear and children move away

Their raincoats filled with water still seem strange in Summer’s days

Shadows clear upon the fields and hope again appears

Within the showers, sunny glades where man has nought to fear

Long after Angels hands descend or sun upon Man’s dreams

Still the pool, it gushes forth pushing all upstream

And on the Minds of local men an Angel dares to tread

Stirring healing loving thoughts upon the dying bed.

For Paisley and it’s Places

Perhaps upon the River Cart or by its dwindling streams

We feel a heart that’s beating power without another means

A power that turns the waiting tide and waters plants and flowers

Turning students to their books in every waitng hour

A power that lights the morning dawn and dusk a gentle glow

A power that hold each swan intact as waters gently flow

A guiding light which simply “Is” with no demands on man

While preachers loudly scream and shout that all the folk are damned

A power that needs no words nor praise to move within it’s place

For it has the world for man to feel it’s gentle guiding pace

And if by chance an apple tree should spring in Barshaw Park

Or nestling feathers after flight, you see a morning lark

Look upon its shining beak or feathers black and pure

Worship not the image, mind, but the power that it endures

And when the apple tree no more, holds up it’s greenish fruit

Look toward the power in Life for all things absolute

Only the real stands up to time, with majesty and robes

All else disappears from sight, with pain and anxious throws

And so the real in everything is found not in the clay

But in the power of Life itself which opens up the day

Dwell not in things which are not real but look behind the eyes

There you find the real idea of all that Love implies

A Poem for Dalry Cemetery, Ayrshire (2019)

At Sunset. Dalry Cemetery June 2019. #northayrshire #poem #Dalry
 
O gracious peace and silence,                                                 
Where voices lose their power.                                                     
The setting sun brings darkness                                                     
To the last awaiting hours,
 
With Lords and paupers  stilled,                                             
Together till the light                                                               
Where ‘er they are in consciousness,                                           
God speed to them tonight.
 
By Biggarts’ son or Uncle John,                                                 
Youth and age does lie,                                                                 
For the wall between the old and new,                                           
Lies strong in earthly eyes.
 
But somewhere else upon the shores,                                       
Dalry does rise again,                                                               
Where no walls or  tombs pervade,                                         
Religion, class or kin,
 
And as our thoughts rise higher,                                               
Away from bricks and stone.                                                       
That new Dalry will one by one                                                 
Take us to our home.
 
There at the crossings full of folk                                               
Who long ago were ken’t.                                                         
Again the tears of union                                                       
Declares the time well spent.
 

The Rowan Tree – A Poem

This one is about the Rowan Tree which was in my Grandfather’s garden in Castle Drive, Kilbirnie It is likely still there.

I wanted the poem to catch that idea that some people  relish the shade but then complain about the darkness 🙂

In the shade of Grandpa’s house
There stood a Rowan Tree
Where my Brother tried to climb
With Rosalyn and me

Every day my Grandpa came
Admired it´s towering boughs
While we as children playing there
Saw darkened twigs and crows

Shadows hung upon his life
With towering darkened power
Yet we as children plain could see
Their withering every hour

Its leaves held back the sunshine light
Its branches stern with years
Sitting with his chair and pipe
It calmed away his fears

Yet we as children playing in sight
Saw only twigs and leaves
Revealing more of sky to us
Than he could ever see

We pointed up at shafts of light
Throughout the darkened power
Whilst he preferred the shaded glade
To pass the wakened hour

We saw sun and endless days
Upon his chair he sat
Despite the passing years it stood
The tree was sound at heart
 

Auld Simon´s Prayer – A poem for Lochwinnoch

Auld Simon is an unused Church in Lochwinnoch, Renfrewshire, Scotland


O gentle bell, which rests within the tower;

The clock is wound to guard each sleeping hour,

Upon the Johnshill Brae where birds take flight,   

O Presence, Keep us sober, safe, tonight.

O shadows long, which cast upon the gates,

Darkened thoughts of hopes deferred and hate,

Love, illuminate my thought with golden threads, 

And give me purer, higher, better paths to tread.

Of youth who drink and dance upon the tombs,

Amidst the birds as sunset hour looms,
 
Gentle Love who always knows me best,                                          Keep me here within your gentle breast.

If your old brow does gusts of snow impart 

A wintry  breeze does surely hit the heart, 

Love, show me snowdrops during that cold spell,  

And fill my ears with dear Auld Simon´s bell.

Rothesay War Memorial Poem

1.

Amid a scene in perfect green where travellers stop to rest.

Stands an angel looming down upon the corner’s breast.

Sacred rights and names forlorn she guards lest we forget.

2.

Yet somewhere upon another shore by boats and crashing waves.

Another Rothesay these men meet instead of ending days.

And in the splendid sunshine comes a group to lay a wreath, yet what memories do we have for children to bequeath?

3.

Of death and war upon the pit? Amidst the battle cries? Or angels pointing upward when we lay down our sighs.

Away from death and pity trips with fake smiles and flowers sad.

And turn to love the neighbour who needs a word so glad.

If a shadow of this place comes rolling by your mind, it serves as a reminder to give and love sublime.

 

 

 

The Waiting Hour – A Sunset in Paisley

Oh the joy of the waiting hour at sunset, upon the White Cart as she shines her yellow light to say goodnight

Another moon comes and shines on the same river, like two old men, never to meet.

The hours pass and the children play and scream, while the ghosts of the Abbey chants of the night still heard, yet unheard.

The Town Hall clock lends its eyes and chimes the 9th hour,

The young men stumble home from the pub and the old men light up their cigarettes for their walk home.

faded memories of Victorians in shaded statues, casting  long shadows and tales.

Laus Deo – it is done, and higher we are lifted.

 

 

 

Poem at Dalry Cemetery June 2019.

At Sunset. Dalry Cemetery.

O gracious peace and silence, where voices lose their power.

The setting sun brings darkness to the last awaiting hours,

With Lords and paupers  stilled, together till the light

Where ‘er they are in consciousness, God speed to them tonight.

By Biggarts’ son or Uncle John. Youth and age does lie,

For the wall between the old and new, lies strong in earthly eyes.

But somewhere else upon the shores, Dalry does rise again,

where no walls or  tombs pervade, religion, class or kin,

And as our thoughts rise higher, away from bricks and stone.

That new Dalry will one by one come to take us home.

There at the crossings full of folk who long ago were ken’t.

Again the tears of union declares the time well spent.