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Ross Mackay Poems
There Be, There Be
The shimmer of the morning cold seemed to stroke its fingers across my late morning dream. You turned towards me,
Smoking in the Dark
The dust bowl of my poisoned breath The tepid low narcotic test The tempered brain falls from the nest The captive tied a King in jest
Intolerance: Love's Struggle Through The...
Our play is made up of four different stories, laid in different periods of history, each with its own set of characters
Fetch me my Water and Gun
Cario, Cario, Cario
Martell Overture Part II: 'Solstice Danc...
She whithers in the wind, she crumbles in my hand. I set the table for Sunday dinner, just for myself, no one else was coming.
Martell Overture Part I: 'Where She Watc...
The night will bite like fingers on an egg, leave a tang on the tongue like old coffee. The holy neophyte with cat like tread and wading through the elm heartwood
Martell Overture (complete)
- -Where She Watches Over Babylon- -
Where way down east, broken blossoms in her hair, in the birth of a nation, the intolerance in her stare-
It's in that Falling Dew
It's in that falling dew, the quaint gardens and the moss brown patios held down by the rain, settling like bubbling salt to the sideways eye in the sky.
The Field at Night
To the field at night, yellow crisp moon dips its paintbrush, into the tar sea of grass. Sombre spectre in woe,
Intolerance Part IV: Judea and the Holy ...
Judea and the Holy Intervention
Intolerance Part III: The St Bartholomew...
1572 A.D. Paris. Brown Eyes, make me your goodnight kiss.
Intolerance Part II: Ancient Babylon
539 B.C, Ancient Babylon
Intolerance Part I: 1914, the Modern Age
Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking
Comments about Ross Mackay
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
There Be, There Be
The shimmer of the morning cold
seemed to stroke its fingers across
my late morning dream.
You turned towards me,
a smile pressed the fontanelle
of my lucid vulnerability.
Languid, the chill of the outside
rippled through the windows
whilst I lay most content.
The halls were golden,
there was a swimming pool,
as I remember.
There you lay between a mirror
and the orchestra played Greensleeves.
You had turned away to face me
and smiled through me at first.
Your skin was golden
and the hall smelled sweet of summer.
I felt the touch of ...