The time and date is:
1:20 pm Friday, 20 October 2017
* Home

Sections
* Ballads
* Ballad Features
* Burns
* McGonagall
* Other Poetry
* Scottish Writers
* Scots Glossary

Poets
* Alphabetical List
* Featured List

Poems
* List of Topics

Songs
* Scottish Songs
* Modern Songs

Submissions
* Submit a Poem
* Submit a Song

Policies
* Copyright
* Permission
* Privacy
* Standards

Web Links
* Other Sites

Contact
* About Us
* E-mail Us

If I Were In Charge ©

Marc R. Sherland
Glasgow, Scotland
2004

If I were in charge of the civic Fireworks,
Out in the dreich cold of November,
Bonfires stack, dwindled to smouldering shirks,
Patter-slash zigzag rain spits on embers,
A cheap burger wrapper, still clutched in hand,
Mustard, tomato sauce, face streaked with war brand.

I would ban torches, blacken car headlights,
The amber park lights would gutter and quail,
Precisely at twelve o'clock midnight,
Heck, even the national grid would fail,
Switched off, for my purpose primordial,
We would huddle with new found cordial.

Smokers would only be allowed one chance,
To light a fag off their last, in a chain,
Or spark off neighbours', in ritual dance,
With hoods pulled up like cowls and old habits again,
Never a bloom of match, on pain of death,
Nor sparklers wizzle, spoils tar black breath.

At the last peel of the old Trongate clock,
There would be sizzle and a whoosh..........a whizz,
A hiss, a gleam trail of sparkling shock,
Kaboom! explodes, then the sibilant fizz,
Multitudes of rockets scud, zip zing flash,
Bang like mortars spray with ethereal rash.

The scarlets like starlets virtue splatter,
Yellows like roses bloom just once, then die,
Emerald gems ring the sky then splutter,
Meteors shower white then multiply,
Scampering to blues and amber dashes,
Then clap asunder and to earth crashes.

Dry gunpowder scent and smoke descends,
A miasma of detonation burst,
All the while more missiles the blackout rends,
Vroom report, like cannon shot star-rocket nursed.
And dogs, cats, foxes wait the silent bird,
Signals riven world will no more be heard.

We'd shuffle home tired, too late for a drink,
Civic Display over, a year to wait,
Till water, music and her wicked wink,
Will swoosh in cymbal clash a thrumming fate.
But sleek from the Gorbals a final roar,
Swish spark of rebellion skywards scores.


Web Site by IT-SERVE © 1999 - 2017 All Rights Reserved Return to top