Thought Bubbles

Thoughts
of missing souls
dance the air around us,
rising like little bubbles,
then bursting
a sudden bulb of knowing
igniting memories
to sparkle
behind our eyes
for a second
or two.

As time stalls,
we rock ourselves gently
wrapped in our own arms
protecting hearts
encased and in case
back in time
our hearts become lost, too.

To and fro
perpetually
we keep time in motion;
swinging pendulums,
like cradles for the missing,
lest we forget their coming and going
or we, too, become forgotten...

One day, I will jump aboard the swing

then, thoughts
of my own missing soul
will dance tomorrow’s air,
rising like a little bubble
then bursting
a sudden bulb of knowing
igniting my memory
to sparkle
behind a loved one’s eye
for a second
or two.

The Signpost

When I was an adventurous seafarer, I chose
a bright red signpost to guide me ashore
to my island, and from that point I would launch
back out to sea. On the ocean I would sail, clockwise.

When you strolled along the shingle beach
and you found my red sign,
propped upright between two heavy rocks in sand,
you laid it flat to photograph a wading bird.

Please respect the consequence
when the dawn has no entrance or exit.
Days of sailing round in ever tightening coils
of grey on grey – you go mad at sea.

The story has retold a thousand times;
of a snarling seadog, trapped and desperately scraping
claw on wood, gingerly dipping the hurt paw in salt water.
As you know, not all dogs can swim.

With no compassionate compass, I need:
a roof overhead, doors and windows to open,
space to sail, water to quench my life and keep it afloat
and a very visible signpost to guide me home.

Native Ground

We have a river that led us to this place,
with our history of droughts and our swells of fertile spates.
One day I left exploring and I crossed the peaty burn.
Now, the river’s wider, faster, and I struggle to return.
I'm so weary
I could easily drown.
It feels like such a long time
since I walked our native ground.

Yesterday, I saw you stroll the other bank.
You laughed with a fair stranger and I felt like my heart sank.
Falling from my chest, I saw it tumble to the deep,
where the river bed is cold, way down where the twilight sleeps.
I'm so weary
I could easily drown.
It feels like such a long time
since I walked our native ground.

I have trekked the moorland and I've climbed on every ridge
trying to catch sight of a rickety, old bridge;
one I dared to traverse, when I risked that fall for you.
Now, if you found the crossing, could you find that courage, too?
because I'm so weary
and I could easily drown.
It feels like such a long time
since I walked our native ground.

The Timid Immigrant

To see your inner butterfly
and dream the risk of flight,
feel the light, exquisite air
and let your wings breath life.
When first I flew my homeland,
the heart I sought was mine.
When weary I turned back again,
my heart I came to find.
In foreign ground my mucky roots
still stuck with soil of home.
I was the smell of my home earth
on these two hands I own.

To imagine your internal seed
as it thrives in foreign fields,
release the expectations
of all familiar leafy yields.
Then, when your inner butterfly
brings to rest its giant wings,
you'll see strange and wondrous beauty
in unexpected things.
Once you clean the home soil
from the tread upon your soul
your butterfly turns golden
and the immigrant feels whole.

One day I might fly again
without ground upon my feet,
or, I might leave all migration
to the swallows and the geese.

Pacts

I’ve thought for miles
exhausted
from reacting to surroundings;
which of none I am resigned.

Every step I take,
accosted
by the foreign quiet of a path
versus noise within my mind.

I look around
transported
to the heavy weight of knowing;
I’m here to please others, not me.

I’m further away.
distorted
between where I once thought
I meant to go, and here.

Why is it painful;
indulging
in pacts with yourself
to stay happy from the start?

Here I am again
bulging
with unrest from following
my fear and not my heart.

Follow Your Dreams

Sometimes I feel like
my heart has grown wings
and it's flown away;
waiting to be found.
Somewhere there’s a place
where its passion will unfold
into safe hands,
where freedom abounds.

It’s time to leave
It’s time to follow
The evening whispers,
“Follow your dreams.”
“Follow your dreams.”

