The following is about Poet Robert Burns dedicated in my 3rd book Heaven Taught Plowman and Other Devotions.

(For Robert Burns)


They said of Robert Burns
he was a heaven-taught plowman.
in his fallow homeland
wrought with famine's brown sand
ground hoed to ruin by a devil's hand.
Sorrow was a mist of highland cloud
falling like the dew.
Seeds turned to dust
in the drying gloom.

So Robert went to learning songs
walked on the backs of fallow roads
bagpipers inspired his Scottish ire
to fight his hearth and dread
and grasp the words he heard
from the angels voices
whispering in his head.

Tradition was a gealic darling
a red headed lass
beautiful full of fire
dancing up a storm of magic
played with celtic desire
Her gypsy soul sown with fallow seeds
by the blood of a father's dream
a braggard of a man
she knew she'd never meet.

Desolate hours
in a Glasgow home
wreath held high above a golden throne
poets gather round in proximity,
their closeness a special bond
a fallow grave now planted
Robert's gone dreaming now
where roses color bright and red
and the dew's as sweet as wine.

A wordsmith of quality and strength
a plowman of the soul
who taught us to remember
the words of Auld Lang Syne.
Aye, his pen could sing.