Friday, July 27, 2007

The Fratellis Live!

Don't know why it took so long to post this....

The last best thing the kids and I did for vacation, was go to see The Fratellis Live at the Empire State Plaza, at the EQX Plaza Alternative Music Fest, Albany, N.Y. on July 21, 2007.

"For Free" (yeah right, I spent as much on T-shirts for all of us as I would have for tickets....)

We had a blast! saraH won a poster and CD, we got several bands EP's and had them all signed. The one she won was by a British band called Switch. It was an I-tunes copy ripped by the radio station... the band members asked her "saraH, how did you get an illegal copy of our record that is not yet available in the U.S.?" Then they wrote that all over the CD. saraH got all of the bands to sign the Poster but Cracker. (we were there all day and left before Cracker, which was fine with the Ol' Fert)

While The Lemonheads were playing, I noticed out of the corner of my eye what looked like The Fratellis quietly signing autographs up front to the left of the stage. Sure enough it was them! We all got our shirts signed and managed to chat with them for a bit as well. I had put my purchased shirt in the car so I had my Scotland shirt signed instead.

(one of them had a lighter that matched my shirt) "Silly Ol' Man", I forgot to take a picture of them with saraH and Mike. Just not used to having a camera phone I guess. saraH was in her glory, Mike ate it all up, and I felt like a 50 year old teenager myself.

If you are able too and watch the YouTube link I have set up here you will see Mikes Green and White striped Hat in the crowd in the lower right. I am dancing next to him and saraH is dancing next to me.

The "boys from Glasgow" put on a great show, and even Mike, who didn't know if he wanted to go at first, enjoyed himself.


Thursday, July 26, 2007

A Portrait of the Artist as "The Ol' Man"


This is what happens when you are reading Joyce,
and someone mentions Bunyan....


A Pilgrims Regress:

The Lament of a Simple Minded Christian.

He sees the Moon

and Van Gogh's Star

as he stumbles home

tonight, from the Bar

He, who once was

The Lord's Warrior

a Guardian of The Word

now hears the buzz

of the worrier

a Freudian, of the Dirge

A time of Drinking

Out, with "The Bards"

A time of thinking

sometimes, too hard

He, who once was

now feels inferior

fated, by The Word

having a new Cause

a simple writer with

Truths to merge

They talked of God

and "path's not taken"

of Mount's not trod

and Faith, misshapen

He, who once wished

to be Yahweh's Courier

Champion of His Word

now clenches his fist's

and must walk, further

some burden to purge

As he watches the Moon

and Van Gogh's Star

still stumbling home

tonight, from the Bar.


Wednesday, July 25, 2007

James Gilmour of Mongolia ?

I found mention of this book entitled: "James Gilmour of Mongolia" by Richard Lovett, M.A. while reading newspaper articles from the Brooklyn Eagle online. It was mentioned in an article dated Jul. 18 1902; I had searched the collection for references to several Gilmour family names and then found this seemingly unimportant reference.

I looked this book up on Internet Archive and found this listing:

I am currently reading the entirety of the book. It is available free of charge as a pdf file or you can view it online as a "flipbook". Flipbook is a facsimile of the original and quite readable.

I love this resource and have also read several books by "James Roberts Gilmour", under the pseudonym of Edmund Kirk, These are set in and during the American Civil War. Much of them include parts that are written in a 1860s Southern Dialect. Good stuff.

Well, the reason I am mention this link to the book "James Gilmour of Mongolia" is this: in the first few chapters of the book about his childhood in Glasgow, I came across something very interesting. Imagine my surprise when I got to page 19 and I read about his father moving the family to the city so his father could go into partnership with his brother "Alexander" as "Timber Merchants" !!!!! Possibly the Father of my ggGrandfather and his siblings? Hmmmm....

Then, later on during his school days when he left his parents home he resided for a time (page 23) in Glasgow. It seems that the University he attended subsequently moved to a new location called "Gilmorehill" in the western part of the City.

