Confounded Experts for Joe Poewhit
An artefact of machined steel
found buried in a deep coal seam.
The experts say it can’t be real
it does not fit with their world scheme.
The all insist it cannot be.
Be cause the know they can’t explain
this very strange anomaly
and so they bury it again.
They hide it very carefully.
Conceal the fact that it exists
forget about it quietly.
But awkward objects will persist.
So in due course it surfaces
as it was always certain to.
The so called experts have to face
awkward questions asked anew.
They do not know but dare not say.
this artefact defies their skill
They still cannot explain away
the artefact and never will.
They lack all credibility
Their rigid minds so tightly closed
They can dismiss reality
when it is not as they supposed.
An ancient machined artefact
found buried deep in a coal seam
Preserved for ages quite intact
Confounds the experts it would seem.
03/06/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Freethinker for J.T.Ellison
Freethinker
I do believe that memory can be passed down genetically
Encoded in our D.N.A Although I know the experts say
My theory’s unsustainable, there is no proof obtainable.
For all their professed expertise. My theory causes them unease.
They are afraid I might be right. It could explain why men take fright.
When darkness falls and they can’t see, arousing repressed memories
Of long ago when men were prey which linger to the present day
Although the experts can’t explain the workings of the human brain.
The experts say it can’t be so: They know less than they think they know.
I don’t accept the experts view I see no reason I should do
I still believe that memory can be passed down genetically.
Encoded in our D.N.A. No matter what the experts say.
They cannot force me to agree for I think independently
31/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Potsherds
Collectors of antiquities.
Renowned for eccentricities
are very often to be found
hanging round some battle ground
Dug up by archaelogists.
For whom they are apologists,
they are ready to accept.
Some archaeologists’ concept,
his latest greatest theory
of what some artefact might be.
Although in truth they do not know.
They will insist it must be so.
Professional experts every one
who are convinced that they are right.
They make deductions based upon
false premises to my delight.
They either can’t or won’t admit
that their opinions might be wrong.
They are convinced and that is it
The rest of us should go along.
With what they say no argument.
What can we know which they do not.
They’re sometimes right by accident
but just as often they are not.
The Piltdown man a clever hoax
fooled all the experts for decades.
Yet still some of these learned folks
do not believe mistakes are made.
I often watch with interest
the TV documentaries.
Which put their ideas to the test
and prove they’re only theories.
3-Nov-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Que Sera, Sera
Que Sera, Sera
A New Year lies ahead of us. I must admit I’m curious.
to see if experts prophecies will turn out to be theories.
Which passing time will not sustain and leave the experts to explain.
Just how and why they got it wrong I’m sure they’ll sing the same old song.
We’re only men what we express is just an educated guess.
You have to place it in context. They do not know what will come next.
No more than any other man.Although they all profess they can
interpret the faint signs they see and can predict with accuracy.
What events will come to be but get it wrong consistently
That’s why I listen cynically and mostly unbelievingly.
When experts choose to air their views, I find their words of little use.
I much prefer to wait and see: What fate decrees will come to be..
1-Jan-09
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I wish you all a happy and peaceful 2009
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Far Memory.
I’m haunted by strange memories
of places I have never been
I can remember vividly
Street scenes I know I have not seen
It’s very strange and puzzles me.
I cannot see how possibly
I have access to memories
I know do not belong to me.
I see street scenes from long ago.
Though where they are I do not know.
The clothes are unfamiliar.
To me they seem peculiar.
I think it may be Budapest.
But honestly that’s just a guess.
It could be almost anywhere.
But I am sure I’ve not been there.
My wife suggests telepathy.
I do not see how it could be.
A temporal anomaly
which can’t exist apparently.
The learned experts all agree
it’s an impossibility
But can’t explain how I can see
Scenes from the eighteenth century.
I have a photograph which shows.
People in old fashioned clothes.
Which was taken in old Moscow
More than a hundred years ago.
