Tag: poetry

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.

Continue reading “The Bing, Fudstone, Kilbirnie (a poem)”

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.

Poem for #Kilbirnie

Perhaps nearby the Walker Hall or up at Jacob´s well

a random act of kindness comes from strangers who can tell?

Perhaps a gentle smile when all is grey and bland

A man in Tesco car park, who gives a helping hand?

The face of God is ne´er seen by looking to the sky

or pleading with an unseen God to ask the question “why”

But in the smaller random acts, of hope and gentle charm

Music springs from little things which keep us from all harm

And if by chance we cannot see the goodness in Schoolwynd

Let us play the Harp we think is somehow left behind

From Cochrane Street to  Loadingbank it doesn´t take a while

to offer random kindness acts or give a sincere smile

He does not see the cries and woes of bitter words well meant

He does not know the mental wounds of times much better spent

He knows only Peace and Love and wholeness of our Soul

Far above the human clouds where Man is free to Go

In Glasgow Street or Ladeside Vale, perhaps in Dalry Road

A Mind can freely choose to live in  mental sweet abode

Far above the darting arrows, foes and kin at war

There is a place, another Mind for mankind to explore

Found in silence, ne´er in hate, a Harp string sound does come

Taking man to far above from words and human glum

If Angel´s are His thoughts indeed of swirling pools of Love

Let them take us anytime to consciousness above.

In silence comes the lyre harp of goodness Peace and Love

A state of mind but Heaven is, so take yourself above

To where no siblings voices fight or hatred´s idle dreams

Free yourself from earthly ties however fair they seem

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.

 

 

 

Poem for Arran and the Holy Isle

Oh draw near, Great Love Divine,  and sooth my waiting mind.

Whiting Bay and Holy Isle, surely all are thine, within my heart appears the long forgotten saints.

Passing holy hours, like a tired monk I wait to find you in the maze of liturgies and pathways.

My naked head does burn, like earthly passions turn, to a higher calling, to vistas set eternal.

With a yearning voice so strong, I turn to what I long, to find my peace in thee.

May the mountains of the isles teach me humility of heart, to see beyond the peaks of shortcomngs to higher views of Love.

The sweeping vistas of Love, higher than the highest peak, swirling winds appear.

The joy of meeting departed ones, to commune again on the shores of thine Isles, I wait, I come.

 

 

#kilbirnie #poem #northayrshire #scotland

 

If kilbirnie was 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.

A Poem for Paisley

The Threads of Paisley

If all the threads that Paisley made were found again one day

I’d hang them in the sky with Love to take away the grey

Upon the gold I’d write a tale of stories from our past

About the folk we´ve lost in time that’s moved away so fast.

Upon the red I’d see the war and all the men who died

I’d write the names of all their wives whose tears we left behind

Upon the Abbey darkened threads of blackened thoughts and times

A bygone age of killing folk for witchcraft and false crimes.

Threads of blue I’d give to schools, to teach them peace and Love

By leaving parts of history, while rainbows hang above

Upon the green, the Irish woe, migration, war and fear

While London pushes migrants out with hatred causing tears.

Upon the white I’d ask the kids to write their stories clear

To fill the sky with hopes and dreams of music for our ears

Upon this richest tapestry I’d paint a heart and crown

To show the world the triumphs of dear Paisley, my sweet town.