A bag of memories
is hard to pack;
knowing what to leave behind,
knowing what to take.
Things I carry
will determine who I am.
The path ahead
conceived from my freight.

But, there’s one recurring memory
where your eyes are closed in prayer.
I reach and touch that thought
just to let it know I care.

It’s time to leave
It’s time to follow
The evening whispers,
“Follow your dreams.”
“Follow your dreams.”

How Grey the Fog Rolls In

Across the Morrich More,
grey, the fog rolls in.
What an eerie sorrow you send.
Gone, the dunes and grasslands,
the sand and mud flats, too -
how quick the tricking mystery descends.

How grey the fog rolls in, today.
How grey the fog rolls in.

First, my far off future
disappears from sight.
I’m fearful when I cannot see the present.
Listen how the Gizzen Briggs
begins to murmur whispers.
Sinking sands, calling out their torment.

How grey the fog rolls in, today.
How grey the fog rolls in.

The Alexandra bridge,
lost, deep within thick cloud.
Lord, send a guiding light from up above us.
I'm a traveller, gone astray
the fog's concealed my trust.
Oh wrap me in the sanctuary of Duthus.

How grey the fog rolls in, today.
How grey the fog rolls in.

Cnoc na Croiche (Gallow Hill)

My eyes were empty
until the west wind found me,
to cry its song of sorrow,
to run its rain down my cheek.
I was stood upon the knoll
on top of Cnoc na Croiche
when I lost my emptiness,
and found kinship in the meek.

Beneath my feet
squirmed the souls of the forgotten;
the mistaken, the mistreated,
some wrongly labeled 'witch'.
Some stole to feed their children.
Others fought for their convictions.
Some resisted. Some hung bravely.
Does it matter which is which?

When this wind dies,
I’m going to light a candle
to help send some light
back through the darkness of time.
May I learn the wisdom
without carrying the burdens.
Most of all, may Cnoc na Croiche
be forgiven for its crimes.

Even the guilty
who will walk this world among us,
somewhere in their history
something precious was destroyed.
Look at me…
I was once a prisoner!
Is that why I feel compassion
for the souls at Cnoc na Croiche?

The Pantomime

I could decorate the house to look pretty for Christmas,
The tree is artificial but it will be okay.
I’ll spray fake snow on the window panes,
And invent a host of recipes to eat on the day.

Those false lashes will make my eyes look bigger
And I’ll buy some L’Oreal so I can dye my hair.
My simulated leather and faux fur boots,
They’ll look as real as the ones in Vanity Fair.

Maybe after lunch, I’ll say I played charades,
Imitating actors and guessing films unknown.
Since Christmas is a pantomime for dressing and pretending,
I doubt anyone will guess that I’ll spend the day alone.

Wide-awake Night, Fall-asleep Day

It’s a wide-awake night,
in a dark that’s blacker than coffee.
Obscurity lures me
to search for a light from within;
like the pre-Christmas thrill
of buying you gifts,
all the pains and the joys
and the fun and what-ifs.
as I’d hesitate, worrying
something might bore you,
I’d buy more excitement
than I could afford to,
trying to avoid any flaws
like a puppy that offers both paws.
It’s a wide-awake night,
In a dark that’s blacker than coffee.

It’s a fall-asleep day,
in a spotlight that’s hotter than hell.
My delirium threatens
to show my boss that I’ve failed;
like my pre-meeting nervousness,
panics and tics,
all my training and ploys,
and agendas to fix,
as I stammer, not-knowingly,
something explodes,
so I buy some more time,
but no time is owed,
and all I want is you...
in a world that has turned black and blue.
It’s a fall-asleep day,
In a spotlight that’s hotter than hell.

