G. W. Colkitto

Life is a cruel yolk

(on the last of the eggs from Kings Bookshop in Callander)

Why do I swallow and weep?

I know life’s pleasures are but brief

and yet each loss still seeps

into the heart. Each grief

another burden to be borne,

another passing to be mourned.

Breakfast done and nothing remains

but an empty plate with yolk-yellow stains.

The last of Bookshop eggs has been consumed,

tomorrow’s breakfast  is doomed! Is doomed!


Groupie I am and groupie I’ll stay

working in groups for the whole of the day

Who is the leader who is the clown

if I am either then I must frown

for hard I have tried it’s easy to see

to stay in the background and thus remain free

If leader I was then decisions must make

Chose my own style and beware of mistake

Not too laissez-faire not too much autocrat

And I fear my conception struggles at that

It’s easier by far to sit here on my chair

With my feet on the ground and my head in the air

To be clown might be good fun that I agree

But humorous teller is not really me

The sub-leader leader the group leaders mate

Oh Tannenbaum and Schmit what a terrible fate

To be always the best man and never the groom

my motivation weak I communicate soon

I am the make-weight the one on the fence

for five votes or seven is the frame of reference

But sad to relate they only had six

And that’s how I got into this terrible fix

Sitting all day while the arguments rage

As to what we agree on and is it so sage

I suppose I should help find what we should do

However I feel it’s for them to break through

If they feel strongly the must convince me

and as I’m not listening that’s hard you’ll agree

and I am not bothered how long I am here

For when this one is over there’s another I fear


Dragged by the JCB

across the muddy field

legs stiff in the air black tongue lolling

sad end to your grace

I guessed you were old

You seemed old

I tried to talk to you

but somewhere you were lost

in that world you knew

I was not part of it as I watched

You twitched and chewed and stared

Did you think of death as the cold

swept up from the river

as the rain slipped from your back

Did you remember Springs of green

Summers of sun

Was your swollen side the trouble of age

or a foal from recent coupling

Did you sway with life within or death without

In the night

under the trees where the leaves fell

you also fell

This morning the JCB took you away

Winter is here

Published 2006 - Dead Amidst the Daffodil


(on seeing an old man drunk in the street)

For some are plucked

Some wither on the vine

Which has the best

That taken in its prime

Or that left dried and wizened

In winter's blast

Which is the waste

That picked before its time

Or that abandoned

Clinging to bare branch

Never to be plucked

But to wither on the vine

Published 2007 - Time Piece


Take me to the dog pound

Toss away the key

Leave me there, coat unbrushed

Panting, lost hope, crushed in dust

Throw me a look and walk away

Ignore the pull of wide pleading eyes

Shut your ears to the plaintive whine

Asking for love, a friendly sign

Send for the vet to put me down

Shave my leg inject and kill

Lay my body soft on the floor

Forget me then, this dog no more

Published 2006  - Dead Amidst the Daffodil


Sometimes you do not feel

Like bouncing

Land with a splat and lie


Airless, flat, no rebound.

On half days you plop back

Enough to roll

Slowly depart the point

Of impact

To comfort of shadows

In high times you drop


The bounce to bring you back

To the top

All laughter and smiles

The dream is of the day

You fly up

Higher than the descent


Never to plummet down

Ink Sweat and Tears - Feb 2009


See Tonto, you liar, there ain’t no Lone Ranger

There ain’t no Lone Ranger, you see.

No man on a white horse with bullets of silver.

No William Tell music in times of danger.

There ain’t no-one riding for me.

See Tonto, you liar, there ain’t no Lone Ranger.

No hearty Hi-Ho, no black-masked stranger,

No with one leap he was free.

No man on a white horse with bullets of silver.

No edge of the seat with heart all aquiver

Despite childhood memory

See Tonto, you liar, there ain’t no Lone Ranger.

In real life, the evil is often the winner

The bad guys claim victory

No man on a white horse with bullets of silver.

The mask has slipped and the face is a glimmer

The ghost of Kimo Sabi

See Tonto, you liar, there ain’t no Lone Ranger

No man on a white horse with bullets of silver.

Time Piece - Anthology


He does not laugh

He does not cry

He does not sing

He does not sigh

He does not live

He does not die

Carved from the tree

Which once had grown

Tall from the seed

By nature sown

Green by name

And green the oak

In which he twines

With leaves the cloak

Sign of everlasting hope

Sign of mystery and birth

Sign of love and sign of fear

Sign of life and sign of death

Sign of spirits still revered

Sign of power renewing earth

Earth Love Magazine Issue 39 March 2011


Sitting, did I say sitting

Well let’s stay polite

A polite bird sitting

On a tree by me

Twittering while sitting

Twittering like me

About a polite bird sitting

Sitting in a tree, now over me

Happy and singing

Free to sit or flee

And below as I’m sitting

This joyous friend

Has just been polite

On me sitting

Dead amidst the Daffodil - Anthology


The Sliddery Iddery are dithery swithery

By the gliddery gree

They widdery biddery

And pliddery ploddery and pingery with glee

They wittery jittery, bittery swittery

Join in windery woo

And bundery sundery

Among the footery

fling the foolery foo

The Sliddery Iddery frines of the lostery

Cuddle and wuddle with me

They woopery swoopery

Press and prodery never gimble or twee

Connaly wannaly grinnily thinnily

Sink in cloudery goo

Near handery footery

Between the unmiddery

Dance the foolery foo

This poem was written for a visit to Craigton Primary School


The wind blows cold across the lake

The evening sky is clear and blue

There is no sound not man not beast

The bird sits silent in the tree

And far away a church bell rings

an echo of a time gone by

These are the pictures that I see

in vacant times and pensive mood

They come to haunt that inward eye

that is the curse of solitude

And thus I see that dreams lie still

dead amidst the daffodil

Published 2007 - title poem of the collection

                        'Dead amidst the Daffodil'


The clock has stopped

Tic toc

Time passes

Tic toc

The beat goes on

Tic toc

But the face is frozen

Tic toc


Tic toc

All things grow older

Tic toc

All things change

Tic toc

But time

Tic toc


Tic toc

Stretched in years

Tic toc

Shrunk in seconds

Tic toc

On the stopped clock

Tic toc

Published 2007 - title poem of the collection

                         'Time Piece'

Your tree - May Blossom

Your tree is in bloom, more blossom again this year

as it spreads to embrace the lawn where you walked.

I think of it as yours though we do not own trees

merely hold them for a lifetime in eye and heart.

When you died I went out at dusk and pressed my hand

against the bark, hoping to hear it tell of you

and of all the people it remembers passing by.

Within each ring it carries the history of life in silent


It tried to talk to me that night and does each time

I stand beneath, if only I could understand

the soft whisper of the leaves filtering the day

Published in Earth Love Poetry Magazine, Issue 39, March 2011

                  Biggar Poetry Garden, June 2011