Establishing the verity
Of the intrusive memories
The scenes I see so vividly.
Though how remains a mystery.
I know they are real memories.
Although the experts disagree.
I hope to prove eventually
these memories have reality.
They are passed down genetically.
Encoded in our DNA.
I will research my family tree
and try to prove it come what may.
Although it’s just a theory.
I will pursue it ardently
Some body in my ancestry
may well turn out to be.
A man who lived in old Moscow
Who emigrated to the west.
Although perhaps I’ll never know.
It gives my life an interest.
I like to think that there might be
somebody in my family tree.
Who will prove to be the key
which will unlock the mystery.
Of who perhaps I used to be
in the eighteenth century.
Which would explain the memories
apparently passed down to me
Saturday,21 August 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Knock.knock who's there for M 'ladyErnestine
The poltergeist, mischievous sprite
who taps and knocks to cause alarm
and can move things about by night.
A nuisance but does little harm.
It is to be found most commonly
up to his scalliwaggery.
Where one approaching puberty
creates him quite unconsciously.
He’s not a separate entity
but an extension of the mind.
Which can act independently
in some way as yet undefined.
Or so psychiatrists believe
and who can prove their words untrue
Their explanations don’t achieve
an end to what is troubling you.
A poltergeist a noisy ghost
does little harm to anyone
. His mostly unsuspecting host
often a girl sometimes a boy.
A child who quite unconsciously
expresses feelings they can’t show
with openness and honesty.
When they mature the ghost will go.
There are some things you can’t explain
no matter how hard you may try.
The experts need to think again
if they’re to solve this mystery.
But they maintain as experts do
that their opinions are correct.
Although sometimes this may be true.
Some times it is not I suspect.
For Poltergeists obey no rules
Although the experts think they do
Just self opinionated fools
who know less than they think they do.
14-Sep-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sometimes I think the so-called experts actually ARE experts.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like it or not, we have placed our destiny in the hands of the experts. A politician is, after all, a kind of expert, if self-styled. Even the fact that competent experts must serve under politicians of mediocre intelligence and little foresight is a problem that we are stuck with, because the experts themselves cannot agree on any major world issue. A logocracy of quarreling experts might be no better than the rule of the mediocrities to which we are subject. The declining intellectual quality of political leadership is the result of the growing complexity of the world. Since no one, be he endowed with the highest wisdom, can grasp it in its entirety, it is those who are least bothered by this who strive for power.
quote by Stanislaw Lem
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The piper plays his clans lament.Story poem
On cold grey days, a piper plays
his pibroch on the battlements.
Clad in the garb of bygone days.
He proudly plays his clans lament.
From down below he can be seen
but no one knows who he might be
A misty figure on the scene
Bewailing his clan’s history.
The swank young men who fought and died
in foreign wars far from their home
their sacrifice can’t be denied.
He bids their long dead spirits come.
Come back braw lads where ye belong
Ye have been far too long away.
He guides them home a mighty throng.
His bounden duty is to play.
Should you attempt to draw too near
all you will find is empty space.
The piper simply disappears.
No one has ever seen his face.
The locals know and understand
He too is dead another ghost
Who still obeys his last command
a phantom who sticks to his post.
A sight the tourists come to see
and vainly try to photograph.
of course they cannot possibly.
Their efforts make the locals laugh.
On certain days the piper plays
the tourists have to make their choice
Though most arrive on sunlit days
if he appears they will rejoice.
They have more chance on sad grey days
to see the piper through the mist.
the locals know the piper’s ways.
The legend cannot be dismissed.
The experts may explain away
the ghostly figure. which appears.
But can’t account in any way
for the lament which they can hear.
So they pretend it is the wind
a rather silly thing to do.
All experts have a tight closed mind
and can’t accept the story’s true.
I disregard the experts view
for I have seen and I have heard.
and know that others have done too
Expert opinions are absurd.
Why can’t the learned fools accept
the piper’s presence as a fact.