He would have been a contemporary of my ancestors at least if not direct cousins. This James Gilmour was in his time (...just after my James died, or maybe died...) a famous Missionary for the Presbyterian Church.

The majority of the book is devoted to the telling of the story of his life as a missionary for Christ. It was intended by the London Missionary Society, to be marketed to Sunday School Teachers, Christian Workers and "elder Scholars in our schools" of the day, to inspire and inform them of his ministry. As such it is written in a glowing and overly praise filled tone. He was after all, a martyr for the missionary cause.

Still, if written from a skewed point of view, and as a form of propaganda for the missionary movement, it is in many places inspiring to me that he did so much for the faith. I cannot say that I could have been capable of doing what he did, though often in my youth I aspired to such ideals and dreams. I even contemplated missions at one point, but I am convinced that I would not have attained the success that he was able to achieve.

You never know where things will come from.

The search is (at times) thrilling!


Wednesday, July 18, 2007

The Strange History Mystery, of the Death, and possible Resurrection, of James Gilmour...

"Is he here, or is he there? Perhaps we'll never know..."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel"

Caution: some of the immigration information may be boring, and seem as if it can be bypassed, I provide it simply as back matter
to the facts in the case presented. Skim what you will.


This is Castle Garden in the Battery in 1869,
as it would have appeared to my Ancestors
when they came into this Country.
The image was obtained from the NYPL online.

To the best of my ability:

...this is the order of emigration of my Gilmour Ancestors.

These records were obtained from Castle

Elizabeth Gilmore

Occupation Unknown

Age 18

Sex F

Literacy U

Arrived 17 Jun 1856

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship Enterprise

Passage Unknown

Robert Gilmore

Occupation Laborer

Age 20

Sex M

Literacy U

Arrived 11 Nov 1857

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship Empire

Passage Unknown

Anne Gilmore

Occupation Spinster

Age 20

Sex F

Literacy U

Arrived 22 Dec 1859

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship Dreadnought

Passage Unknown

James Gilmour

Occupation Cooper

Age 19

Sex M

Literacy U

Arrived 13 May 1859

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship Webster

Passage Unknown

Alexander Gilmour (jr)

Occupation School Master

Age 19

Sex M

Literacy U

Arrived 15

Aug 1864

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship John Bright

Passage Unknown

Alexander Gilmour

Occupation Cooper

Age 54

Sex M

Literacy U

Arrived 15 Aug 1864

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship John Bright

Passage Unknown

Jane (Glenn) Gilmour

Occupation Wife

Age 54

Sex F

Literacy U

Arrived 15 Aug 1864

Origin Ireland

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship John Bright

Passage Unknown

John Gilmore

Occupation Laborer

Age 18

Sex M

Literacy U

Arrived 2 Oct 1864

Origin England

Port Liverpool

Last Residence

Destination USA

Plan Unknown

Ship William Tapscott

Passage Unknown

This then, would make the Birth order:

Alexander (Sr): 1810 or 02 & Jane (Glenn): 1810 or 02

Robert: 1833 or 35 or 37

Eliza: 1838

Anne: 1839

James: 1840

John: 1842 or 46

Alexander (jr) 1846 or 42

Based on information obtained from the family letters, I believe that John was born in 42 and Alexander (jr) in 46.

Spellings of names vary.

Dates of birth vary from reported census data.

Census data varies from census to census.

(I find it interesting that the immigration agents listed their literacy as "U" for unknown. One would assume that a Schoolmaster was literate. Well, some of my Schoolmasters were...)

Me (2006) at the gates of Castle Garden (Clinton).
Where they would have entered in.
The doors are closed. Does that mean I can't leave?

~ ~ ~

The only one with verified birth data is James:

Christening: 18 JAN 1840, Lower Cumber, Londonderry, Ireland



Extracted birth or christening record for the locality listed in the record. The source records are usually arranged chronologically by the birth or christening date.

