Wee Scoops

Measure for Measure

Archive for the category “poems”

Tip Top Toes

English: A pair of high heeled shoe with 12cm ...

English: A pair of high heeled shoe with 12cm stiletto heels. Category:Shoes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My footwear has once again reached a low point. (Is that a type of shoe?)

I hate shoes. Boots are a joy; shoes are a pain. With shoes come ankles; with ankles come legs; with legs come effort.  Effort and self-consciousness.

Christmas is coming and pretty little outfits are winking their spangles at me – and I’m buying them. I’m buying them with big boots on, that aren’t of course what I’ll wear with them. But what will I wear with them? If I don’t buy something appropriate, I’ll have to wear big boots with them. Big flat boots. Big flat boots that, when worn with a sparkly outfit, render me a hobbit.

I then go through my ‘heels’ loop. I can’t walk in heels. There’s no point in buying them. I can walk from the car to the event in them, but then I have to discard them as soon as I get there and stomp stumpily about all night in my feet. Also, because I can’t walk in them, I resent paying money for them, so I buy cheap ones which turn out to be complete rubbish. Who knows? Maybe if I could bring myself to pay more for shoes they would function like shoes.

I doubt it.

Maybe platforms are the way forward. Maybe platforms are also the way to A and E, though. I’m not used to heights.

Then I watch Strictly Come Dancing and see people in perfectly lovely shoes running about in them – flinging themselves around a dance floor with gay abandon, seemingly without a consideration of decking it. Maybe I should root out some ballroom dancing shoes and see if they are walkable in.

But for now, I banish the thought of heels from my shopping list, and imagine the balm that this would bring…  and the result is a wee poem. It makes sense, I promise:



Heeling shoes
Shooing heels
Healing Shoes
Shooing heals


“Success and Failure”: A Sonnet

Success is a sycophant; let me fail.
Today I would much rather hit that tree
Than peak and plunge in a glorious trail
Of certificates and evidence. Me?
I first want to hit the wall, then scale it,
Run until nothing is left in the tank,
Repeat and repeat and repeat – not quit,
Liquidate all things in every bank
And spend myself most luxuriously,
Until I reach the end of every pain
And seek out others, as I curiously
Find the point of failure the point of gain.
A face in the dirt, no more now to give
Knowing that this was how much I could live.

The Desk, a poem

The Desk

The bridge of my starship,
My starship of enterprises.
I enter: prizes.

My name on a toblerone prism,
Gouged in gold.

You can’t see my feet,
Just my mug shot
Above the mahogany,
My coiffured self
My manicured shiny shiny me.

Polished and buffed,
My desk is tidy
Miscellaneous pens in a desk tidy.
Tidy, tidy.

My in tray is empty;
My out tray is full
Of neat fat envelopes with stamps on,
Ready to be posted,
Out of my hands.

Wood and baize,
And ink and paper
A stationary stationery helm:
My mission control.

A poem for the last day of my career break, if a little tenuous.

Swing Chain

Swing Chain (Photo credit: brentdanley)

I’m weightless:
Waiting to plunge backwards, downwards,
Feet like lead, hair straight forwards;
My hands grip the iron chains,
My neck strains forward,
Eyes narrow against the sun.
This is the top.
And then the wind will rush by my ears
As the park skews below me
To a blur of green.
I tuck my legs under,
Ready to stretch out,
Lean back.
My heart sinks,
Then rises.

A poem about Wimbledon


The sun is out,

In dim lounges
We watch them play.

A tense trapezium:
White on green,
With scuffs of a fortnight’s dust
And puffs of chalk
And drops of sweat
And echoes of summers past-
With sun bleached memories
Of short shorts and long hair
And rain;
And Martina winning …
And come on Jimmy you can do it!
And you cannot be serious
And singalonga Cliff
And Sue…

But today …
In long shorts
The no longer long shot
Is bang on.

We wave awkward flags of nationhood
Over the All England club.

The 77 year long lament dies
As the long trousers are finally folded.
The long shorts
Made long short work of it
Which was the long and the short of it.

A wee poem about Today, called “Today”

20130608-080147 PM.jpg


Scotland is happy.
Sun in bright blue
Above green.

Everything uncurls, unfurls.

Scotland is open.
Leaves spread and bask
And we

Climb every mountain,
Cook outside,
Feel sand between our toes,
Sleep with our face in the grass,
Sweat, and drink water.
And we

Fill paddling pools
And splash about against a backdrop
Of flowers in bloom.

