In A Cloud Of Great Unknowing

pyroclastic_flow

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Fell ashes, in a cloud of great unknowing,

Flaken debris settled where it touched,

Seared the skin and edified the temples,

Encased, engulfed the living truth in dust,

Magmatised the mantle in a grey shroud,

Displayed treasures, lost in hearths of stone,

Embers died, the light, a distant mem’ry,

Crushed by mortar, pestled into bone.

Fell ashes, in a cloud of great unknowing,

From the heavens, from the centre, east and west,

Built and buried, bona fide, forgotten,

Climactic, pyrrhic victory, at best.

Excavations, earth’s enduring history,

Discovered worlds, through ages’ hidden signs,

By life and death, revealed, in ashes fallen,

Cloud of great unknowing writes the times.

 

Paul’s wonderful poem, Imagining Atlantis, set me off on one.

Optical Fusion

nucleus-178992-400-314

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pensive waits and wonders

worried

weary

ruminating

rapt in broody thought

engrossed in melancholy

solemn

dreary

contemplating dots

that drift a lot

focus clears the haze

the woolly

blurry

sharpens to a point

the nucleus

anchors indistinct

from smoky shadows

clarifies to crux

the nebulous

elemental fusion

quite disarming

mists of time

and space

in clouded brain

explosive

in the focus

from the pensive

optic absolutes

now relative again

Aw, Rabbie

Later today, I’ll be heading, with my better half, to Burns’ country, to meet up with some old friends and celebrate a Burns’ Supper. The invite included instructions to prepare a song or poem for the company. I decided to pen my own ode to Burns.

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Aw, Rabbie, did ye know ye wid be famous

An’ aw ye did and said wid come tae be

The talk ae aw the closes an’ the places

Fae Ayr tae pairts ye never got tae see

 

An’ dae ye think ye’d huv done it ony diff’rent

Reined it in a bit so’s fowk wid think

That ye wur jist a poet, no’ a man wi’

Loadsa nibs, an’ aw ae them chock fu’ a’ ink!

 

Did ye think ye’d ever grace the tables

Ae lords an’ ladies an’ the likes ye sconced

Wid ye join them noo or wid ye banish, tae hell an’ back

The same wans, as then, that widnae gie response

 

Ye were mair than poet, ye were human

An’ fashions chainge, they come an’ gang, it’s true

Bit the likes ae you, that said and did it aw wi’ flair, yer ain wey

Never age or dee, mibbe this ye knew

 

We haver noo, we’re aw pc an’ pish talk

An’ the wans that struttet then still govern noo

Ye’d still be pennin’ poems, walkin’ yer ain walk

Revealin’ rotten eggs, an’ flingin’ mair than jist a few

 

Bugger aw the ilk that squaash crea’ive

An’ hell mend aw the fowk that pit oan airs

Here’s tae wan that lived and dee’d wi’ passion

Lang life, in death, guid man, lang syne, in suppers, everywhere