Source Information:
Batch No.: C700391 Dates: 1804 - 1877 Source Call No.: 6026027 Type: Printout Call No.: Type:
Film 0933443 Film Sheet: 00

~ ~ ~

The letters culminate in James' death at the battle of Fair Oaks on July 31st, 1862 and the efforts of the Family and the Government Embalmers to recover his body.

Drs. Brown + Alexander Govt. Embalmers.
Doctors couldn't write legibly then either...

So here is my transcription:

Washington July 19 th 1862

Mr Robt. Gilmour

Dear Sir
Since we last wrote
to you from Fortris Monroe,
in White House. The seceshin`
ists have taken possesion of
the battle field of Fair Oaks
where your brother lies, and
it is im poss ible to
get the body, until we
have the place again.
We here by return you
the money & Receipt,
by Handies Express. the
money has just wired through
by~ Express from Fort Monroe
Sometime in the future we may
be able to obtain the body for
you. Yours Respectfuly
Drs. Brown & Alexander
Govt. Embalmers.


His mother Jane applied for death benefits, and I found the Civil War Pension Index for James with his mother Jane listed on it. The 82nd N.Y. Inf. means that it is him but the date is all but illegible to me. What is the year of the date on the application? …18??/Nov. /18 …I don't Know.

Civil War Pension Index for James Gilmour,
with his Mother Jane (Glenn) Gilmour listed as the beneficiary.

So, based on the letters and this document one could assume that James did in fact die at the Battle of Fair Oaks in the afternoon of May 31st, 1862. I of course had simply assumed that his death was a forgone conclusion.

~ ~ ~

Until I stumbled into this paradox. In a N.Y. Times obituary Published November of 1915, I found this:

And here is another anomaly: as it happens, there was this James Gilmour who owned a place of business right next door to my ggGreat Grandfather Robert Gilmour.

Here is the listing in the:

1869 NYC Directory:

Gilmour Alexander, cooper, h 241 E. 22d (Robert and James' Father)

Gilmour Christiana, wid. David, dressmkr. h 465 W. 42d

Gilmour James, collars, 549 Pearl, h E. 21st n Third av.

Gilmour James, lighters, 98 Broad, h 68 Second, B'klyn

Gilmour John A. umbrellas, 228 G'wich

Gilmour Robert, cooper, 548 Pearl, h 120 W. B'way

Gilmour & Woolley, collars, 549 Pearl

Gilmour, McBain & Co. lighters, 98 Broad

~ ~ ~

So now, the question is, did he actually die or not at Battle of Fair Oaks? Since the body was never recovered, as per Jacob Glenn's (James' cousin) letter, (which is actually a third hand account of the incident) and the correspondence with the Government Embalmers which states that the Battlefield was lost to the enemy, ...there is no positive proof of his death.

No-one who would have known for sure is alive to tell.

No body, No evidence, as Perry Mason might say.

~ ~ ~

So now I'm wondering, does the profession of "Collars" refer to "Clothes", "Harnesses for Draft animals" or "The Mechanical Engineering ring shaped device used in Plumbing?"

To date I Can't find what it was that the Gilmour & Woolley Co. made at that location yet.

I suspect that it was men's Collars. The partnership was dissolved in 1872 and I found a Newspaper Article listing the dissolution of their Partnership in a 1872 New York Herald.

I can't seem to find find enough on "this" or "these" James Gilmour/s to "rawt" it out. I think I have him located in NJ selling Brass Fittings. (Plumbing Supplies?)

But for now:

The Major Questions are:

Is this James back from the dead?

Is this another James Gilmour?

Is this a Cousin named James Gilmour?

What is the connection?

It can't be just coincidence….

Am I driving myself "dafty" for no reason?

I think I'm going to send this to the PBS "History Detectives" to see what they can do with it. ...Let them give it "the Perry Mason treatment"...



