MY COUNTRY by Ian Thomson

The broken walls of peasants’ homes
Stand silent in mute witness here.
The land where Wallace once disdained
The power of English sword and spear.

Yet, safe above those burnt-out homes,
And always keen to bend the knee,
The feudal Lord is Scotland’s shame,
A turn-coat, always first to flee.

They think they are like ancient Gods,
But they will find that when it matters
A right arm that can wield a sword.
Has more strength than a tongue that flatters.

When I dance,
its with the butterfly
fluttering in
the morning air
zig-zagging with the music of the dawn.

When I laugh,
it's with the dead leaves
gliding in
the Harmattan
as they rustle and frolic in a flock.

When I sing,
it's with the songbird
whistling through
the frigid night
of things that move his little heart.

But when I cry, I cry alone,
and wait until,
the clouds give way,
and the butterfly, songbird, leaves
come out to play.

Are we between two facing mirrors
looking left then looking right
at infinite decreasing images
formed by bounced reflected light?

But we can only look one way
as we wave and watch reflections mimic
having no way to be sure
if other ones show the same gimmick

And even in the one direction
the processions cannot all be seen
we can't truly see them all at once
are all those eyes which I see green?

The fact that
the poetic acumen
I have or had,
has been milked
by none less than Jess....
I must confess

else I would have
gone away
In the midst of snowy forests to stay
and
from such lovely poets
kept away.

But the very fact
you read me
kick me
and
love me

''I love it too ''

Except , when you abuse
then alone I accuse
that's not my muse

The Final Hunt

Elemental elderberry drooping from its vine
thrives along a rock wall near the wood
habitat for fat, old turkeys, deer and porcupine
and sundry birds who think it very good

here I sit with trusty weapon nestled in my lap
watching every rustle of the trees
hoping that the autumn sunshine won’t bring on a nap
or that I do not cough or start to sneeze

serenade
an ocean of depth
a cold so high
the curve is seen
the stark blue cleft
twixt heaven and here

the tiny crystalline
fortunes fall
weaving minuet
forecast in this silent
hall

blaze night lamps
shine your quiet gaze
your gauzy hot chimney
vents

slumber in quilts
fortunate dreams
stirring rem waltzes
quartet conversation

beneath your harsh
starry gaze
we plan
visions
and quests
wrapped in our
skins of selves
come daybreak

Alcohol removes inhibitions
makes one a fool
and that's great.

Cocaine she don't lie,
you can control the world.

Heroin ends all pain
and makes all things possible

Ecstasy is chemical love,
all night
dancing and fucking

Reality is for people who can't handle drugs.

Did I forget hallucinogens?
No.
They are for the truly brave or stupid.

Are you my guardian angel,
looking over my shoulder
every now and then,
reading,
watching,
paying close attention,
all in silence?

Are you the wind that blows
round me when I cry,
are those your fingers
rubbing on my skin,
and is that whistling sound
your breathing?

Are you just my frantic mind;
the usual visions
of solitude; ghosts
that come to lie by me
at night, never speaking,
only staring?

Are you reading
as I write?

I am not a poet
just fool around with bits
from my Do-it-Yourself kit
going hammer and tongs
in a fit of fantasy
driving me nuts
till a clap of thunder
bolts through the labyrinths
of grey folds and glitches
screwing up
what I'd thought to be a creation
now clouded in the smoke of absurdity
till I rise from the ashes
like Sphinx
back to my muse
in fool's paradise

Sometimes a dream makes one reflect
the inner conscience one does suspect,
I wonder what dreams want to convey,
we dream in our own way

there is no coherence
nor a foreplay,
dreams only us sway,
if such be the manner of dreams,
why suddenly we awake to scream,

in the darker alleys and crevices of mind
we leave all memories far behind
then as we awake and ponder
what dream was conveying we wonder