Transition

When we linger on the crest of a wave.
An ocean of water courses beneath you.

A crash on the beach is inevitable.
Sand on the edge of the land.

The brush above the cliffs.
The vista that spreads before you.

On to the hills that become mountains.
The sky is the limit they say, but not for long.

Fly high, through the clouds and onwards.
Your spirit free, your soul expanded.

Encompass the world.
The Universe will follow.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The Whole

Mixed I am
Together I'm not
Split apart
In union I aspire

To flow into the universe
Without which keeps us
In check and constrained
We Nova, in Supreme knowledge.

Starlight binds us
Matter frees us
Gravity keeps us sober
In Sun we indulge.

To be burnt by knowledge
Yet be dulled by distance
In the dark places of matter
Behind the brightness.

Life forever after
Death we never grasp at
Existence hard to prove
We kick our shoes.

Arise

I spiral down
Towards the ground
There I lie sprawled
In the dirt.

A glimmer of hope
Sparks of possibility
Low horizon elevates
From here it only rises

There is a glimmer
Hope, springs eternal
My eyes may open
On golden shores.

Address to a Haggis

Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad stow a sow,
Or fricasee was mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! See him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware,
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Loch Lomond pictures across water

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

In Waiting

 

Light shimmers through a broken window
Shards sparkle on the the floor below
Jagged points of harsh light reflected
A mirror to the day.

My life may be on standby
Awaiting things that may
Its possible it is coming
A better way to see the day

A dark place there will always be
A place to cower and shiver
The light will displace the dark
Its brightness chasing dark eddies away

For now there is ghosting
But not of witching hour kind
My world will be exorcised
When corneal has grafted hard.

Ducks on ice

Taken today, on my little excursion to Balloch, Loch Lomond was frozen still and I snapped these two love ducks :-)


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad