Thursday, 24 March 2011
There was a stick wi shite a ower it,
That drifted tae a city ower time,
An academic saw it in a pit,
And took an interest in a the grime.
He took it tae the Profs wha gasped in awe,
And commenced tae study its rustic charm,
Critically analysed a they saw,
Discovered the shite had come fae a farm.
They foond oot the stick had come fae a tree,
Had been dipped in the shite by a wee boy,
They published papers on wha he could be,
Whether the stick be a weapon or toy.
A tred tae mak ane but a became sick,
As nane could match up tae the first shite-stick.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Happy Place Trespassing.
I have a fondness for a place where nothing happens,
Only the elements make industry -
If industry should be sought.
I have a craving for a place,
Just far enough from madding crowd,
To build a fire defying chase,
No human power can move me now.
I have a longing to see my name in stone,
In the bark and shattered in the old quarry,
The places that will never change:
Within my life.
This burn, I remember, from hole in the ground.
The day, I remember, smell/sound.
All burning stick
And insects watching wind
And damning streams, throwing thoughts
And hitting dreams, missing Bullseye,
Splitting seams and
SOARing in the clouds.
A place, the bliss of being there dictates,
I’ve done things wrong, made mistakes,
While I’m aware that I have the right to be,
And I will/do not transgress.
There are some places I probably shouldn’t go,
But don’t desire to care
As the first,
My parent, serenity, hound, which owns,
The place which is dangerous,
Now and then.
I have a fondness for a place,
Where strange bodies violate
The sanctity of my singularity
And scored across the quarry wall, “Rab Jones is a Dickhead.”