It doesn’t matter what battles you fight
Or the ones you walk away from, right
It matters not the reasons you give
Yourselves and others for these fateful wars
It’s unimportant if you think you’ll win
And even less so if indeed you loose
You can’t stop the sands from shifting
You can’t save the world that’s drowning
You can stop the tears from crying
You can’t take the pain away
We don’t always know our reasons in life
Can’t work out when there’s hunger and strife
Why you get pushed or just jump forward
Towards another life or goal post onward
What’s true and honest is our need to be
Ourselves not matter what we intend to see
You can’t stop the sands from shifting
You can’t save the world that’s drowning
You can stop the tears from crying
You can’t take the pain away
The Clyde is the flower of Scotland.
It flows through my town everyday.
It is better by far than the Luce at Stranraer,
The Forth, the Tweed and the Tay.
Angry rain hurls itself against my bedroom window
Ghoulish wind urging it on
Each droplet a whole universe
Shimmering under the glow of moonlight
Shutters half-open
Cast shadow bars on every wall
Their hushed grey fragments
Dance wildly around my head
The dog lies softly curled,
A furry question mark at my feet
Adrift in his sea of curious dreams
He twitches and judders
Sleep stumbles through the darkness
Together we traverse time
To long forgotten places
Visiting never forgotten faces
We jump over tree roots splitting the earth,
Leave behind ripples that treasure many rains
Before soaring upwards, upwards,
Scanning a world cast in glistening jewels
Draped in a strawberry sky, dawn breaks
Sweeping away the shadows with matronly efficiency
Shining soft white light into my eyes
I stare ahead and for a fleeting moment again want to take flight.
Her father said they were not
to speak Italian, believing
the dialect they brought with them
along with their peasant clothes
and worn-out shoes was
something to be ashamed of.
But at times words fell
from her mamma’s lips
like petals shaken from a bough -
sta chiove, ‘n goppa,
iamme, ce verimm' aròppo.
When no-one was looking
my mother caught them,
pressed them into her memory
like flowers between
the pages of a secret book
to be handed down in time
to her own daughter.
NO SCOTLAND , NO PARTY
I’ll never really understand,
People touring from land to land
Polluting the air from North USA to Dubai,
Private jets filling the sky.
To laze in a lounger day by day,
Soaking up those UV rays
Or stuck in a cabin out at sea,,
Cruising doesn’t appeal to me.
Exploration and adventure, we need to look,
I blame it all on Thomas Cook,
For he hadn’t started the foreign forays,
Would we have to endure those airport delays.
What’s fun in queuing with cases,,
All for the sake of seeing new places,
Cramming yourself into a tiny little seat,
Packed in like pieces of meat.
I just don’t get that “wish you were here”
All inclusive breaks indulgent buffets and beer,
The excitement of tourism, I deplore,
Save the planet don’t go abroad any more.
If you ever watch a travelogue show,
You’ll have seen and heard everything you need to know,
No need to travel in a group or even solo,
Just view Joanna Lumley and Michael Portillo.
This lovely little island where we live,
Overloaded with attraction s willing to give,
Don’t listen t all that sun -loving hogwash,
Keep away from Barney and Bradley Walsh.
There is so much to see and do here,
Familiar food, wine and beer,
Help our economy grow and grow,
Even if the weather is rain or snow.
Why do humans want to travel to the Moon,
So much easier to drive down to Dunoon.
Fish and chips in bistros in bars,
No- one has to travel to the stars.
But I was blown away in the Vatican City,
Thinking it’s beautiful but it’s a pity,
It didn’t seem to make much sense,
Not to share this wealth and opulence.
Can’t you see the dangers of worldwide travel
The dangers are about to unravel.
I want to shout out hale and hearty,
No Scotland No Party .
My epitaph will be that I’ve seen it on the telly,
No indeed I’ve never travelled to New Delhi,
Seen the celebrities travelling the globe and beyond,
I’ve never even been over the pond.
She enters like a tartan Virgin Mary,
blanket wrapped round her and the baby
and fixed at the shoulder with a safety pin.
Gonnae gie us tick tae Friday, Angie?
Her other weans surround her
but the shop counter divides their world
from mine. Eight-year-old lady bountiful
I pass them alms while no-one is looking:
penny caramels in waxy tartan wrappers,
flying saucers that explode in your mouth
like cosmic holy communion, the mysteries
of the universe sealed in a thrupenny lucky bag.
Caught, I’m banished to the back shop
where I sit on a brown rug floating
on a sea of green linoleum,
sail off with the Famous Five.
Later I help count the day’s takings,
build columns of copper pennies,
towers of silver sixpenny bits.
I hold up two leftover coins, one showing
a man with Brylcreemed hair, the other
a young girl in ringlets and ribbons.
I want them to smile at each other
but they won’t and I can’t make them.
Every third Friday of the month-what a treat,
For at JW’S Genuine Gin and Jam the musicians meet,
And display their talents in rock n’ roll,
Playing for your heart and soul.
Friends gather under the glass roof in the Clutha Bar,
The memories come flooding back from afar,
As the house band really rocks the room,
Blasting out tune after tune,
Great, glorious guitar solos from, Brian and Baz,
A bit of rhythm’ n’ blues, but not much jazz,
Never hear anything from Oasis or Blur,
Thoughts of them never seem to occur.
Riveting riffs from Ian and John Murray,
Those Murrays- too good to hurry,
The lady who sings “I never want to fall in love”,
In a voice given from God above
It really is so much fun,
Makes you feel that you’re twenty –one,
Listening to songs and music from a bygone phase,
As the artists mount the Alex Harvey pictured stage.
The best thing about the Clutha bar,
Is that two weeks later we can all come back,
And do it all again in the Ivory Blacks,
Those charities know the organisers are real stars.
You can listen to a chanter singing Wishing Well,
Rocking out with Rebel Yell,
Listen to Sweet Child of Mine,
Hear Born To Be Wild and Sweet Caroline.
Couldn’t go without words for The Mighty “o”,
For without his influence there’d be no show,
His powerful voice can still be heard near and far,
From the Barras to the Southside Star Bar.
These are words of appreciation,
For raising the spirits of your generation,
Providing us with fabulous Friday afternoon sessions,
We give your all our thanks and our blessing.
Messrs Wightman and Reece deserve plaudits and praise,
For giving us so many happy days,
For giving the talented a chance to do their thing,
And supporting the charities with everything.