Submit your poetry!

Highland Poetry is accepting poems to be published on this blog as well as a chance to be included in our annual E-book. A quarterly E-book is planned as well. The poet will always keep his copyright. Send your poems to this address for consideration. You will be notified very quickly if your poem will be in our growing library. Highland Poetry is an extension of Highland Piano Studios which is an independent record label and home of composer/poet Patrick Lee Hebert. DSC02023Thirty to sixty poems per month will be on the main site. Send all poetry and or questions by clicking the “submit poetry” to the right. While you are at it…follow this blog and check out new poems to enjoy as well as maybe see your own work on these pages.

 

Patrick Lee Hebert editor

Three poems by Tom Boston

The author recalls a trip, as a young man, to Kilravock Castle (pronounced Kilrock), Inverness, Scotland. The ancient home of the Roses or Rosses of Nairnshire who lived there in the 13th century. Famous visitors include Mary, Queen of Scots in 1562, Bonnie Prince Charlie (whom Sir Hugh Rose entertained with a violin rendition of an Italian minuet), the Duke of Cumberland (the day after the Prince’s visit just before the two men fought the Battle of Culloden) and also the poet Robert Burns (in 1787). 

Kilravock

Amongst the granite and green, on an Oak tree I leaned
to rest in the shade of its crown.
For that moment just then, I was Lord of this realm,
with these ruins of history renowned.
And in this ancient place, I tried to retrace
the footsteps of those from the past.
In that reticent wood, as a young man I stood
in search of the play’s ghostly cast.

But none there was seen, not the Prince or the Queen
nor the Laird named after the rose.
And the fierce men of war did battle no more.
No soldiers were railed against foes.
All the colours of fall seemed to recall
the clan tartans from seasons of lore.
The echoes of time and the ancient bells’ chime
saluted a world that’s no more.

Now, as I left this scene where legends have been,
I stole one more glance just to see,
if I only could glimpse that Queen or that Prince
or those few that fought to be free.
The Highland Sun teased its way through the leaves
and dappled the ground with its gold.
And the whispering trees with the voice of the breeze,
lamented the fallen of old.

Inspired by the painting ‘Napa Valley Ridge’ by the artist Wayne Thiebaud

Under the Milk-Soft Clouds

Under the drifting milk-soft clouds, blooms the perfect day,
with brooks, ravines and sun-touched streams, and beams of light at play.
The distant edge of purple spills downhill and turns to green,
as brightness herds the mist away from this seductive scene.
And wise tall trees in conference stand, their emerald crowns give shade
        to swathes of sheepish blossoms closed shy amongst the glade.
Then tickled by a breathy breeze of scented morning air,
the flowers reveal their artistry with colour-tainted flare.
And whispering wings of butterflies, exploring bounty sweet,
blend with the hum of honey bees in search of nectar’s treat.


Now, dark inked skies with stars for eyes, stare through the steely chill,
that spreads below the faint moon-glow, o’er lifelessness so still.
The far-flung edge of black rolls close, becoming granite grey
and darkness tainted shades of cold keep daylight far away.
Age-old trees in silent sway, roots running wide and deep,
hold firm against the icy blow that flows from mountains steep.
The butterflies and humming bees await the morning bloom,
as seas of coloured petals hide, shut in the nightly gloom.
A covenant with light is made; a promise of new day.
Expectantly, life waits to see tomorrow’s bright display.

Inspired by the magnificent ‘J-Class’ yacht race in the Solent – United Kingdom in 2011.

Running With the J’s

The wind-churned sea with leaps and peaks and lively twisting twirls,
moves to the fancy float and tune of a thousand dancing girls.
It spills and glints quicksilver-like and glimmers garnet green,
as the tips of tall trimmed sails appear in the distant hazy sheen.

Soon the mast is bearing down; keel slicing water through.
This mighty, splendid sailing boat holds to her course so true.
Tell-tails flying straight as dyes, she takes the centre-stage.
Her sleek hull lulls the wilding sea and dulls its noble rage.

As fabric flaps and halyards clap, she eases back from heeling.
She tacks her graceful bow away, with air from canvas peeling.
Sails spill the wind then fill again and shape like soaring wings
and through the surf she flows, she goes; her rigging loudly sings.

On the track of her new tack, she rides the raw emotion
of the frenzied, frothing, foaming sea, so graceful in her motion.
She charges, cutting up the waves and carves the ocean blue.
Through wind-blown swirls like dancing girls, a ‘J’ Class and her crew.

Introducing Tom Boston

BRIEF BIO

Tom Boston was born in Ireland and presently resides in the English Midlands. Poetry has been part of his life since being introduced to the works of Lord Byron by a friend. Tom began writing poetry as a means of channelling the frustration, passion and emotion of life into the written word. His works often ponder the inexplicable and seek the unobtainable.

