On the Crest of a hill of primeval green
Fly's the flags of a Scotsman's personal dream
Surrounded by relics, of authors source
Of days gone by, Cheyenne's white horse
A display of feathers adorns the wall
Connected to Red Indian words recalled
That all things share the same breath on earth
A rose rock from the blood and tears
The great white spirit, wings of air.
A medley of Gothic clutters the table
A narrative is offered to explain the fable
You find yourself adding to it, your own parable.
With panache he explains the journeys birth
With feeling, with thought, full of mirth
His eyes alight, words displayed and flayed
Entertaining our thoughts, a marvel crusade
Like a well rehearsed play from an actor's line
He portrays a Viking from ancient times.
And dressed he is in plaited kilt
Professing soundly of jacobite roots
Passionate, whimsical, a variable flute
Up goes his hand shouting 'Up yer Kilts! '
With laughter and ease I'm captured, entranced
By my friend I call Cavey
Our Amusing brave heart
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Comments about this poem (Caraid by Littlewing28 Pani )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Tonight I can write the saddest lines, Pablo Neruda
- As I Grew Older, Langston Hughes
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