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
Tag: poem
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
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
Kilbirnie & Beyond 