Their explanations are inept.
Forgive me for my lack of tact.
I can forgive stupidity
Ignorance is an excuse.
I state my case with clarity
most experts are of little use
Outside their field of expertise.
I much prefer the locals view
The piper’s visits will not cease
until he has good reason to.
17/06/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I would if I could
Philosophers considering
the mysteries if the universe.
May seem to be woolgathering
or dozing off which would be worse.
But they are not: They’re deep in thought
Oblivious to reality
They contemplations of a sort
which is akin to fantasy.
Their thoughts are on a higher plane
I don’t pretend to understand.
Although they try they can’t explain.
So they dismiss me out of hand.
At least I work to earn my pay
I cannot sit and think all day.
13/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Changes Are Natural
The perfect English summer day.
Is very seldom seen today
When skies are blue and clouds are few.
Although I know they used to do.
Long ago when I was small
They often came I can recall.
Playing in the summer sun
with my friends just having fun.
Though nowadays we see more rain
For reasons that I can't explain.
Although the experts say they can
They firmly place the blame on man.
Personally I cannot agree.
Changes happen naturally.
Although my views may seem perverse
I do believe the universe.
Dictates the pace of climate change.
When it decides to rearrange.
The patterns we have been used to
There's very little we can do.
We have no choice but to accept.
We do not know what to expect.
The universe has power to
Do precisely as it wants to do.
Climate changes in the past.
Have come and gone they did not last.
The human race is not to blame
We're minor players in the game.
Looking back at history
It seems quite obvious to me.
We lack the power to reverse
Decisions of the universe.
Long before man came on the scene.
We know quite well that there have been.
Climatic changes now and then.
The experts need to think again.
But experts are reluctant to
accept they need to change their view.
They can't face the reality.
That changes happen naturally.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Moreover the incorporation requires the same components needed for protein synthesis, and is inhibited by the same inhibitors. Thus the system is most unlikely to be a complete artefact and is very probably closely related to genuine protein synthesis.
quote by Francis Crick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boundless curiosity for friend Thad.
The world is full of mysteries.
Colossal buildings left behind
by earlier societies.
Their purposes still ill defined
Although the archaeologists
advance their favourite theories.
The mysteries will long persist.
Their different hypotheses.
Cannot be proven any way.
They’re based on their experience
Of living in the world to day.
A different frame of reference.
Which cannot possibly apply
They saw the world quite differently.
I do not think we can deny
We’re blinkered in the way we see.
The evidence which we can find,
We can’t interpret properly
The artefacts they left behind
Their uses are a mystery.
Though we attempt to classify
we can’t be sure we are correct.
These relics from past history
aren’t always what we would expect.
Temples and Tombs or Palaces
The truth is that we do not know
Secular or sacred places.
There is no evidence to show.
That we can state with confidence
confirms our modern theories.
We have no point of reference
With which everyone agrees.
The arguments rage to and fro
As experts wrangle bitterly
They daren’t admit they do not know.
Although they don’t quite obviously.
At best an educated guess
Must be the best we can expect.
From experts trying to impress
The other experts I suspect.
It seems to me improbable
That we will solve these mysteries
Our mind sets aren’t comparable
as different as chalk and cheese.
But still we are compelled to try
because these monuments exist.
Our boundless curiosity
will not allow us to desist.
Saturday,24 April 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Proof positive 2011
Proof positive 2011
This tree is where no tree should be.
It clings to life precariously.
From whence it cam nobody knows.
All that we know is that it grows.
Although it’s stunted gnarled and bent.
It has survived that’s evident.
Perchance it’s where it should not be.
It does not matter to the tree.
This is the only place it knows
and so it very slowly grows.
Defying rules conceived by men
It forces them to think again.
Although the experts all agree.
It’s an impossibility
The tree discounts the experts view
A seed took root and simply grew.
That’s all seeds know how to do.
Its mere existence proves it’s true.
