Socks

It's been a while since I had inspiration to write anything, but as usual in my life something comes along which nudges the old braincell into gear.
This time it was the result of a shopping trip with my son and daughter. We went to a shop called Jula which sells everything from mopeds to clothes pegs. A bit like the old country stores, but on a larger scale, and with a wider inventory.

Whilst there I remembered that the wife had been nagging me that I needed more socks. You see, in my job , with bits of hot metal flying about, holes appear in every part of clothing. Even in sensitive areas, but that's a thought for the future which I don't dare venture near.

Anyway, back to the socks....  I just don't do laundry. I open the drawer, take out a pair of socks, and that is the end of my involvement with my sock drawer. So if she said I needed socks, who was I to argue.

I hadn't really thought about this very much until I walked into the toilet tonight to have a shower, clutching in my hand a brand new pair of socks. Here's the thoughts which rattled through my old grey matter whilst I enjoyed my shower:

Socks
Da wife hed sharged fir twartree monts dat socks I wis needin,
dat whit I hed wir wearin oot, bit I gae her little heedin.
Dan just last ook I cam atil a shop dat selt sic sam,
an mindin whit shö'd telt tae me I set upö a plan.

I tocht dat I'd be clever, fir her I laek ta plaes,
an buy mesell a lok o socks ta cover up me taes.
An jöst ta mak tings better I bocht mony pairs da sam,
so matchin is nae budder, even tae a man.

So wins I haem an tries ta pit da socks atil da drawer
bit da drawer is stappit tae da lugs, an damn near brimmin ower.
Dis med me staand an winder if da wife wis lost her wit,
Tellin me ta buy socks whan dir mair plentifil dan sh*t.

Bit, "na" shö says, "A'm no doitin, I ken du haes a lok",
bit skoit a peerie scaur harder an du'll jöst fin single socks.
So fae her winderfil biddin, I took da drawer upö da fluir,
wailed an sorted aa I fan, an tallied up da score.

Ower twinty pair o wirsit socks, an dey wir aa i grey,
fifteen pairs dat a'll no wear fir dey lookit brawly gay.
An dan da silly Simpson's socks dat I canna bal awey,
da bairns gae dem ta me, a'll keep dem tae me deein day.

Aa an aa atil dat drawer I fan fifty fower hael pair,
so noo I hae a tocht dat I wid laek ta shaer.
Whin neest dy wife tells dee dat dy sock drawer's wearin low
Tak him oot, wail him trow, dan tell her whaur ta go.

Yun's aa
Auld Rasmie.

Transvestite Tuesday

Anybody with connections to Shetland will know about Up Helly Aa.
But for anybody who doesn't know anything about this strange little island group which has it's roots set firmly in a viking past, the Up Helly Aa fire festival is a weird and wonderful example of how people can transform from normal human beings, into complete idiots, for one night of the year.
It's unique, extreme, fantastic, unbelievable,  etc.. etc..
And in some strange way the Up Helly Aa festival is actually brillitant.

I had a look at this event from a poetic point of view a couple of years ago, and came up with this little verse. Sadly written in English,,, I was having a 'bad' language day. ;)

Transvestite Tuesday

Men dressed up as women
Cross dressers one and all
Parading through the streets
Then visiting every hall.

How can the law allow this
It flies in the face of reason
I’m sure that in good old England
This would be viewed as treason.

But late in January every year
This amazing sight exists
Most likely caused by the fact
That all the men are pissed.

But booze aside there’s no excuse
For such wanton bad behavior
Their drunken acts will fair them ill
When they come to meet their savior.

They claim that all these high jinks
Are just an old tradition
But it’s clearly just a cover
For their transvestite ambition.

Folk flock in droves to see it
And tell of what they saw
At Shetland’s Famous festival
Lerwick Up Helly-Aa.

Auld Rasmie

For more about this years Lerwick Up Helly Aa festival, which happens on 25th January, keep an eye on the main page of Shetlopedia which will be updated with pictures and links as soon as they are available.

Onywye, yun's aa fir enoo. 

Da Nose Hair

No doubt like most men my age there is a tendency for hairs to grow where they're not wanted, as well as hairs not to grow where they are wanted.
Last year I had a lot of trouble with my dear peerie trowie trying to remove a rather unsightly hair from the point of my nose with either fingers nails or tweezers.
This little verse was the result of those encounters.

Da Nose Hair

Just a peerie black craetir,
Staandin firmly on his ain,
He’s never buddered me afore,
Ir geen me ony pain.

Bit fir reasons dat I canna say,
Her indoors dusna laek da geezer,
An tries ta tweak da beggar oot,
Wi fingers nails ir tweezers.