Return to Stepford

(Based on : The Stepford Wives - 1975)

As long as all secrets remain kept;
as long as I can pretend I don’t recognise truths,
as long as I adhere to a certain public image,
as long as I am able to let people shout over me,
as long as my lack of confidence is not seen,
as long as I can act happy when I’m sad,
as long as I dress according to a man’s desire of me,
as long as I don’t cry when I grieve,
as long as I persist to always pay close attention,
as long as my laundry remains white,
as long as I never express my own opinions,
as long as I can discretely solve money problems,
as long as I don’t require honest eye contact,
as long as I live silently amidst worry and confusion,
as long as my work does not clash with others’ needs,
as long as I don’t flinch at those cutting looks,
as long as I consider the health of others before my own,
as long as I endure longing without affectionate touch,
as long as my cooking continues to please,
as long as I smile each time someone looks at me,
as long as I don’t expect fidelity or trusted friendship,
as long as I relinquish all control,
as long as my words are constantly praising,
as long as I can deny my panic and fear,
living in Stepford will be wonderful again.

Can Anybody Tell Me

Can anybody tell me
what happens to a smile
when a bright and constant beam
fades to once in a distant while?
A sigh one time blissful
like a cool breeze on your cheek,
then a sigh dragging heavy
with the wind cutting bleak.

Can anybody tell me
where faith will come to rest
when delivered by the blind
to the wrong address?
A gift made for giving
full of love and good intent,
then the bagman took the dream
out of everything I dreamt.

Can anybody tell me
is time on your side?
I have too much to spend alone
and time one day will fly
up to where the smiles go,
up where faith’s reclaimed.
Can anybody tell me
have you time to feel the same?

Another draft of a happy ditty from the HB pencil of Hazy Dizzylady, the Highland Island Bard.

Buttercup

You butter me up,
Then cast me down,
My butter-side
Stuck to the ground.

I rid the dirt,
And I mellow,
But then you spot,
My streaks of yellow.

You spread me thin
On week-old bread.
Expecting tastes
Newly wed.

Butter pleases,
Butter feeds,
Butter mixes,
Butter bleeds.

If bread were a fresh vessel,
Not curled up.
Then I’d warm into
Your buttercup.

Written for lots of dough, in-dismal ink, not to be confused with invisible ink, by Hazy Crying-in-her-Clapdarnach-Beer Dizzylady, the Highland Island Bard.

Carmelia Sinensis (a.k.a. The Boss's Tea Party)

She munched on carrots in my bathtub, filled with Green Leaf Tea,
My new P.A. (hair in shower cap) starts the third degree.
“Darling, do you drink Darjeeling?” (Offering her toe)
“If you’re going to be my boss today, I really need to know.”

With outstretched leg she’d ordered “Lick It!”, then dipped her toe in 'cha'.
Camelia Sinensis made such a sensual spa!
“Darling, is something brewing?” she asked (Widening her eyes)
“Or, do I see a tea pot spout, protruding from your flies?”

Oh, Carmelia Sinensis
I had this strange dream
Of English crumpets,
Clotted cream
And you
What does it mean?
Carmelia Sinensis

She steeped a while, then pulled the plug, straining my confusion.
My new P.A. (towel around her) had finished her infusion.
“Darling boss, can I have a rise?” she asked, (Pouncing on her prey).
But, when my pot was fully drained… she left me for Earl Grey.

Passing Sentences

You pass sentences with your words,
Judge me by my sense,
Even though you stole my grasp
In unfair recompense,
For my toiling to comprehend
For my failing to know why,
What to say when words evade me
Or, when placed within a lie.

Before I bite the bait again
And hook with bloodied mouth,
Before I gather flocks of words
And send them flying south,
Tell me did I really see,
The forking of your tongue?
Were you split in what you said
Before the swan song sung?

Words can shine reflections
Or blank like blackout shutters.
They can be the wings that free us
Or trash us to the gutters.
When I think and when I speak
I need light to lead my way.
There are things that mean so much to me
And much I need to say.

If I appear to seem unkind to you
Or if you feel rejected,
My thoughts will never shut you out
It’s my heart that needs protected.
Try to hear behind my words.
If you listen for the feeling,
I’ll send you loving kindness
Beyond my sentence meaning.

