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Poetry


Malcolm
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Found this in an auld book, tis the end of a storey of two yunguns who investigate a mouse hole, the story is called "A Dastardly Deed"

 

"Thy wee-bit housie, too in ruin!

It's silly Wa's the win's are strewin'!

An naething. now, to big a new ane,

O' fraggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin'

Baith snell an'keen!"

 

By W. Moffatt

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  • 2 weeks later...
Guest Anonymous

Twinty Ten

 

Da years grind by an we grow auld,

wir boadies weaken an geeng twa fauld,

we loss wir will ta haad wir pairt,

upö da steid o da Loard’s guid aert.

 

Bit trowe da crubbit start we hae,

ta glisk da boanie licht o day,

dir’s aye a tocht dat keeps wis gyain,

dat we’ll see igyen wir ain hamelaand.

 

Ta stand igyen upö da isles,

dat we hed left sae mony miles,

ta feel igyen da cauld saat air.

toosle trowe wir auld grey hair.

 

Ta see da sichts dat we haad dear,

wi wir ain eyes sae veev an cleer,

ta stand upö wir ain banks broo,

an ken wir hame in Shetlan noo.

 

Ta meet da freends we’d left sae lang,

ta hear igyen a weel kent sang,

ta draw a sillock fae da steen,

an sook a reestit mutton been.

 

Da tochts ir mony trow da mind,

o a sowel awa fae lang sin syne,

So draw doon da fiddle, inveet wis ben,

Wir cum fir hamefarin twinty ten.

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  • 4 weeks later...

Here's one from yester-year.

 

Although the characters and schedule may have changed somewhat, my sentiment remains unscathed.

 

 

Every Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and every Friday night,

I set aside a half an hour to dedicate to s***e,

to share in the tormented lives, of Vera, Liz and Jim,

I fasten on my blinkers and I join the living grim.

 

When the half an hour is over and reality befalls,

I suffer soap withdrawals and go climbing up the walls,

when priorities star crumbling and I haven't time to speak,

then I know that I'm addicted to Bore-a-nation Street.

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And on this day

 

The Soldiers At Lauro

 

 

Young are our dead

Like babies they lie

The wombs they blest once

Not healed dry

And yet - too soon

Into each space

A cold earth falls

On colder face.

Quite still they lie

These fresh-cut reeds

Clutched in earth

Like winter seeds

But they will not bloom

When called by spring

To burst with leaf

And blossoming

They sleep on

In silent dust

As crosses rot

And helmets rust.

 

milligan

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  • 3 weeks later...
Guest Anonymous
^ ^ ^

Wishes gratified might bring a speedier end.....but most enjoyable.

:lol: :lol:

I think most folk wish 'my end' would be speedier,, but I've always been a 'slow ass' :lol:

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