Tuesday,27 December 2011 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Experts
Experts who trust the way of life,
Who love the learning, are precious.
Experts can not live like us
If they are separate.
Learn the expertise that is real,
And be diligent in the role of study.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Most Of The So Called Literary Experts
Most of the so called literary experts are dismissive of rhyme
They say 'tis the poetry of a long gone time
Yet the poets that they laud the poems they do write
Cannot be put to music and are hard to read and recite
The rhymer of today is not looked on as a poet
Or is not seen as one worthy of literary note
By the so called literary experts with literary degrees
Though their judgement on what is or is not poetry not everyone does please
They never will convince the old style rhyme buff
To him or her well written rhyme is not throw away stuff
In well written rhyme are the words to a song
And good rhyming poetry to music belong
Yet the degreed literary experts who on poetry like to have their say
Dismiss rhyming poets and their poetry as of yesterday.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Idle thoughts
Chaos ruled the nothingness.
Only potentiality
existed in the timelessness
The universe was yet to be.
We cannot know the primal cause
which overcame the entropy.
Forced it to take a different course.
It must remain a mystery.
From nothing came reality
A fully orchestrated plan
Which could not happen possibly.
So says the finite mind of man.
So we build up hypotheses
and legends trying to explain
Rejecting others theories
Though there is nothing we can gain.
Arguments based on ignorance
are bandied freely to and fro.
If we found the truth by chance
it’s probable we would not know.
We know the universe exists.
We can’t deny the evidence
and yet the legends still persist
Though logically they make no sense.
Did God create the universe
and if so who created God
I do not wish to seem perverse
but I confess I find it odd.
Why is that mankind pursues
this useless quest obsessively.
I think the questions too abstruse
For us to view objectively.
I just accept the way things are
Which seems the wisest course to me
and hasn’t troubled me so far
But then perhaps I’m just lazy.
25/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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In the Lead
My pencil’s charged with poetry.
It can write verses fluidly
and inscribe them on the sheet
in rhyme and perfect metric feet.
It’s such a simple artefact
but filled with magic that’s a fact.
A pristine page is quite enough
to make my pencil do it’s stuff.
My pad, my pencil and my muse
can’t see a challenge and refuse
A blank page they can’t bear to see.
That why I’m writing poetry
I have a pad I have a pen
which forces me to write again.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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El Nino The Thirsty One
Some weather experts told us el nino is dead
That we would have his rainy sister la nina instead
Of him but now the word is more dry and warm weather ahead
The drought to continue despite what we've heard and read
Old thirsty el nino is alive and well
For many he does make life an earthly hell
Because of him many farmers have committed suicide
Their hopes and their dreams by him have been destroyed
El nino is living despite what some weather experts do say
He is a survivor he will not go away
He sucks the dams and waterways dry and every dropp of moisture from the ground
Where drought is prevalent he is to be found
El nino the thirsty one is with us to stay
Despite what some of the experts on weather do say.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Before the beginning
Why does the human race exist?
Unanswered questions will persist.
Philosophers and scientists
All try to penetrate the mists.
It seems as if each answer found,
leads to a question more profound.
It often seems the evidence
flies in the face of common sense.
Some premises I accept as true
may seem quite different to you.
The things we know or think we know.
Frequently prove to be not so.
It all depends how we perceive
the so called facts which we believe.
Is there a God it would seem so.
I can believe but do not know.
We cannot prove it either way
and so unanswered questions stay.
Unanswered now as they have done
since mans history was begun.
Although we ask we get no reply
Is God still there or did he die?
16/04/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Colour of Happiness
The colour of anger is Red
Frustration connubial to Dread
The colour of love is Purple
Sanguine to Aphrodite's myrtle
The colour of life is green
Freshly mixed with infused submarine
But the colour of happiness is transparent
A viscous antonym of denotation
and I am the colours Souvenir
Cheap, artefact of a personas facsimile
poem by Kevin Patrick
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