Seeking Mercy

I seek Mercy’s profile,
When I’m searching east
Gazing up at seagulls,
Nesting in cliffs.
But, salt sprays from oceans,
Spitting ghosts from drowned ships.
Coating seagull feathers,
Cracking Mercy’s lips.
Egg yolk and souls
Are so teasingly yellow.
Wood Smoke and coal
So displeasingly mellow.
Without flames
Without fire
No aims
No desire
Without you.

I hear Mercy’s siren,
My ears straining west.
There’s whistling in tunnels
From trains to Saint Worth.
Leaves cast from sycamores
Like cholesterol clogs veins,
They'll stop Mercy’s tracks
And all Worthy trains.
Passengers like seeds
So easily re-rooted.
What makes you think
You’re so really sure-footed?
Without faith
Without vows
No heres
No nows
Without me.

Huggable Hannibal

Here’s the sad thing about Huggable Hannibal,
He was raised by a tribe of botanical cannibals.

Hannibal’s arms were as long as two pythons.
To stop them from wiggling he tied them beside him.

He smiled through a beard, like a lush sheepskin rug.
But, Hannibal was sad, with no one to hug.

If only his arms were shorter and neater.
He once held a girl, but she feared he would eat her.

Hannibal loved chocolate, ice cream and pies.
It was only his friends that ate toenails and eyes.

So if you know of someone who needs a big squeeze.
Huggable Hannibal would be so keen to please.

The Tor-o-rundle

Be the trodder thromble-handed,
my recomgest to none be stranded
questulating should him trundle?
Go undertempt the Tor-o-rundle!

Atop the summest magic happurs;
spellcharmment mid the wizzirappers.
Imagiceive brim atmosphonics
Banging carrels, chantsing tonics!

Don the biretta-dredlovisor,
all upat the sunstice riser.
Then therucome the Tor-o-rundle.
Giddyho your upping stumble!

(Full translation available by request in comment section below. But can you guess the meaning? Have a go at the translation.) Hazy Dizzylady

Smells of Leaving

Leaving smells like mixed-up dust and dander stuck
on thin, waxy fly paper, but not like bloated Hoover bags

nor laden, feather dusters. It smells of old unopened books,
chapters unread of stories that will remain without morals told.

Smells, not of death or decaying compost, but of
neglected laundry, washed clean but left to dry sour,

creased and crushed into cheap, plastic, supermarket bags.
Like stagnant water, though more subtle, without visible green.

No floating algae could be skimmed away with small-holed nets;
the type of net that could belong to the young and naively innocent.

There will always be the naively innocent ones who will run behind
with short legs and high hopes, clutching such a net in hand;

Those young ones always dream of catching that elusive butterfly.
But, I am older now and it’s time to close the door and leave the key.

Maturing

No, there are no popping corks.
It’s only the white noise of a dinner for one
Ricocheting off my inner skull,
Smashed aside
By a foreign Smörgåsbord of thoughts
Gatecrashing through my brain:
Those uninvited guests, again.

I don’t eat off their buffet.

Though the place that I set for myself
No longer needs a knife to cut
Or a fork with which to delve,
I still strive to spoon a humble bowl of broth
Made from some last morsels of goodness
Cultivated from a kind memory seed.

Summer brought drought,
But I’ll hibernate without too much hunger
Maturing into something sweeter next year.

No, there are no popping corks.

(A rough draft, left here to mature - By Hazy Dizzylady)

John Henry Holmes - Unknown Savior of the Ozone Layer

In Ancient Greece
Thales of Miletus
Made a distinguished discovery;
Rubbing fur
Caused two objects
To attract
One another.

In 1660 Italy
Otto von Guericke
Of electrostatic generator fame,
Discerned -
Forms of Electricity
Can be positive
Or negative.

The prominent 20th century
War of currents
Ended in a draw:
Thomas Edison
Won direct currents,
George Westinghouse
Won alternating currents.
Energy distributed evenly.

But, in Newcastle England
Unknown savior of the ozone layer
John Henry Holmes
Invented the simple light switch.
Feel the attraction, one to other,
Veer toward the positive,
Win the real energy war,
Honor the light switch!