FEATURE WRITE-UP

I was born in Ireland, the land of scholars and saints; steeped in language and literature.
My family moved to South America in 1974, when I was eight-year-old and so most of my childhood was spent in Brazil. This move was a real culture shock to me. The combination of a very different culture, a new language, alternative values, a sub-tropical climate, life under a military dictatorship, seemed to overwhelm my young senses. This was the beginning of the first great adventure of my life and would define the person I was to become.

Perhaps the lack of English speakers during my childhood in Brazil, kindled in me a passion for English literature and language. I read everything in English that I got my hands on. Then at about the age of fifteen, a fellow Irish man, whose family had also migrated to Brazil, introduced me to the works of George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. I was enthralled. I remember him reading to me the poems ‘Darkness, ‘The Destruction of Sennacherib’ and ‘The Vision Of Belshazzar’. Not your average fifteen-year-old’s choice of reading but it was English and it was fantastic.

My love of poetry had begun but other than a few lines here and there, I did not try my hand at writing until much further down my life’s path.

I eventually left the family home in South America and returned to the Ireland as a young adult in 1984.  It was on a visit to Kilravock Castle in Inverness, Scotland, that the second and indeed greatest adventure of my life began. I met my wife and soulmate and we were blessed with five wonderful children. Kilravock will always be dear to my heart. The imposing granite structures, the dense woodlands, the history, the ghosts of the past and the Celtic mysticism that rises from the land and flows mist-like over the valleys and glens of the Highlands. This landscape was to later inspire my poem ‘Kilravock’.

In 1985 I moved to Bristol, England to pursue studies in aerospace engineering. I qualified as an avionics engineer and began my career in the aerospace industry.

I inherited a passion for the sea from my mother who in turn inherited it from her mother. Ireland is not known for its sun-drenched beaches and palm trees but the northwest coast is known for its spectacular storms; the inspiration for ‘Sea Storm’.  I have had a few hobbies and interests throughout my life, some enduring but most transient. The love of the sea and boating however, has never waned. This passion gave rise to the favourite of my poems. Running With the J’s.

It was not until the outbreak of Covid 19 in 2020 that I tried my hand at poetry. The periods of national lockdowns gave me time to reflect on life and inspired me to write. My inspiration comes from life itself; my journey and experiences and the characters I have met along the way. My style can best be described as traditional, ranging from romantic works to poetic pessimism; the upbeat celebration of nature to the depths of the human despair. A journey we all share; the good and the bad. A journey we know as The Human Experience.             

We are back!

After several years Highland Poetry is back. We are a free platform to post poetry from around the world! We are hoping to get enough submissions to do a quarterly e-book eventually. Stay tuned. Our first post will be Tom Boston who is a poet from the UK. His work is truly inspirational.

A poem for Thursday.

Now that it is warming up, I miss NH and it’s cool fall. This poem goes back 28 years…YIKES!

August

How I long for autumn

Sweet ambience…

fiery skies,

dazzle my eyes.

 

Summer still holds you close

with blistery heat at most.

But a few cool days,

is having your way.

For autumn always follows

migrations of swallows.

 

if I look real close,

your leaves brown at the edges…

the winds follow your pledges,

and knock down a few early.

 

How I long for your sweet scent…

early nights…

time well spent.

Dreaming of your return…

How I long for autumn.

 

LEE    8-19-92

 

 

A word and a few poems

The Word? Everywhere!

 

As an up-coming poet, what do we really want from our poems? Is it recognition? Do we feel like someone may really relate, making us feel known? Maybe just a hobby? Whichever or whatever it is… we need that poem to be seen! Take a look at this quarterly poetry reader. SUBMIT. You will be seen. We have undergone a transition and are now posting weekly or a bit more. All entries will get viewed unless inappropriate. Give it a try. You own your copyright! Always.

 

Here are the poems: These are from my work ” Hazes” which is free with the click on the right. Suitable for a rainy day!

 

HAZES 25

QUEEN OF THE FOREST

I have upset the Queen of the forest
Her wrath is kindled against me
She has sent messengers to relate this to me…
because of her anger.
The skies have blackened…
death stalks me…
but I am elusive…
and to imagine…
the Prince is my son…
but he doesn’t know of me…
thus her despising me…
I refused her to tell…
this is my option in this fabricated world.
For I am not the King…
only a lowly court composer…
who writes love songs to the Queen in her chambers…
when the King is off onto the hunt.
He looks like his mother…
thus saving my life.

 

 

HAZES 26 

DREAMS
I have dreamt of the woods
Being among the forest
Golden visions
I could thrive here
The short-lived dramas
Our fantasy worlds
Becoming each other
Not wanting to
I awake in the middle of the night
Feel the wind on my face
I am forced to relent
It is just too revealing
These thoughts come in all seasons
Nostalgia can be overwhelming
And it is amazing
I would rather live in that

A poem for Tuesday: The Jealousy of the Moon.

