90. March Lions (haiku)

This year, March came in
like a young lion, then left
like a roaring pride.

89. Junk

Tried to dump some junk today,
keep only special memories,
sort the strata of stuff grown big
in backs of cupboards or
spread like lava in the loft,
planned two piles: one stays,
one goes, sighed and got
stuck in. . . . . .

That dog-eared book of nursery rhymes
we must have read a thousand times,
the little threadbare teddy bear
you carried with you everywhere,
the knitted snowman, more black than white
that never ventured from your sight,
a red teapot, a pickup truck ............
each memory much too precious to give up

I'll try and dump some junk one day
but just for now, the cupboard's closed,
all safely put away.

88. Pillars

Pillars of a house
stand straight and tall
until such time when each 
stone loosens. Then only
vast empty sky remains.

87. I Fear the Lonely Child

I fear the lonely child sitting
like Jack in the corner, wary eyes
not meeting mine, stare straight
ahead seeing nothing,
has never heard the simple joys
that rhyme can bring but will
become in time the black sheep.

86. Pub Quiz (haiku)

First Past the Post - the
name we chose for our team - but
sadly, we were not.

85. Teaspoons and Single Socks (cinquain)

There is
a secret place
somewhere in the world where
teaspoons and single socks meet up
to die.

84. Calvary

When you were born, God closed his eyes
and the sleekit serpent's seed shot straight
into a mind, still torn, leaving the face of an angel,
but I stand here at the cross's base, like Mary,
while my soul mourns, forever looking upward.

83. Curlew's Cry (cinquain)

No sound
as sorrowful,
mournful, poignant, can stir
the heart like the ancient cry of
curlews

82. Horse Power

Minds like rooms of clockwork toys
with no off switch, soothed at the sight
of evening sun on dappled flanks

Hearts still racing past the finish
lines, quietened by sounds of
munched hay on winter evenings

Veins clogged with caffeine thick
in the blood, cleared by whickered
greetings at known footsteps

81. A Crofting Childhood

Hands cracked like old leather
spent hours scrubbing stains from
wee Rhuraidh's night terror, yellowing

sheets hanging limp in still air, like stuck sails
in doldrums.  Last day, the new born lamb lay
unmoving on mangled legs, empty crowpicked eyes

stared up, watched his father strike
the final blow.  Its gaze followed while he slept,
slipping quiet into dreams till it fled from

the screams as the door banged open:
'The lad wants tae toughen up!'then slammed
shut, but he heard his mother's silent cries

through black midnight light, felt the soft touch
of her warm hand, making the dry bed
gently, just as she always did.


 

80. Layers

It took them just five days to put
his home up for sale, still fresh from his death
he would have turned in his grave
had he not been cremated.

His comfy brown armchair traces of Brylcream
still visible was first in the skip, then
three boxes of Readers' Digest and a
stamp collection, already judged of no value.

A layered collage of life, now discarded,
deemed unfit even for jumble, just waiting,
not for the bus and the pint
but for the long road out to landfill.

79. Don't Want To Be Here

Don't want to be here among those
who want to be somewhere else,
who wear uniforms of sullen sneers
practised to perfection and every other
word that's heard is 'fuck'

Don't want to be hear in rooms with
window pane smears of grease and grime
where chewing gum beds itself in carpets
or lies in wait for unsuspecting fingers
to find its sticky lumps beneath the tables

Don't want to be here where the whole of
the day is governed by bells, no time to
catch breath or look out to the playground
as empty crisp packets blow across tarmac
in the afternoon's gentle breeze.

78. Winter's Final Storm

At first the heavy rain, taunted
and whipped to a frenzy by a
jeering wind. Next, like

Beowulf and Grendal, intent on
each other's deaths, locked in a
battle that raged all night, came dawn's

first light and brought a peaceful stillness,
a scene more Heorot than Urquhart.
Trees, their limbs splintered and gashed,

torn and ripped from torsos, yet still upright,
while others uprooted in shameful submission
lay face down in the river, stripped

of branches whose many leaves
now floated downstream to seek out
quiet sanctuary in nearby Borlum Bay.

77. Jill (Happy belated Birthday)

Jewels are far less precious
In her opinion, than novels or poems,
Loves films so much that she
Lives more in Eden Court than home.

76. Poozies (haiku)

Tonight, village hall,
seats full, all waiting to hear
voices of angels.

75. Moniack Mhor

On this Mothering Sunday

don’t send me a bouquet of flowers

bought with a quick click of the mouse

cellophane wrapped, ribbons tied by hands

I’ll never know; whose blooms you’ll never see

walk with me instead, to Moniack Mhor, there

we’ll wait for morning sun to stir, feel it melt

the million sequins left by hoar frost,

listen to birds building nests in hedges,

watch distant sheep crop withered grass,

just a few precious hours, snatched from busy lives,

sharing  our silence

witnessing the birth of a new Spring.

74. Mother's Day (haiku)

Mother's Day, but no
flowers on hospital wards,
take them home - sorry!

73. First Lesson

Loud screams in the playground as sniggering boys
lift the skirts of giggling girls,
an innocent childhood game, for now,

but those who seek shelter behind locked toilet doors,
who quake at things still unknown
learn the first lesson of unquiet lives.