(Three cheers for the light switch. Hip! Hip! Hello, Hello, Excuse me.. someone put the lights out and I wasn't finished typing.)

Standing Stone

I sense all your questions
And you want to know
Why am I standing here
All on my own.
I’m thankful you’ve noticed
That I have a face.
There’s so many blind runners
In this human race

I can’t offer symbols
Hieroglyphics of old
But I’m born of a circle
With truths to be told.
I can heal like a needle
Injecting the earth
Tell me your troubles
Tell me your hurts.

I know you have problems;
You have all these doubts
So lets stand together
And figure it all out.
I’ve so many answers.
You’ve so much unknown.
You be the scholar.
I am your stone.

Do you hear the hum
Of the energy line?
Quickly, stand close by me;
Let us entwine.
When our shadow aligns
With the hill in the sun
And when the sun sets
We’ll become one.

Yes, I see all your problems;
And you have these doubts.
So lets stand together
And figure it all out.
I’ve so many answers.
You’ve so much unknown.
You be the scholar.
I am your stone...
Standing stone

The Cromarty Rose

Why d’you still wait for the ferry?
You’ve parked on the jetty since noon
In your holiday shorts and your sandals
That you stored in your loft until June.
Your wife hands you egg and cress sandwiches.
She cuts off the crusts to be neat.
You wish she’d offer you thick rolls with ham.
You’re biting your tongue with your teeth.

The ferryman’s down at the Pier Inn
So destiny’s out to lunch too.
Time’s flown to a hole in the ozone
Along with the ham and your youth.
Life after love is elusive
Like the Cromarty Rose and the sun.
There’s no boat to carry you forward.
It seems nothing you do is well done.

Your wife chatters endlessly on
About gossip and children and shoes.
She brushes the crumbs from your shirt
As you tune in the radio news.
Its high tide; you scan the horizon
Far out in the rumbustious surf,
As plausible anchor men go overboard
Swaying currents to negative earth.

There will always be mystery in water,
Lost Captains, and loves you once kissed,
Like the three Flannan lighthouse keepers
All vanish one day into mist.
Maybe its time to turn round
Take your wife’s hand in your hand
Tell her you want to proceed to the start
And navigate back to old land.

If grass grows green on another bank
But your Captain has taken shore leave
Maybe it’s time to start living your life
While your time to cross over’s reprieved.
The Cromarty Rose will return one day
And so will the flowering cherry
But there’ll always be beautiful coastal roads
So why d’you still wait for the ferry?

His Face Looks Kind Like Jesus

My dad's face looked kind like Jesus.
But, we lived down in the basement.
Graffiti on our stairwell wall
Said, “This is Hell’s Replacement.”
His face looked kind like Jesus
But he'd advocate for Satan
Raising veins on holy temples:
Worms he'd want to straighten.
Then his eyes blue as cornflowers
Cried celestial spheres,
His face as kind as Jesus
Alight with stained-glass tears.
Dad only drank on weekends.
He'd sings songs by Leonard Cohen.
When your face looks kind like Jesus
It should be Hymns you're knowing.
But when the owl falls from the tree
Because the moon’s nowhere in sight
What good’s a face like Jesus
If you can’t light up your own night?
Once I caught two little fishes
When my father took me fishing
We could only feed each other, though
'Cause there were five loaves missing.
When your face looks kind like Jesus
And, you don’t have much money
You’ve got to choose between communions
Or paying union dues on Sundays.
But my dad loved me, this I know,
Because he told me so
And when your dad looks kind like Jesus
That’s enough for me, you know…
That’s more than enough for me.

The Tree of Make-Believe

I drove to your house today
To see the Tree of Make-Believe.
I think it still grows in there
Though I never saw a single leaf.
It feels more like a metaphor;
A large seed that took root
In a garden I once tended
And I’m searching for its fruits.

Was the tree this veiled secret
Floating under your raised brow?
If you closed your eyes could I still trace
The outline of branches and a bough?
It feels like a giant grows
Blocking out my view
And the Make-Believe Tree propagates
Casting shadows upon you.

