poem – Kilbirnie, Local History and Cultural Things

The Bing, Fudstone, Kilbirnie (a poem)

I couldn’t resist publishing this again, it’s my poem about the “Bing” which was a huge amount of debris that sat as a mound at the corner or Place View and Newhouse Drive, Kilbirnie before it was converted into a small playpark for kids around 1983 or 1984.

In Scottish terminology, a “Bing” refers to a large pile or heap of waste material, especially the waste rock and debris piled up in the process of mining, such as coal mining. These Bings are remnants of the industrial era, particularly in Scotland’s coal mining regions, where they were created from the spoil that was brought to the surface during the mining process. Over time, some of these Bings have become landmarks or have been reclaimed for various uses, while others still dominate parts of the Scottish landscape.

If Kilbirnie Were a Harp…

If Kilbirnie were a harp with strings
I'd surely sweep a strain,
An everlasting melody
Which no man could restrain


I'd write a song of thanksgiving
Of peace and love and cheer
To bless the town with all its woes
Bring pleasure to their ears


I'd play the song on Knoxville road
And at the Walker Hall
I'd play it at the Labour club
While drunkards take their fall


I'd play the harp so silently
For those who hate the sound
To aid them out of hopelessness
To turn their lives around


I'd sweep a strain of sad refrain
At steel works passing by
I'd touch upon a melody
And older folks would cry


I'd play it softly at the match
While folks would cheer their team
And move along the park so long
To watch the Garnock stream


I'd play the harp across the tracks
As cyclists speed me by
I'd play and wait at graveyard's gates
For mourners with their sighs


I'd play it at the Garnock's heart
Right up at Jacob's Well,
where no one goes to see it flow
Or care to even tell


I'd play a tune right at the school
The Children would be pleased
I'd pass the harp to little ones
To hold upon their knees


So to the town with all my sounds
And everlasting strains
I leave the harp right at the cross
For others who remain


To strain their sounds of happiness
And hope for all the town
To watch it grow with sadness no!
As an everlasting crown.

Poem: The Bing, Kilbirnie

The bing was a huge mound of cement and gravel where kids climbed on the corner of Place View and Newhouse Drive. It was converted into a playpark in the mid 80s.


Oh the years upon the bing 
with cousin Margaret children played
climbing up with all our power
by Newhouse drive where people stayed

Amid the thorns and grey cement 
there seemed a moment, time well spent
and sliding down the gravel slope 
I skinned my knees without a hope

My grannie waiting at the door
with borax, plasters by the score

O the hills we thought were steep
when now in older lives we keep

Mountains slopes upon our minds
perhaps a bing of different kind
climbing o’er our darker thoughts 
just like the thistles we did trod

Lessons from the bing well learnt
of my granny’s soothing balm
o how that Love returns to me
a
nd brings with it a sense of calm

And behind the trees sat Warrior’s bing 
perhaps a sign of future years
with bigger slope and hills to climb
amid the darker fading years

Poem: Snow in Paisley

And comes a pure white blanket laid
around the river Cart
Across the darkened thoughts of man
a Love which does impart

And o´er the bogs and swamps there´s ice
up to the Abbey door
A voice says “Man with all your cares
be still for just an hour”

The darkened views of waning health,
exchanged for winter cheer
The snow reflects a gentle calm
upon the town so dear

And on the braes the deer are seen
walking proudly by
For no man can touch their safety now
upon their mountain high

Upon the tombs of rested men
lies layers of icy sense
Reflecting that the One great Mind
preserves their innocence

LIlac – A Poem

Last night I dreamt of Lilac buds
Upon the Garnock Stream
amid the thorns and briars thick
a purple colour beamed

I thought about the folk who came
and chanced upon this sight
perhaps ancestors,long since gone
who left it burning bright

Perhaps a bird did carry it
from far and distant lands
or from a child´s hands it fell
and grew to proudly stand

Or from Place Castle seeds did blow
across the glade and vine
to where the lovers meet in quiet
with bodies deep entwined

From where before the lilac came
no man knows for sure
cemetery or Moorpark House
or from the Fairlie Moor

So when you come and chance upon
the purple lilac hue
Give a thought from whence it came
Ancestors before you

Snow in Paisley December 2020

And comes a pure white blanket laid

around the river Cart

Across the darkened thoughts of man

a Love which does impart

And o´er the bogs and swamps there´s ice

up to the Abbey door

A voice says “Man with all your cares

be still for just an hour”

The darkened views of waning health,

exchanged for winter cheer

The snow reflects a gentle calm

upon the town so dear

And on the braes the deer are seen

walking proudly by

For no man can touch their safety now

upon their mountain high

Upon the tombs of rested men

lies layers of icy sense

Reflecting that the One great Mind

preserves their innocence

Calling Freedom – A Poem for Scottish Independence

Notice how strongly the fire begins to burn, fed by the air of Freedom
Who has ever fought against our Freedom and won?
See how it burns away bad opinions, and the water of our burns flood
For our betterment, our blood and our places, the water rises.

See the fire and water rise
Hear the winds of our mountains roar
See how they come to take their own, calling for us to stay faithful
Do not stem the water or extinguish the fire
Leave our land’s trees and its streams and it´s fires
To call Freedom, the voice carried in the wind

The courageous gun and sword laid down before our enemies
Shining and moving in museums of a time long ago
Quaking and shaking of cannons in castles
Water and fire is what defends us now, ancestral whispers, Fed by Freedom´s breath of air

See the fire and water rise
Hear the winds of our mountains roar
See how they come, to take their own, calling for us to stay faithful
Do not stem the water or extinguish the fire
Let our land’s trees and its streams and it´s fires, be,
To call Freedom, the voice carried in the wind

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.

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