For my Uncle Graham

Those good old days of Santa's sleigh
Feel different now he's gone away.
His joyful songs I used to play,
Those tapes which made my childhood gay.

Off to the chapel, on Blueberry Hill,
A winter wedding in December chill.
In that wee kilt, I felt such thrill,
And sailed to lands of pleasure filled.

My mind was flown to sunny seas
And Christmas spent in balmy breeze.
I stayed up late, like the locals please,
Snapping crackers under coconut trees.

I long for those sweet, blissful days,
And the memories I keep will never stray,
Like every year, we'd go to to stay
With Graham and Imelda, we couldn't wait.

Up past Belmont, with Scotland in sight,
We knew we'd arrived when in the light
There in the window, with sheer delight,
Imelda and Graham would be waving each night.

We'd search for clues and hunt for treasure,
Dress as pirates and hell for leather
For once, not arguing, Peter and Heather,
Would find our bounty and enjoy it, together.

We'd go to Girvan, to Graham's Mum and Dad,
Nancy and Willison were always glad
To see us all, and give us gifts,
Then to the beach and jellyfish.

We'd all look out to Ailsa Craig
Where Waverly would tread the waves.
Then back to town and the penny arcades,
The 'musemements where our dreams were made.

We'd walk up Bine in any weather
Strolling through the Purple Heather
And with the folk club, we'd sing a few
Of the songs, which thanks to Graham, we knew.

As I grew older and could send a beer,
I'd visit with glee at least twice a year,
When Graham and Tony would take me on walks
From Ashton Lane to the Oran Mor.
 
With passing seasons I grew so tall,
And in his music, still enthralled.
The singalongs and melodies of old,
Replaced by stories forever told.

Almost at once, the tapes were flipped,
Yet still, each year, more songs were ripped.
I loved to get those glistening discs,
With memories yet to reminisce.

Those songs have never felt so true,
Or near to me, as I think of you.
It's hard to recall the man I knew,
Impossible to fathom why his time was slewn.

I wonder if he knows, that now,
I follow in his footsteps proud.
Bequeathing music, rhyme, and sound,
And rousing reels to play aloud.

I miss my friend, who filled my past,
With thought, and song, and happiness.
But every year, I'll raise my glass,
To that dear man from Inverness.

The fine-coated blanket

Words of wisdom come like the rain
Under an umbrella as the drops scatter.
One day the words fall like the drops
And the next they rise in recalcitrant steam.

We live within a fine-coated blanket;
Our world manufactured in our own torrential stream.
We dream of a world which favours the splashes
Of that we can only wish to seem.

We step into puddles of our own accord,
Not counting the jumps we chose to make.
We steep into dark, dampened recesses
But our shoes are only soggy for the sake.

Rich, poor, or hungry for more,
We all seem so different but we're just the same.
Sanity, a state reserved for the sane
But who knows for whom, while we await the refrain?

Torn crystal blue

Driven East, I've been sent West,
For want of trying she's never impressed;
A box of red roses sent back crystal blue,
My chest filled with passion but still in lieu.

I've exported a piece of my heart into hers
And though she can't feel, it'll never return.
The beats from my ribs pound dull and untrue
From the hole that's been torn and remains inside you.

Like travelling backwards on a speeding train,
Gazing upon what you've missed and has past.
Better, surely, to face the tracks;
What's never been, none can lack.

Yet there out the back the wilting rose
Has not yet passed when near's the hose.
But though the spray may raise the turgor,
Thorns may tear the hole yet further.

Perspective

The sun lights my face as I sit in this chair,
Though spring may be wary the weather is fair.
A bumblebee flusters and brushes my hair
So I leave the fluffy beast to roam in my lair.

As I switch seats a sudden thought flies,
Now on my back with no sun in my eyes,
The breeze softly kisses my cheeks so I rise
And bless the perspective this casts on my life.

No matter the seat or where the sun shines,
There's always a chance to rewrite the lines
From a different angle, sunkissed and sublime,
For now how my back has been warmed up, in time.

Presently aware

In the morning, I rise,

my beauty inside

and beside me, my beauty

smiles from within.

At the edge, I arrive,

all around the steam rises

as the cold stream subsides

and the thoughts run clear.

My beauty can't lie,

for those thoughts run dry

under glinting cobbles

of a wonderful dream.

Long beyond the mist

the clearest skies stretch

into sheer abundance,

mile upon mile.

Onwards and steady,

my path's laid bare

as over each fence

my foot meets a stile.

Victory lies forward,

the end not in sight,

except for the turn

of day into night.

Every step hears a crunch underfoot,

the splash of a puddle

or the crack of wood

as beside me my beauty strides on.

January's blue

The bruised skies
And wistful wind
Scratch my eyes,
Itching red.

I hug the blanket
To my tugging chest
As thoughts abound
My throbbing head.

My forehead sore,
My mind less pure
As home was lost
Through musguided lure.

The difference between
Me and my lure
Is I can do better,
She only worse.

And then I rise
And face the world
As growing light
Reveals them all.

A haiku for 2015

Look forward and never back

Realise happiness

Will your subconscious to act