I opened your gate today
Dowsing for the first few roots.
I dug a hole in your lawn
Buried a box of my own sweet fruits.
If you feel like you’re inclined to
Fell that Tree of Make-Believe.
Beneath it you will find
A tin of Love and Truth and Peace.

By Hazy Dizzylady

Glastonbury Healing Fields

Mud is caked to my soul.
I'm searching for the Healing Field.

I plod
And plough
A path
For miles
In wellies
With blisters
In rain
All day
Picking up
Every
Last
Strewn
Scrap
Of
Sodden,
Stinking
Litter.

I
Wash
Wet
Waste
Away from
My brow
With
Withered
White
Wrists.

Then,
I spy
The Green Healing Field.

Your trash has neat order.

White bag for papers
Green sack for cans
Black liner for bins

I read the eco-biodegradable sign
Above this thoughtful organisation.

“Sorry, but due to rain we’re closed for therapy today.”

I collect your
carefully
categorised
castoffs
And quit.

Mud is still caked to my soul.

Davie Gogie's Plea

When I moved to the woods
I hollowed a shelter,
I lined it with branches
And topped it with turf.
I packed the clay tightly,
Lagged moss all around,
Spread straw on the floor,
And bed on the earth

In towns all about
People miscalled me;
‘Wild Man of the Woods’,
A beggar, or thief.
My name’s Davie Gogie,
I lost all my family,
But, I never took anything,
That didn’t come free.

When apples start falling,
When chickens roam,
When they lay their eggs,
Out of sight of the farm,
A man has to take
What Nature is giving.
I don’t own a gun,
So, where is the harm?

I’ve not seen a barber
Since ‘round 1890.
My hair’s long and matted.
My clothes are torn.
When folk came I hid
From their little black boxes.
The lens only looked for
A vagrant, forlorn.

They captured me anyway
Before I could move
To the wood of Mouteagle
Or back down to Bogbain.
They stood me in court
And the magistrate charged me.
Then off to the Poorhouse.
They had me restrained.

In my humble opinion
The Union Poorhouse,
Should be reserved
For the poor alone!
My life abounds
In the woods of Calrossie
My bed’s on the earth
And I want to go home!

My name’s Davie Gogie,
Wild Man of the Woods,
Your Poorhouse is giving
But its not free.
I’ll surely die
If I don’t get away
From the haunts of men.
So, I beg you, Sir, please…

Take me back to the trees.
Where I hollowed a shelter,
Where I lined it with branches
And topped it with turf.
Where I packed the clay tightly,
Lagged moss all around,
Where the straw's on the floor,
And, my bed's on God's earth.

Okay so its just a draft and I'll get back to it! Hazy Dizzylady

The Un-Well

Make a wish for the lost souls;
Better make it three.
But don’t go tossing coins down here,
‘Till you trust the well trustee.

Welcome to the Underground,
Where the banker is the devil,
And Jesus was the carpenter,
Who lost his spirit-level.

The law of wells has no right side,
What’s left is jail and fear.
You’ll wander under false arrest
There’s no ‘wonder' standing here.

Psychiatrists are shrinking,
Under lights of ultra violet.
White coats glow like barium
In this dark and dismal toilet.

And, don’t go feeding wishes,
To the keeper of the well.
His mind got smoked on Christmas trees;
Not well, No’el, Noel.

Wishing turned him greedy,
He lied way down to hell,
Hell’s fire dried the water up;
Destroyed the coins as well.

Many gave him credit,
But he never paid his loans.
His lovers died of heartache
Now the well is full of bones.

So, make a wish for the lost souls;
Better make it three.
But don’t go tossing coins down here,
‘Till you trust the well trustee.

Another wee ditty drafted today by Hazy Dizzyday

Sweetness and The Gallant Tree

Sweetness swam the autumn streams.
Her shawl swathed on the bracken bank,
Where stretching roots of a Gallant tree,
Shook the hand of the stream it drank.

"Accede to rouse me next spring sun,
When Sweetness bathes her honey hair.
My sap is spent," sung Gallant’s Ogam.
"Bid me sleep; for my limbs hang bare."