P.S.: Yeah, this whole chase ensued as a result of a question that I had while trying to finish the transcription and notes for the letters. Somehow I always seem to sidetrack myself.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Vacation Correspondence:

You know that little "automatic E-mail response thing" you get, when someone goes away, and you are still working, because you're not on vacation too?


I hate that, ...don't you?

Well, to all of you who did that to me, guess what....


("...he-he-he, yuk-yuk, snicker, snicker...")


...Poets correspond. The Weaver Poets of County Atrium and Down did it. If they weren't alive when a Poet they were influenced by lived, they eulogized them instead.

In America, in 1957, a year before I was born, Jack Spicer wrote letters to Lorca long after Lorca was moldy.

Alan, or perhaps it was Art, told me that Frost and Christman at least knew of each other, perhaps wrote to each other, and if I remember correctly, visited each other.

Poets gather in groups of like minded individuals to read and grow in their craft. We do that in the EOTNP Group. Some of our most memorable and inspiring times are in the Pub "after-words", and even then, we are corresponding with each other.

Poets need each other.

Poets correspond.

~ ~ ~

Today I went to the W.W. Christman Sanctuary with my kids for my our Summer Vacation. Now that they are older, and have "semi" lives of their own, we take our vacations where we can get them.

Devo signs us in at Christman Sanctuary 09:40 hours.

Last night, when I was having some trouble getting directions via the internet, which I eventually found through, Alan corresponded with me with a follow-up E-mail and sent me a link that said simply:

Which I promptly did. If you can't make this link for some reason paste it into your browser and check it out. It's kinda cool! This is a link to Letterboxing North America .org, and their Homepage states:

LETTERBOXING: is an intriguing pastime combining navigational skills and rubber stamp artistry in a charming "treasure hunt" style outdoor quest. A wide variety of adventures can be found to suit all ages and experience levels.

Basically, you treasure hunt, and collect impressions from rubber stamps, hidden in tupperware and plastic ziplock baggies somewhere along the hiking trail.

This is Devo and saraH, at a passway
in the field wall along the Orange trail loop.

These are the Stamps we collected today.

So, this is what my adult "kids" and I did for our Summer Vacation.

With my own special twist...

I wanted to correspond with Christman too....

Me mailing a letter to Christman...

~ ~ ~

My mom, famous for taking me and my brother Rich, about the countryside, to interesting places, once took me to do a grave-rubbing of Robert Frosts Grave. Gravestone rubbing was a burgeoning hobbie in those days... one of those "Time-Life" "fun things to do with your kids" type hobbies.

Little did I know, the corollary correspondences, that this would make in my life.

Last night I wrote this poem. Today I mailed it by stamping it and adding it to the Letterbox at Christman's.

Correspon' dances:

Mae Muther taen mae tae

Rabbie Frost's grave yin day

quhan A wus boot a ween

sae scho cud doo a rubbin

o hiz ain auld hiedstane

wi' charcoal ona paiper blacken

ana runnybabbits quher oot tae play


A taen mae bairns tae

Christman's Sanctuarie

Frae som clymin aroon

hiz hardscrabble muntin

ana jist hadda sae, Christman,

ye're ae goon naw, bot nae forgottin

ana runnybabbits quher oot tae play.

© obeedude16/july/07

Yeah, thats right!

Even the RunnieBabbits corresponded. They were the first thing we saw when we arrived at the trailhead. They were waiting for us! And somehow last night I knew they would be.

~ ~ ~

...We just got back. My feet are tired. I'm gonna take a nap like my adult "kids" are doing right now as I write this.

I can do this. I'm on Vacation.

...And we take our Vacations where we find them...


Friday, July 13, 2007

What if "The Beave" were an Ulster-Scot?

Lets face it, I had given up on Habbie. I had decided that the vernacular of my forbearer's was beyond me. My daughter, said she liked my other stuff and wished I would write like I used too. I had consented to acquiesce. No more Ullans* for me....

Then, this poem just channeled through me.

I was thinking about my Dad, the family myth of his beloved old
"Kaiserr Henry J", and my childhood in Avon N.Y.....