72. Independence

Grey suited smiles cannot disguise
the steel reserve behind the eyes
of last minute promises scattered like breadcrumbs
to clipped winged crows who care of little else
but feathering their own nests,
or brainless pheasants wandering willingly
towards the loaded gun.

Take heart,, for even now new eggs have hatched
whose fledglings will soar up towards tree tops
where nothing will impede the clearest view.

71. Crying (cinquain)

She stands
as the man whom
she loved for twenty years
turns and walks away, leaving her
crying.

70. With the stroke of a pen (cinquain)

Cancelled
without warning,
hours spent writing, drafting,
seeking to capture perfect prose.
Gutted!

69. Ladies who......

One day, each month on Wednesdays, the ladies meet in town
Catching up on all the gossip, they laugh, they smile, they frown,
They drink their decaf lattes, eat cake on pretty plates,
They save a chair for Majorie who always comes in late.

Did you hear poor Jessie's husband has had another stroke?
Oh, that's a shame.  He's such a lovely, quiet bloke.
She'll find it hard to get around, she never learnt to drive,
But looking on the bright side, at least he's still alive.

And what about, Nell's Natalie, expecting number four?
Good Lord, so soon, I bet Nell hopes she'll not have anymore.
Her oldest boy is turning out to be a wicked little lad,
That comes as no surprise at all, his dad was always bad.

Don't turn around, there's Annie Smith, my word she's piled on weight,
What does she look like in that dress, it looks a proper state,
Funny how her sister has always been so thin,
Well, that's because she never eats, she much prefers the gin.

Guess what?  Sue's joined a writing class, she's writing every day,
She said she was inspired reading '50 Shades of Grey'
I bet it won't contain one thing that is remotely rude
She always seems an upright, dowdy, priggish sort of prude.

Oh, here she comes, it's Majorie, Yoo Hoo, we're over here!
Pity her expression always seems to make her sneer,
She's looking awful peeky, must be something that she ate,
It's good to see you Majorie, of course you're not too late.

68. Spring Day Cinquain

Spring day
a ewe crops grass,
nearby, her lamb new born
eyes crow picked, empty, alone, lies
bleating.

67. Rehearsal

Cheery paramedic banter over
on this dreich March morning, me
following the ambulance,

a solitary procession of one
passing the 'Crem.’ Is this the real thing or
a dress rehearsal for what is to come?

By the hospital, I brake as the lights
turn red.  They were green for you,
continue straight ahead.

66. Dragons

It is always worse at night,
holding my breath while you struggle for yours,
listening for dragons, sensing they are near,
just out of sight

they know where you are,
already their fiery smoke lies deep in your lungs,
they have no need to rush, they always win the fight.

At the first hint of morning light, I make you tea,
passing the shaky mug
I see from the fear in your eyes it has become clear
just watching and waiting
you know they are here.

65. Fanfare

For much of the night your lungs crackled like burning leaves,
the sound crept along the hall to the spare room
where I slept, or tried to, anyway.

Wide awake in that pre-dawn dark, I heard
those tinder dry coughs, a thick and unyielding fanfare
poised to prick the peace of this new day.

64. JESTER R.I.P

Journey over for now on
Earth, but his memory will
Stay bright like a light in your heart
Till the time you will be together
Evermore. Jester and his mares
Running free across the Bridge    

63. Heron

The air held a real chill that morning,
not that this worried the dog as we wandered
well trodden tracks through the woods,

around a bend, a large bird, a heron, came in view
sharing our path, it moved like a stiff old man,
incongruous, yet somehow natural too.  I called the dog

and followed a few strides, expecting it to fly
but purposefully it strode ahead; for instincts knew
to stop meant danger.  I wasn't sure quite what to do at first.

Much later, I retraced the route, along with the man
in the charity van, we searched for the haystack's needle,
the four-leafed clover on the forest floor,

till up ahead, hunched quiet against a tree,
as if it always knew the calvalry would come:
a quick brief try at flight, then gave in willingly.

Tucked under an arm, his verdict 'weak and thin',
thanked for my help, I watched the heron carried away.
The next day snow lay thickly, anyway.

62. Duplicity

She stares into the mirror
Speaks the words that all men fear,
'Does my bum look big in this?'
He smiles, 'Of course not, dear.'

His mother cooked a birthday meal,
The beef was hard to chew,
Then at the door, a kiss goodbye,
'Delicious meal, thank you.'

Each Christmas Eve, all parents warn
Their kids to stop the noise
'Cos Santa Claus is watching you
And won't bring any toys.'

When Dad went in the old folks' home
Mum unpacked the case in his room
Then patted his hand as she helped him to bed
'Don't worry, you'll be back home soon.'

61. Sheep Sculpture

That old white sink lay in Duncan's field for decades,

set at ground level, it quenched the thirst of many passing beast

not so, a poor sad ewe last winter, trapped hours

in its icy water, her bleating silenced by snow,

when lifted out, the fleece formed a perfect cuboid,

only the dead head stared up towards the sky.