While river lapped the dormant lumber,
Sweetness set a bed of leaves,
And through the winter shared his slumber;
Sweetness' arms around the tree.

Then river froze, so's not to waken,
Dreaming Sweetness, Gallant oak.
Wrapped safe within the woodland’s apron,
Rocked by elves and fairy folk.

First Brighid’s moon brought blooms of green,
Searching forth from Gallant's limb,
Sweetness slipped into the stream,
Gallant woke to watch her swim.

Gallant blessed the Imbolc rain,
For bringing Sweetness back to bide
The stream shook Gallant’s hand, declaring,
"Sweetness never left your side."

A wee ditty drafted today by Hazy Dizzyday

Green Glass in the Sand

How did I grow so small?
So insignificantly missing.
Dropped by careless hands
And left behind
On a lonely shore,
Broken between hard rocks
And a big empty space…
Waiting to be found.

I’m green glass in the sand.
I’m the emerald at your feet.
Twinkling so eagerly in sunlight
Searching for the beachcomber in you.
Will you tuck me in your pocket?
Keep me safe, take me home?

Once when I was whole,
Not broken up and shattered.
I sat at a fine table
Filled with blood red wine.
But, they drained me.
Now I’m broken between hard rocks
And this big empty space,
Waiting to be found.

Do You Want the Good News First?

The Library van is newly stocked.
Regular readers - prepare to be shocked.
A to Z in every section,
Crime, Sci Fi, and all Non-Fiction...
It's all been replaced with Gideon's bibles!
Yes, God has bought out all his rivals.

(Sorry - complaints to God below please.)

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)

A Chip Off the Old Spanner

Mini Spanners began her journey,
On the road to taxidermy,
Checking road kill with her tweezers,
Storing bits in Wullie’s freezer.
S for squirrel is filed between
R for ravioli and T-cutting cream.
She’s a partner in the garage now.
She cooked his books to stuff a cow.
Mini and Wullie are waiting on parts for,
A kangaroo leg and an Astra starter.
So, Mini keeps herself in hoots,
Stuffing Wullie’s boiler suits.

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)

Last Night of the Prompoms

(And, now for a live performance, recorded at The Last Night of The Prompoms, featuring The Glenpuddle and Munro's First Crofters' Brass Ensemble, est 1862, shortly before they were forcefully disbanded.)

Oompah, Oompah.
Boom, Ding, Bang.
Plink-plonk, Plink-plonk,
Clatter, Pluck, Twang.
Trumpety Toot, Tackity Boot,
Tintinnabulation,
Nee Naw! Nee Naw!
Off to the Police Station.

By Hazy Dizzylady. (The Highland Island Bard.)

Open Wide

His appetite’s abnormal.
He craves unusual things,
Substances not fit to eat,
Like chalk and balls of string!
I ‘googled’ his condition,
I think it’s called a ‘pica’,
To be honest, I think Uisdean,
Is just thicker than a brick-a.

Uisdean’s pica chews on wood.
His pica gnaws on lead,
I wish he’d try some Weetabix,
Or freshly buttered bread.
Washers, bolts, nuts, and screws…
He even ate the telly!
Now ‘Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps’,
Repeats inside his belly.

I took him to the dentist.
His teeth were worn right down.
The dentist said that every tooth,
Would need a metal crown.
He said to Uisdean, “Open please.
Wider if you can.”
We never saw the dentist again.
Daft Uisdean ate the man!

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard.)

Underpants

Underpants, soft and green,
Knitted to perfection,
With special double gussets,
For your winter warmth protection.

Buy them now before the frosts.
Two for half a crown!
Or, wait until the winter sale,
When underpants come down.

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard.)

Gone for a Wok

Kirsty Janet found some flees,
Crawling on her sock.
She gave the bugs to Coineach Wong,
Who cooked them in his wok.

He added spice and ginger,
Rice and garden peas,
Then advertised this tasty dish,
As 'Special Flesh Flied Flees'.

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard.)

