Godivas Granddaughter For Friend Denis Joe
Sky Clad she rode her motorbike
around the town at normal speed.
No one had ever seen the like
but all the fellers were agreed.
That she deserved a rousing cheer.
She’d livened up a boring day
They hoped she would again appear
a sight for which they’d gladly pay.
The lady had fulfilled her bet.
None knew her real identity,
the townsfolk talk about it yet.
But it remains a mystery.
Just who she was and why she chose
to ride Sky Clad nobody knows.
20-May-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Smitten
I loved a maid who loved not me.
This was a love that could not be
For she was wed, though I was free.
But had she been at liberty
I would have wooed her openly.
Instead I loved her secretly.
Just one of life’s small tragedies
There was no cure for my disease
I hoped through time the pain would cease.
But sadly this was not to be.
The fates had ruled capriciously
there could be no one else for me
Although the lady never knew
my love for her was deep and true
I held my peace how could she do.
Although I tried my best to find
another love. She filled my mind.
The snare fate fashioned well designed.
The lady saw me as a friend,
someone on whom she could depend.
I had no choice but to pretend
That friendship was enough for me.
Although I loved her hopelessly.
I loved her well enough to see.
That she was married happily.
But I was bound by fates decree
to love her unrequitedly
26-Oct-08.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Flagrant Exhibitionists for M'Lady Ernestine
Deep purple Iris’ rioting
Beside a gently flowing stream.
Neglected yet still flourishing.
Part of a long abandoned dream.
The Gardener grew old and died
before she made her dream come true
Her dream remains unsatisfied.
Yet still the purple Iris Grew.
Though dreamers die their dreams live on
until they are adopted by
By somebody else; Perhaps someone
who’s not prepared to let dreams die.
They flaunt their beauty shamelessly.
Purple clad Imperially.
Friday,19 August 2011
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Piercing the veils of mystery.
Piercing the veils of mystery.
Some understand instinctively.
What must remain a mystery
To the vast majority
Of ignorant humanity.
Most just accept the Status Quo
Because they do not want to know.
Although a few an elite few
Will learn things that they never knew
By dint of hard experience
They have to learn in self defence
Although their progress may be slow.
They can’t forget once that they know
How to interpret what they see
Piercing the veils of mystery.
Sunday,04 December 2011
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Her Own Choice
She could no longer cope alone.
Knew all too well that it was true
and there was something else she knew.
Her race was run, time to move on.
She did not wish to vegetate
in some well run establishment
Where lunch became the main event.
With no attempt to stimulate.
The workings of an agile mind,
trapped inside a useless shell.
A body which had served her well.
Before her health was undermined,
by ailments which progressively
destroyed all of her abilities.
The time had come to quit the game.
So she decided she would die
in her own bed in her own home
To be pain free would be welcome.
So she died voluntarily.
The cause of death no mystery.
She chose to exercise her right,
While she had the will to write
the finish to her life story.
22/04/2009
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Guardian Angel?
I think I’m being haunted by
a female ghost who constantly
Appears to want to be with me
Although I can’t imagine why.
I ask her but she wont reply.
She seems afraid to meet my eye.
I think she thinks she and I
have shared some common history.
I see her as faint image.
A blurred impression from a page
of fashions from a bygone age
Or some actress upon the stage.
A misty figure clad in grey
stays close to me by night and day
I ask again but she won’t say
She cannot seem to stay away.
I don’t know who she is or was
and I will never know because.
She thinks I ought to know of course.
Which in itself should give me pause.
She only comes when no one is here.
I sense her presence drawing near
then hazily she will appear.
This silent ghost from yesteryear.
I see no reason for alarm
I know she does not wish me harm
In fact she has a certain charm.
Her quietness a healing balm.
Which soothes my mind and set me free
from all the noise which bothers me.
Incessantly and ceaselessly.
She offers quiet company.
She places no demands on me.
She is content apparently
to visit unobtrusively,
when she desires my company.
I do not know if she chose me
or I chose her subconsciously.
Sometimes I doubt my sanity
but she is very real to me.
Perhaps she’s just a fantasy
I’m well aware that she might be.
Or some forgotten memory
of someone who was dear to me.
My mother died when I was small
it could be her who I recall.
I have no memories at all
The passing years erased them all
7-Nov-08
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Poetry in Motion for Friend Thad
A connoisseur of derrieres.
I’ve studied ladies rears for years.
I love to watch the liquid flow
of haunches moving to and fro
When clad in well cut denim jeans,
they can enhance the dullest scenes
But better still I must confess
beneath a simple cotton dress.
I am convinced the ladies know
that many men enjoy the view
and do their very best to show
they don’t object but pretend to.
I find that Gluteus Maximi
Are very easy on the eye.
14-May-08
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Morning Hymn
Gladly do I greet the dawn
a new day born for me to see.
The dawn chorus fills my ears.
Banishes all fears: I’m free
to raise my hymn of praise.
To the suns rays. I ought to
in gratitude for the sight
of morning light. So I do.
Awdl gwnedd form
07/11/2009
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Youthful fantasies. a redondilla
redondilla
To tell my love forbidden me.
So I must suffer silently.
I love a lady who is wed
and so my love remains unsaid.
The lady is beyond reproach
an Icon I cannot approach.
She would reject me if I should
There is no doubt at all she would.
She does not know that I exist
and yet my feelings still persist.
I dream about her constantly
and I will love her faithfully.
That is until I chance to meet
another maiden just as sweet.
I fall in love regularly
Always it seems quite hopelessly.
Sunday,04 July 2010
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Uncertainty for Friend J.T. Ellison
There is a question troubling me.