Brides can’t believe their luck today
Owners of convertibles are glad they are
And we

Are glad to be here


20130608-080130 PM.jpg

The Hall

The Hall


A shared space where tea is made at the end of things.

Where ancient strings hang from high windows

And the blinds go up and down.

Here we come.


Sunday morning after church –
You are welcome to join us in the hall for tea or coffee:
Watery warmth in white teacups
Angled close to a fluttering spill,
While intent faces beneath thick make up
Share life and care,
Sipping together.

Children, beneath the canopy of wavering cups,
Are free in a forest of legs:
Hiding and chasing.


A passage for rites:
See the new baby come to join us.
Watch him grow.
One of us, another one of us.
Week on week,
A life in time lapse.


Ceilidhs and parties happen here –
Suddenly we are together:
Flashing past in a reel ,
Flung in a set on the floor,
Fast light feet and clumsy spinning…
Hilarity at incompetence in fun,
And the music,
And the dance.
And the sparkles swept away
As, with shoes in hand,
We tiptoe out into the darkness
Wearing someone else’s jacket.


Together we grow towards death,
Held together by sharing today.
And afterwards…
The rest of us will be here.
For tea and sandwiches
Taken together,
Soothing throats
Aching with memory.


A wide broom sweeps the floor.

Please leave the hall as you would hope to find it.

Hand on the doorhandle,

I peer into the empty space,

Where life is lived where we can see it.

“Up Tae Summat”: A Poem

English: Cairn on side of Stobie Hillock This ...

English: Cairn on side of Stobie Hillock This cairn was near, but not on the top of Stobie Hill. Strangely there was no cairn on the top. The mountain in the distance is Lochnagar (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Up tae Summat

If ahm jist aboot ower this hill
Ah must be up tae summat:
Haufway therr
Jist lik they ten thoosin men
Ur Bon Jovi.
Ahm neither up nor doon aboot it.

Tappy the hill:
Best view gaun.

Ah’ll mak this a milestone,
No a millstone –
An lee it oan tappy this cairn
Afore a humph ma way doon.

Forty years tae climb this hill –
Micht as well enjoy the view:
A peek at aw the peaks
Roonaboot me: some nearby, some distant,

In an instant,
Far back, Ah see Mount Ararat
Noah place tae run a grun,
Ye micht think.
Bit he wiz up tae summat:
Oot the Ark
Tae staun neath the arc
O a watergaw
The joy o daurk an licht the gither
The ups an doons thit gie us colour.

It luiks mair black an white
Oan Sinai –
Moses was up tae summat.
Thick darkness gein clarity:
Stanes o law – richt an wrang.
But it wiz far fae a mosey doon that hill:
God’s screed smashed tae smithereens o scree!

Take two.

Wan mair hill Ah kin see fae here
It isnae green, it isnae far away.
Jesus wis up tae summat.
Hung oot alane
Pittin wrang tae richt.

Jist the wanst.

Ah dinae want tae luik –
A want tae haud on til Sunday;
See the muckle stane couped,
Lettin hope leak oot.

That’s ma view fae here.

Ah staun
Oan the summat:
Tappy the hill.
Leein ma stane;
Ma “Ah wiz here”.

If sumdy kicks the cairn,
It willnae matter if the chuckies scatter:
When Ah wis up
Ah wiz.

A Limerick With “Woosh” in it

English: Cover for A Book of Nonsense by Edwar...

English: Cover for A Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear (ca 1875 James Miller edition) Français : Couverture de A Book of Nonsense d’Edward Lear (édition James Miller, vers 1875) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A word in a poem was sought.

Such a limerick cannot be bought.

A wish for a woosh

I can grant at a push:

It was easy. Who would have thought?

“Babel”: a poem

Theoretical linguistics

Theoretical linguistics (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


The same, the same, the same, the same.
Unity and power;
Time to build a tower;
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Uniform blocks not random rocks;
The same, the same, the same.

Everyone we call on understands;
Everyone we’ve gathered from every land;
Together we can build;
Together we will stand;
Together we’ll be known in every land.

Fame for us,
A name for us,
The same for us.



Varied vocabularies,
Diverse dialects:
The community, confused,
Abandoned the plan.

People went to places.
They cultivated cultures
And valued variety.
Contrasting and vibrant.

That made all the difference.
That settled it.

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