Fasten your safety belts, please!

Nosecone Air
Has Flintstone flair
(Primitively thinking)
They knock off 25%
(When the pilot’s drinking).

Tickets going to Timbucktoo
(Might land in Beijing)
You can ‘Buy One
Getting One Flight Free’
(But be sure to count both wings!)

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Bard)

Giving

The Reverend Brimstone’s sermon, focused on ‘The Needy’,
He told his congregation, to give more and not be greedy,
Big Maggie Ann gave fifteen quid, and Jean… she added twenty,
Woodworm Willie tossed a pound and grouched that it was plenty.
Daft Uisdean wrote an I.O.U., and so did Wullie Spanners,
The doctor scribbled out a cheque with his usual bed-side manners.
It read, “Take two pound, twice a day, with sixteen fluid ounces...
And, call me in the morning, or as soon as my cheque bounces.”

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)

Oops!

Calum John the crofter
Cycled down the brae.
He wore his Sunday stay-press pants,
And a hat in matching grey.
His clean white shirt and handkerchief,
Were ironed to perfection,
For Calum John the crofter
Didn’t want rejection.

He parked his bike, and padlocked it,
Outside the town job centre,
He smoothed his hair with spittle,
In the doorway as he entered.
“I’ve come about this job on top,”
He said to Morag Jean.
When she read his application
Morag shrieked and screamed.

“This job is in Africa!”
She said to Calum John.
“There must be some mistake,” he said,
Feeling rather conned.
“I’ve bought myself new underpants,
Especially for the mission.
And I’ve practiced in the mirror,
For this missionary position.”

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)

Counting Sheep

One, Two
I count my ewes,
Three, Four,
That’s two more…
[yawn]
Five, Six,
Eyelids like bricks,
Seven, Eight,
Got to stay awake.
[yawn]
Nine, Ten,
I’ve lost count again.

One, Two,
I count my ewes.
[yawn]
Three, Four,
I start to snore,
Five, Six,
Poked with a stick.

One, Two,
[yawn]
I count my ewes.
Three, Four,
[yawn]
Three,
Two,
One…

z

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)

A Good Stiff One

Woodworm Willie said he’d choke
If he had to drink a diet coke.
“None of that weak shite for me.
I canna be arsed drinking tea.
Make it large, a double or triple
Cooking whisky’s my favourite tipple,
Clapdarnach wine or deer turd rum...
Just make sure it’s a good stiff one.”

Woodworm Willie said he’d spew,
If his wooden leg was made of yew.
“Yew and me are sure to clash.
Make me a leg from Common Ash.
“I don’t need any bows or frills,
Or a leg like Heather Mills.
It doesn’t have to sprint or run,
Just make sure it’s a good stiff one.”

Woodworm Willie said he’d curse,
If he had to live without his hearse.
This undertaker ain’t so stupid;
His engine runs on embalming fluid.
He’s burying less and poaching often,
Stashing his catch inside oak coffins.
So dinnae trouble Willie till yer granny’s well hung
Just make sure she’s a good stiff one.

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)

Be Nice!

When Murdina’s in her butcher’s shop
Be nice to her, or chop, chop, chop!
Always remember your ps and qs,
When asking for a pound of stew.
Never gurn and never gripe.
Never criticise her tripe.
For goodness sake, don’t ever say,
“I think the bacon’s off today.”
She’ll mince your ears, she’ll boil your toes,
She’ll stuff some stuffing where stuffing goes.
Don’t count your change, just smile “Goodbye,”
Or, you might be her next meat pie!

By Hazy Dizzylady - The Highland Island Bard

Blinkers

Daft Uisdean was a freethinker,
Made his horse a set of blinkers,
Fashioned out of green Y-Fronts,
Ears in the leg holes, nose in the bump.
We found Uisdean in the sharn today,
Up to his neck in shit and hay.
The horse that threw him into the dung,
Had only three legs and was highly strung,
Frightened by a thunder pump...
And, the smell of Uisdean's underpants.

By Hazy Dizzylady (The Highland Island Bard)