This is me, and my older brother Kevin,
on Lacy Street, in Avon N.Y.(1959)
(Yes, thats me in my "droopy-drawers!)

Yeah, that's right, this poem channeled through me, and I am no longer reverse-engineering this stuff, so no translation is provided. That's o.k. though, I think I finally manged to do it well enough, so that anyone should be able to read and understand it as is:

Mae auld lang syne:

( For Bill Morrison, A story of my childhood written in "Ullans" (Ulster Scots) or "West Central Scots" The Language of Rabbie Burns.)

Quhan A wus jus a wee bairn

back in tha toun o Avon

Da wud take us tae tha Barbers

in hiz lyttle Henry Jay

circ'l roon tha park quhar

tha Civil War Canons lae

tha yin thon the' shat aff

on inadependance dae

Yea hadda gie way

tae tha sleepin dug

quha ina rod wud stae

Tha Mayr's nam wus Mulvaney

thons quhaur A gie mae yinst hairscoot

frae he wus tha Mayr, an tha Barber tae

A rememba hiz so' ful laf

ana snip-snip, o tha sizzer throo

mae hair az it fel yin mae lap

an mae Da an hiz croonies tae

tauking polotic o tha day

gif A wus guid, A got a Lolli

an ona Canons wus alowd tae play

bot thos auld tymes ar gon naw

an Avon's bot a 'burb tahdae

Tha auld tymes past awa

mae Da he' goon twa yier

Mulvaney nae langer cots hairs

an somyin els' iz tha may'r thyer

in mae memry styl it lyngers

Ya canna go bak the' sae

bot A hae brung ye thar

gif onie frae a momenary stae

an naw ye bin thar tae

gif thon mak's mae a bald birky

than sae beyit by an by

ye ownie saw yit, throo mae e'es

Sae rememba hiz so'ful laf

ana snip-snip, o tha sizzer throo

mae hair as it fel in mae lap

an mae Da an hiz croonies tae

tauking polotic o tha dae

gif A wur guid, A got a Lolli

an ona Canons cud play.

obeedude 11/july/07

So here is a picture of the actual Civil War Cannons, at the Soldiers Monument, in the Central Green, Avon N.Y. My memory of climbing and playing on it is more properly placed in the early sixties, when we would return there in the summer time, to spend our vacations at Mulvaney's Camp on Canisius Lake.

Avon in those days was very much the "Andy of Mayberry" type of town. The kind of place that only exists today in the naive baby boomer myth consciousness. (Pre-Vietnam, Pre- Summer of Love, still in the "Leave it to Beaver" National what-a-day-for-a-daydream frame of mind.)

And this is a 1951 Kaiserr Henry J. :

Whether or not I would have been old enough to have had an actual memory of riding in it in 1959 it is debatable. It is, as much a memory of Family Myth, as anything else.

So, this is the story behind the myth, or the myth behind the story. More succinctly: the nostalgia of My old long time ago: in the dialect of the Auld Lang Syne. Sorry saraH, I'll try to write more like you want someday, or perhaps you will read more like I write someday... My myth's will become your myth's, and you will have your own, old long time ago.

Paint the "The Geezer O'Beaver" colorful. Tha's a' A ax....


"Ulster-Scots" is basically the same as "West Central Scots" (the language of Rabbie Burns), a Germanic tongue of common origin with English. Scots is the most defining characteristic of the Ulster accent, most Ulster-Scots who have visited other parts of the English speaking world will testify that more often than not, they are mistaken as being from Scotland rather than Northern Ireland. While broad Ulster-Scots is only spoken in the more rural communities, everyone in Northern Ireland uses Ulster-Scots words and phrases in their everyday speech.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

The Nativity of Our Scot-Irish Forbearers.

