The Cloud Spikks Scots Poems

Sna: January: The Wolf Month Aroon the dykes, blin drift furls thick an deep Burns breenge brakk neck doon linns an icy braes An wheels skyte sidiewyes far roads are steep Bairns sledge an skirl, wi frostit nebs an taes Cauld drives auld fowk inbye tae hog the fire Bitter's the win on cranreuch winter days Corrie an burn, in ermine hapt entire Daizzle in skinklin pearls wi flash an sheen Eident fermer keeps kye fed an strae-ed Draigglit yowes staun chitterin cauld as steen Easins o hooses hing wi ice saw-teeth Eildritch haar like rikk wauchts ower the heath Faimished birdies heeze roon gairden seeds Fedders lie low, that tell o bluidy deeds The wolf meen watches stervin breets doonfaa That teeter on weak shanks agin the snaa Bonnie's the snaa on peintit yuletide caird A hard, hard sizzon on the frozen yird The Spey-Wife She's much socht eftir Has ye hingin aff the edge o her wirds She disnae sugar-coat her oracles Disnae promise wealth The deid live on ahin her steekit een She feeds aff their need tae conneckt The murned an the murner The murned tells the spey wife facks That anely the murned an the murner ken Sae easy tae gae back, ower an ower Like a junkie chasin the dragon Like a bee foragin pollen frae the same flooer The thin place atween the deid an the livin is a door It opens fin the spey wife chaps Bit it's a deid eyn. The Efter-life Is a place o fuspers. The murned Isnae at rest. The murner's heart consumes The tit-bits the spey wife draps Ootside her chaumer the road is fite wi frost Like icicles' spit In the wytin room nearhaun Ither supplicants wye fur the speerit go-between Tae wirk her pouerfu magic A Doric Buddhist's Alphabet I'm the aik cuttit doon bi the aixe I'm the bumshayvelt bawdrons that killt the birdie I'm the croo o the couthie cushie doo I'm a dowie, drookit, deukie in the dubs I'm the een o an eident ettercap I'm a footery futterat that's fykie I'm a gallivantin glekit gowk I'm the hauf o a Heilan haddie I'm the intimmers o an ingin I'm the jo that likes joukerie pawkerie I'm a kittlesome kenspeckle keelie I'm the lauch o a lichtsome laddie I'm a manky maggoty-heidit maister I'm the neb on a Norlan norie I'm an octopus's orra oxters I'm the plooks on a pawkie parkie I'm the quaich fur a quirky quine I'm a richt rigwiddy randy I'm a sleekit soople shennachie I'm a throwither ticket in tatterwallops I'm Uilleam, ugsome an uncanny I'm a verra vaunty vennel I'm a wabbit whigmaleerie I'm the letter X in a Scottish X-Ray I'm a yokie yalla-yeitie in the yaird I'm a zebra zippin aboot in Embro zoo Burns Supper A Burns club sat doon ae nicht Tae celebrate the bard A touch o tartan worn bi aa Tae show their heich regard For him fa said ‘A man's a man Fur aa that, 'an he meant it Aroon the warld, he hit a nerve Equality, representit In myndin o the weel lued poem Plates held a knitted moose (For Burns in plooin up a park Connached the craitur's hoose) The nicht lichts glentit ower the glaiss The drams were passed aroon The haggis wis piped in wi flair Played bi a skeely loon Syne heilan dauncers shook their shanks Their hauns help up like antlers A hunnner fowk watched on enthralled Sae lichtsome wir the prancers An clarsach, fiddler, jyned the spree As Burns's sangs wir aired The cream o spikkers, witty, braw Stood up, aa weel prepared Fin toasts were said an glaisses raised Neeps, haggis, tatties savoured Wi Auld Lang Syne things closed the nicht Aa favourably concluded Lang eftir fowk hae wanneret hame Echoes o sangs still bide In hairt an heid, for Robbie Burns Is lued the Warld wide The Cloud Spikks Oot I dinna like tae be teem Veesitors bring colour tae ma days Fin I fill up wi a murmuration o stirlins I swall wi pleisur, like bein the Host at Glastonbury Wee fishin clachans I try tae wheech ower faist There's naethin graceful or melodic in a shag or a skurrie Skurries gie me migraines, an they skitter I can be passive/aggressive in storms I cheenge colour tae charcoal. I rummle wi thunner Like a giant wi colic, like a gurly alcoholic I hinna a forwirdin address. I blaw hett an cauld Fariver the mood takks me. Whyles I cairry a load o rain or snaa A hyne-aff kinsman gied clouds a nesty nemme He wis a mushroom cloud, bringer o Armageddon He killt aathin that lay aneth him. He fed aff Daith Norse fowk said oor ancestors wir the harns o Ymir The Greeks said clouds wir Nephelae, sky nymphs I'm nebulous, whyles mither o pearl, a shape shifter Constable, Van Gogh, Caspar David Friedrich Aa peintit me. I dominate their canvases I wye as muckle's a jumbo jet I gie planes turbulence. Meeve ower, the Hindenburg I've floatit aboot fur millennia I hung ower the Montgolfier brithers at Versailles The demonstration o their balloon Wis held afore Louis XVI in the palace forecoort At the boom o a cannon, a yowe, a dyeuk an a cock Wir pit in the roon wicker creel aneth the balloon They flew sax hunner metres inno the air. Echt meenits eftir they drappt in the Wid o Vaucresson, The yowe, the dyeuk an the cock wir caad 'heroes o the air' They wir rewardit wi a place in the Menagerie in Versailles. Echt meenits! I've been aroon since the stert o the warld. Mortals are in cloud cuckoo lan, I jelouse I'm bumbazed they didnae preen a medal on them aa The Moose in the Cheese (a bairn rhyme) There wis a wee moosie fa bedd in a hoosie A hoosie made ooto cheese On Monday he catched a dose o the cauld That made the wee moosie sneeze Achoo! On Tuesday the cheese gaed aff tae skweel In a quinie's playpiece box Fin the moosie popped oot, she dichtit his snoot An knittit him twa reid socks Achoo! On Wednesday she squeezed him a lemon Wi hinney tae soothe his wheeze The moose poppit oot an opened his moo As the bees roon him did heeze Achoo! In her pooch she tuik the moose tae the kirk He swapped cheese for the meenister's breid He decidit tae bide…it wis fine an hett An noo he sooks pandrops insteid! Achoo! Coull Castle A kirk, a castle, the Tarland burn Gin they could spikk, fit tales they'd tell! Fit wid the ghaists o the castle say Gin they iver brakk ooto their mossy shell? The Neebor A neebor's flittit in aside oor plot An foo he deed there is nae wye tae tell Sae he wis beeriet, bit wisnae forgot Wis he a scunner, tea-totaller or sot? His grave mools moultit ower oor nerra cell Like a burst inkwell, spreidin like a blot His flooers drappit ower oor side unsocht Oor grave lost heicht an o a sudden, fell We wir assured sic cheenge wid cam tae nocht An sae it wis. The neebor's timmer shell Sattled, an syne oor niggles did dispel Gweed neebors keep their boundaries tae thirsel