April 27, 2015

Johnny's Journey Hame



The viaduct holds ever near, whispers for the heart to hear,
inhale that vast majestic view, before the town rolls unto you
And resurrects straight from the station, patriotic aspiration,
Mother, in her allied skin, ignites a pride from deep within

Where dire skies could never take, clouded visions for one's sake,
home to clear and died for dales, and fair skinned Annie's up for sale
A hero's mini-welcome home, where stories thrive and bravely roam,
missing all the echo closes, tenements, and I supposes

Young mums kept up all night long, bairns shoogled sound by song,
night shift laddies, eyes red raw, sharing bedrooms, coughs an 'aw.
Thread and needle, make do and mend, becomes a rather valued friend,
candles burned out, flame remote, dark as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat

Children playing up outside, old Jen taken for a ride,
stealing sweeties from her shop, Hell to pay if they get caught
Contented weans, yet God believers, entertained by chalk and peevers,
far too many there to chase, all pacified by His good grace

Hunting by both rod and gun, pots of stew the size of drums,
hame made soup from duggie bones, Irn Bru and tattie scones
Eating grand when Johnny's back, home, and off the beaten track,
when every inch of every glen, must shape his shadow there again

A roll with Annie down the hill, all heather stalks and wanton will,
her kiss like satin on his lips, tingled toes and finger tips
A thistle's thorn could never sting, away the pain that absence brings,
just promises in jeely jars, silver rings, and battle scars

Much later, after Sunday baths, piano songs and hearty laughs
the men smoke like a reeking lumb, till whisky knocks their senses numb
And morning mirrors heave a sigh, reminded of his next goodbye,
all uniforms and worried soul, preparing for his chosen role

Off now young man, one time more, as conflict may knock on our door -
a muckle train takes you away,  as glorious as come-what-may
A Flying Scotsman's younger brother, wrenching firstborn from it's mother
a route from which one can't depart - the train-tracks of a soldier's heart
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since this week's prompt hails from my motherland, I went on a nostalgic journey using some Scottish vernacular.  I think most will work out the words for themselves but give me a shout if their are any queries...... 

11 comments:

Berowne said...

Dynamic, impressive, smoothly rhythmic - well done.

Elena Sands said...

Lovely poem. Good cadence and imagery.

Tess Kincaid said...

Rich and visual...plays out nicely...

Geo. said...

Grand use of idiom and rhythms of speech and memory. I got pulled in. Compliments!

Sandra said...

nice images!

Anonymous said...

...fair enjoyed that. When I was a blogger here, I rarely commented on your Sunday poetry and such stuff, but I see how it brings about great versatility in folk. Kudos!

Bekkie Sanchez said...

It was brilliant and I liked your addition to the picture. Your use of language was fun. Bravo!

Kutamun said...

This is powerful my dear ... While i read the first couple of verses , troop trains and The Flying Scotsman popped into my head , then when i read the last verse i nearly fell over ! Cheers

Anonymous said...

Helen - heed-rum haw-drum......@facebook fartface

Banker Chick said...

I follow you on this blog. I have enjoyed the magpie posts and have been thinking about joining magpie posts...I just have to get some enthusiasm back. I will keep reading. You paint a great picture with your words. When I looked at the picture, I could only think Harry Potter. Again I need some enthusiasm.

Susan Anderson said...

Really nice!

=)