The Statue of Rabbie Burns
"The McPherson Legacy"

I can remember when I was young, my mother took me to the Robert Burns Statue in Washington Park in downtown Albany. I don't know what I thought about it at the time, but I do remember being impressed by the shear size of it. Recently as my interest in Burns and the Weaver Poets of Antrim and Down has awakened, the memory of that day returned. So I visited there with my girlfriend and her youngest son, and I looked up on the net the history of how it came to be there. (There is actually an online digital copy
of the book all about it, available through Google.)

Me, Cam, and the Rabbie Burns Statue
in Albany's Washington Park.

It seems that the Statue was erected and dedicated on September 30th 1888, and was a Gift to the City, as a last dieing bequest of Miss Mary McPherson as: "a fitting testimonial of the love and pride which Scot-Americans of the city and country cherish for the land of their nativity."

Most recently the Burns Statue, has become the sight of gatherings, involving Dan Wilcox
and the Albany Poets Scene. These Guys are a bit more virulent than we are out here in the burbs, but it warms my heart to think of the Burns Statue as a centerpiece of post-modern verse. This at least, is not habitual.

I live in the Town of "New Scotland", Each year I attend the Scottish Games at the Altamont Fairgrounds, but I can't say that I, or the majority of the 21st century population who live here, are consciously aware of the historic nature of our local Scot heritage, in the same way in which the population of this area was aware in the 1800s. We have become blended, melded, and habituated to our surroundings.

The following is a poem by William Weaver Christman published in 1926, in his book of poems titled "Songs of the Helderhills". Christman is a favorite of one of my fellow "Thursday Night Bards" Alan Casline (with whom I trade bantering verse) Alan has been championing the resurrection of Christman's reputation and contribution to the local area. Christman was, in the tradition of the Weaver Bards, in contact with contemporary's of his day, traded verse with them, was home schooled and wrote in the vernacular. He lived the majority of his life on his land eeking out a living as a "Hardscrabble" farmer. His farm is one of the oldest local Nature Preserves in the country.

He was also obviously aware of the of his Poetical Scot-Nativity as is evidenced by the following two poems:

Page 42 a poem dedicated to "'Rabbie Burns"

Page 43 in memory of Bannockburn,
(June 24, 1314)

If you click in these images, you should be able to view and read them in more detail. These two pieces are of a historic and native patriotic nature. The majority of the poems included in this volume speak of his day to day life, his surroundings, and the natural world that he was drawn to record in his vernacular.

I had not heard of Christman before Alan brought him to my attention. I was habituated to the knowledge of his existence, he was there all along and I was not yet aware. Thank-you Alan for the enrichment of my experience.

So, my Mom always had "The Selkirk Grace" hanging on the wall in our dinning room. Her median name was Burns. Could we be related? ...Who knows. More than likely not. But I couldn't help joking about it in this latest feeble attempt at the Hamley Tongue.

Tha Verdict o tha Court o Common Reason:

Altho A aim inspired, by tha Gilmour's ana Glenn's

an mayhaps Rabbie Burns Bluid rins throo mae Pen

Family myth claims "Rabbie" bot canna proove it

despite mae best effets, nither cood A doo it

A like tae read o Coopers an Weavers

ana try ta qhurit aboot Patriots an Dreamers

A tried mae ain han larning mae Muther's

and Fether's, Fether's, Fether's tongue

An now A ken reed mae Habbie Standart

bot A canna qhurit it spectacular

Sae A shood lave it tae tha Braid Bards

tae speak an qhurit in vernacular

Freens an Nybers, neist ye herd it

Tha Court o Common Reason ha a Verdict

qhuriting in Ullans wae fun whilest it lasted

bot A kin only speek it quhen A'm "Blasted"!

obeedude 11/july/07

I am more aware of my surroundings now, less habituated, and I hope more reverent of my Fowkgates. I love my History, I am proud to continue that history, and though I play with my verse, and I continue in its traditions, a minor poet, among his betters. I'm Happy to be here, to revel in the fondements of the provenance of others.


Saturday, July 7, 2007

The Luck o' The Irish 07/07/07

I am writing this blog because it's lucky! This is my Lucky Scot-Irish 07/07/07 Blog!