In 1998 I released a piano solo by the same title on my second album ” The Poet’s Dream”. I wrote the poem in 1992 and the song started it’s journey soon after. I wrote it over a year’s time and didn’t write the intro until the actual recording itself! Crazy! I have played this song for 20 plus years in concerts halls all over. Here is a link to the song: “The Jealousy of the Moon”   I have no idea where the cover pic came from. Youtube is confused. LOL

 

Now the poem:

HAZES 15

 

 

THE JEALOUSY OF THE MOON

 

 

The moon leaks down her amber glow

ruling the night she knows.

She sees the significance of the sun

and the power he has won.

 

In insane jealousy,

she changes the tides

causes women terrible pain

monthly strides.

 

Without the sun,

she cannot shine at night

because she has no light of her own.

This makes her jealous.

Besides, most people are awake in the day

to see the sun in his brilliance

while most everyone sleeps when she comes out.

She is lonely and becomes jealous.

But cunning is the moon,

chanting recompense

ruling the night.

She is unmatched in her influence.

Darkness her favor…

Jealousy her power…

Seasons befall her changes…

Petty revenge.

A poem for Saturday.

Lazy Day…thinking of poetry. Here is one from the early 2000’s called ” Depression” A strange symbolic form I use now and then.

 

 

DEPRESSION

 

 

Would you recognize death…

if he introduced himself?

Would you recite meaningless remarks at his passing?

Do you think you would ask him in for a spell of conversation?

Do you think you would want to know what he has to say?

I bet not.

Would you ask him to leave even if he refused?

Try to force him maybe?

Do you think you have more power or wisdom than He?

I bet not.

Although…you do have life…

which he is covetous of…

and he is dead..

but not to himself…

this is what makes his job so enjoyable.

 

So…

 

would  you recognize death…

if he came for you?

Would you welcome him or…

offer him something else to appease his hunger…

you know…

 

like depression or something?

A poem for Monday

From mid 2016…blah, it’s Monday!

 

What to do when the past makes an appearance

Things thought dormant arise to remind

Trust is a luxury in this tainted world

A world I am forced to travel

 

Feeling hopeless is so easy to fall into

The world is waiting to crash down

Just a thin membrane of courage

Stopping total madness

 

I will never again fall prey to the dark

The somber feelings of dread

I feel watching me through my own eyes

People never really change I am told

 

I write a melancholy tune

To accompany my mood

Being a composer and a poet

Is a lasting and inevitable curse

 

Patrick Lee Hebert

A poem about my Dad’s passing.

This has been a difficult time for me with my Dad passing on Memorial Day! Very fitting seeing he was a war hero. I wrote this to explain how I feel now…there is hope at the end!

 

There is a knowing in the wind

I have lost and become shelled

I can see the reasons I grieve

Easy right?

 

Not when a thousand memories re-surface

To remind you that you are still a child

You have not grown in awhile

You are like a swamp…always expanding.

 

Negative thoughts

Give rise to negative actions

Don’t be fooled

They are here now….

 

You may be a fool for a bit…

Until the waves lap over you finally

I don’t mean death…

I mean life…look forward for God’s sake.

Saturday at 12:30 AM…God only knows.

Enjoy Patrick Lee Hebert and son recounting the days of youth and mis-understanding in this live ( at the time) gathering of soul speak.

 

Thoughts about reality… a 12:30 Am Excursion.

 

Patrick Lee Hebert and Patrick Lee Hebert II

 

The restlessness of the people is amazing

They swear to Gods unheard

They worship beings that have no spirit…

They plug into a black world.

 

Picturing a painting

Still life image

The colours and hue never were there

Impressionistic imaginations and watercolor thoughts

 

When I was young

A man came to our village

Speaking of the end

Speaking at me.

 

Once I thought about the moon and

Her conversations

Whispering on the cold breeze of

Midnight…..

 

Love flits like a dragonfly

You swear she loves only you

Who are you to guess at such things

You have been betrayed brother.

 

 

 

Dreaming a dream…..

While inside a dream….

Makes a bit of difference I think….

At least I think….

 

Power unlimited

Failure sensed through dreaming

Never really knew her

 

Broke my damn heart she did.

 

Awake to see that sky

Dreaming of being alive

Thinking of the melody of the trees

Nobody sees……

 

We laughed so loud it was unreal

We became fools for the spotlight of reason

We became whores for the solidarity of the races

We became embryotic fluid for God’s sake!…can you say why?

 

Yet again…

The night comes alive and speaks

The trees whisper their ancient melody

To recount the tales of heroes of men

 

Silent sentinels linger

Over the bones of men who fought

For the freedom of thought

And realized the futility.

 

Toutes ces choses sont les fabrications des hommes…

Des petits reves et des fantasies

Tout dans ma tete

C’est pleine des trucs comme ca

 

Je suis desole pour l’honte

J’était sure

J’était un homme natural

Maintenant…je suis malheureux

 

Ses yeux… Ses cheveux…

Habille en toute noire

C’était la premiere fois qu’on est recontre

Je me souviens pas