Why ta hell it budders her,
Da Loard alone just knows,
It’s just a peerie curly hair,
Dat grows oot o me nose.


Auld Rasmie

Da Tinkin Shair

Inspiration for this little ditty was the wife. And her very comfortable connection with her favourite chair.

Da Tinkin Shair

Maest every hoos böst hae een,
a peaceful saaft auld shair,
whaur you can sit an winder on
your life an aa hit’s cares.

Da een atil wir hoos
reclines an geengs near flat.
Bit da wife haes life lang tenure,
hit’s whaur shö’s elweys sat.

Sometimes fae dat shair
I hear a peerie snorie soond,
bit if I mention sleepin,
Shö’ll whirl her heed around.

An tell me in a wye I ken
dat I söd no dispute,
Dat shö wis only tinkin,,,,
Aboot sleepin, I hae nae doot.

Auld Rasmie

Dat Pillie

Hopefully this will be the nearest to controversial that I ever get in a poem. At least from a sexual point of view.

In the Shetland dialect, 'Penis' = 'Pillie'. And although that part of the male anatomy generally rules the normal brain cell, and my thoughts most of the time, this poem was actually written while thinking about a man who ran a bar in the south end of Shetland.
He had a habit of saying "Dat Pillie" when he heard of somebody who had acted on the impulse of 'da pillie' rather than the brain.
So this one is in memory of Peter. He served me many a good glass of beer.



Dat Pillie

I sit an winder lang sometimes why life can be sae trang,
why aches an pains an nyglie bits ir aetin at me krang.
I oosed ta be sae nimble an able i da bed,
bit noo I faa atil it buggered, dun, an dead.

Dir wis a time when I cud geeng fur nichts wi little sleep,
as lang as da mutton dagger got an antrin steep.
Bit noo a’m auld an grey even dat bits no sae vynded,
he’s lat me doon twice dis year, weel twice dat I hiv minded.

I winder if Viagra wid aese dis sorry plight,
an pit him back ta staandin 10 oors every nicht.
No dat a’m complainin, fir da boady needs a rest,
bit missin twice atil ee year is way below me best.

Bit feth, a’m meybe telling wrang, a’m just looked at da time,
da day’s no ower yet, just midnicht minus nine.
So twartree meenits left ta pit da world ta right,
a’m gaain ta steep me pillie, mair sharn anidder nicht.

Auld Rasmie

Dear Santa, 2009

Following on from a previous poem which failed to bring everything wished for from Santa Claus, this verse was spawned before Christmas 2009.
Whether or not this begging list to Santa was successful will no doubt be revealed in my Dear Santa 2010 thoughts, if that happens.


Dear Santa

Last year I med a Santa list
o twartree peerie tings I wissed
da auld white bearded een wid tak
ta me atil his Santa Sack.

Weel, he brocht me twartree Piltock flees
an böts dat cam up tae me knees
he furyat da new airs fir da yoal
bit I got eens paid fir wi da dole.

I aksed him fir a dreultin tree
bit neevir cam dat ting ta me
instead he sent a gruelie tree
language confusion, him no me.

So maist o whit I wanted cam
an a'm blyde o aa, sic an sam
so dis years list a'm scribblin noo
ta see whit Santa's gyain ta do.

Da first a'll aks is fir guid helt
an penga ta raise me ertly welt
dan all faa upö me bended knee
an aks igyen fir yun dreultin tree.

An noo whit I aks is no fur mesel
It’s sometin ta aese Shetlan fae hell
Dear Santa, cud do fin dy wye clear
ta replace da cooncil, dis comin year.

Auld Rasmie

Sadly my ugly face fell in front of a camera to record this one. I think it was actually the result of a very bad bottle of wine, or maybe two very bad bottles of wine. Either way here's the poem, in roughly the way I tried to envisage it when it was written...

Auld Age

I think we all reach an age where the body no longer wants to put up with the torture we inflict on it from working too hard, or indeed playing too hard.
After another week of pushing the old carcase to the limits at work, and suffering all the resulting aches in joints and muscles, this little verse popped out of my old brain cell. Perhaps proving that the body may be getting weak, but the brain is still running on 5 of it's 4 available cylinders.
It was also partly inspired by a line from a Willie Nelson song. " Old age and treachery, always overcomes youth and skill".


Auld Age

Auld age dusna come itsel, it taks it's kin alang,
da aches an pains an niggly bits dat bugger up your crang.
Veesits tae da doctor get shorter in atween,
you book da neest appointment afore da hidmaest een is been.

Bit auld age isna aa aboot da tings dat will geeng wrang,
dir's wan muckle bonus aboot livin fur sae lang.
Auld age an glegness will elweys play it's bit,
ta owerpooer da young eens overly ös o bullsh*t.