After all, 38,500 Couples can't be wrong! That's approximately how many couples are getting married today by some estimates. Think about it: 77,000 people are about to possibly make the biggest mistake of their lives, based on a hunch....

In theory, (...depending on the their ability to preform of course...) 77,000 people could Get Lucky tonight! It's a good bet, that this Joke will be told at least 77,000 times today....

I wonder if anyone has applied for a Government Funded Grant, to follow these people for 7 years, to see what percentage of them actually remain married long enough to get the "7 Year Itch?"

It is even possible, that a 7th Son, of a 7th Son, may get married for the 7th time, to the only remaining 7th Vestal Virgin left unsullied. Imagine if you will, that they will have 7 Bridesmaids, & 7 Groomsmen, then, they will recite their Vows made up from parts of the text of Orson Scott Card's "The Seventh Son". They will drink 7&7 at their reception, and dance to the theme song for "77 Sunset Strip". But, who knows if they will actually end up being "Lucky in Love." Only time, and a Government Grant for 77 Million Dollars can hope to determine that....

I keep thinking about what John Lennon said: "...If you had the Luck of The Irish, You'd wish you were English instead."

I'm not going to play "The Lottery" tonight. No "Lucky Sevens Scratch-off" for me... The Crowds, and the Lines would be to much for me to handle.

I'm going to go over to my Girlfriend's House. I'll sit on the Couch, have a Beer, and if we both manage to stay awake long enough for the kids to fall asleep before we do, maybe We'll both: "Get Lucky!"

Ach! aiblins naw….

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

Trying not to take myself too seriously....

As my fellow Bards are well aware, the long term goal of my Artistic endeavors has been to expose and laud the extraordinary in the ordinary. To fashion for my viewer/reader a way in which to see the world we bypass everyday for its beauty that has become mundane by overexposure.

Lately, I have been attempting to seriously compose in traditional poetic forms. (Well, my own interpretation of Broad Scots anyway...) Much to my own chagrin, I have been jaggedly successful.

In an attempt to lighten up, return to praising the mundane, and poke fun at myself, I decided to write a poem about walking the dog.

Mae wee Dug "Deut".

After all what could be more commonplace than walking the dog right?


Quhaniver A tak tha dug for o danner a Train cumah

The dug yit lakes tae smel tha butherbickers

an rin frae tha fluther byes throo tha clover

He alatime draggin measel til he poops.

Tha dug will no poop til thars no fank aboot.

He maen be tol ower an ower "ga-poop!" ga-poop!" "ga-poop!"

whyles he ina meanstime tangles hisel ina weeds,

an a train iz passin whilst he iz pissin wee's

A thin he dosena caa fra tha sound o his ain grunts

He's vary guid et dez'entaglin hae's ainself

A marvel ah hae's ability tah doo soo

whilst nae steppin inia poop!

Quhn he's daen, hae daen the "Hoppy Dug Danse!"

Scratches an ripps frae tha groun ta mak hi spoot.

"Hoppy Dug!" Hoppy Dug!" I say

"Nae sheit Dafty!" he gien bak.

An'a Train go bye.



Whenever I take the dog for a walk, a train comes.

The dog likes to smell the buttercups,

and chase butterflies through the clover.

He always drags me until he poops.

The dog will not poop until everything is just right.

He must be told repeatedly "Go Poop!" Go Poop!" "Go Poop!'

while he in the meantime entangles himself in the weeds.

and a train is passing while he is passing pee.

I think he doesn't like the sound of his own grunts.

He is quite adept at disentanglement.

I marvel at his ability to extract himself

without stepping in the poop.

Then he does the "Happy Poops Dance!"

he scratches and rips up the ground to mark his spot.

"Happy Dog!" Happy Dog!" I say.

"No Shit Stupid!" he responds.

And a Train goes bye.

Happy Fourth!

obeedude 04/july/07