How do I know that I am me?
You question my identity
I answer satisfactorily.
You are convinced that I am me.
Though I have passed your scrutiny
and proved I’m who I claim to be
I’m half convinced that I might be
somebody else who thinks he’s me.
This worries me considerably.
I can’t be sure that I am me
A crisis of identity.
You would worry if you were me
plagued by this uncertainty.
6-May-08
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Fuzzy Logic.
Between the worlds the boundary.
Sometimes grows thin and disappear.
Fantasy and reality
Which is which no longer clear.
Imagination can supply
Alternative scenarios
Where normal rules do not apply
But are they real? nobody knows
It may well be that it is so
I can accept a different view
I do not really want to know
whether or not that it is true
I can believe quite easily
there is no definite boundary.
Sunday,17 January 2010
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Unconventional
The day was cold but she was not in point of fact she was too hot.
So she stripped off all of her clothes because she chose to I suppose
Her neighbours thought it rather quaint but only one raised a complaint
The vicar did not think she should do her gardening in the nude
But she replied acerbically that if he did not want to see
Then he should look the other way. She did not tell him how to pray
He should not tell her how she must dress. For all his show of piousness
She had seen him gazing lustfully when he was no one could see
Upon young school girls passing by from whom he could not tear his eye. What right has he to condemn me when I display quite openly
All that I have quite naturally with no false show of modesty
I’m not ashamed why should I be.I am the way that God made me
But he conceals his prurience behind an air of innocence
By advocating nudity at least I’m acting honestly.
I have no time for pious frauds who secretly gain their rewards
by using their imagination to enjoy what they would dearly like to do.
I told the vicar to his face I thought he was a black disgrace
He mumbled something in reply but could not look me in the eye.
He knew I had divined his lustfulness. He knew I knew no need to guess.
He thought it best to move away but where he went I cannot say.
We have a lady vicar now who does not try to tell me how
I ought to dress for gardening.content to let me do my own thing.
She says that sometimes she, wishes she could act as naturally.
26-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Nocturne for M'lady Lucianne
A rosy glow which fades to grey,
as dusk writes finis to the day
The grey deepens to indigo,
the one by one the bright stars show.
Bright sequins on the cloak of night.
My heart rejoices at the sight.
To me the night is Feminine,
the stars just serve to underline
the fact a lady needs to dress
in such a way that she’ll impress.
I am impressed as you can see
I’m inspired to write poetry
in praise of Diana who will rise
to be the mistress of the skies.
26-May-08
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She Is fir MY Lady Irene
My lady strolls to take the air.
The flowers bow as she goes by,
because they know they can’t compare
with my lady, so they don’t try.
The song birds sing my lady’s praise,
sweet music to my lady’s taste.
Here as she walks the woodland ways
They flock to sing to her; in haste
Where e’re she walks a cool breeze blows
plays with the glory of her hair.
It is as if all nature knows
my lady’s more than passing fair
She walks in beauty naturally.
she is as she was meant to be.
01/04/2009
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Confession Without Shame
I have sinned I must admit.
If that’s what you choose to call it
I did as nature bid me to
and I am certain you did too.
Making love is natural
for any healthy boy or gal
Sharing mutual ecstasy
can’t be a sin. At least to me.
What you believe is up to you
You can be sure saints did it too.
It may be wrongful in your sight
That is your choice you have the right.
Your standards don’t apply to me.
I’ll carry on quite happily.
The only sin I recognise
and this to everyone applies
To hurt another wilfully
the only way to act sinfully.
8-Sep-08
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Rough Justice story poem
Squire Cholmondely I presume
Was not prepared to meet his doom
when he was slaughtered by his groom.
Whose wife he made advances to
a thing no gentleman would do.
He got no more than he was due.
The groom decided he must pay
and slit his weasand one fine day
Then hid his corpse without delay.
Nobody liked the squire much
and he was often out of touch.
There was no hue and cry as such.
Nobody thought he might be dead.
The groom had dropped him so he said
to catch the coach for Maidenhead.
Where he indulged his appetite
for painted ladies of the night
Which he assumed to be his right.
The groom confessed on his death bed
that Squire Cholmondely was long dead
The priest absolved him readily.
The groom now dead had not revealed
where the body was concealed.
So that remains a mystery.
Now to this day nobody knows
the hiding place which the groom chose.
He hid it with great secrecy
Nobody cares sufficiently
to try to find where it might be
There’d be no useful purpose served.
The squire got what he deserved
I must conclude its for the best
Nobody knows where his bones rest.
Perhaps one day by happenstance
He will be found by some mischance.
Buried in some unhallowed plot.
But I would rather he was not.
The whole affair should be forgot
The past is past beyond recall
and I for one don’t care at all.
My granddad did what I would do
to anyone insulting you.
Sunday,08 November 2009
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Cholmondely is pronounced Chumly
For some obscure reason
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Lament of a filing clerk.
Another day draws to its close.
A boring day like yesterday.
Much like tomorrow I suppose.
Each and every day the same.
I go to work from nine to five
The boredom starts when I arrive.
I hardly know that I'm alive
Each and every day the same
Though I' well paid for what I do
I would like to try something new.
A day dream which will not come true
.Each and every day the same.
I'd like to change but dare not try.
I'll be nobody ‘til I die.
26/02/2012
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Possibilty for J.T.Early
The universe appears to be
expanding outwards constantly
At speeds exceeding that of light.
Its origin a mystery.
But throughout mankind’s history
We have observed the stars at night.
Though early men with naked eye
recorded movements in the sky.
Which had the power to excite
their naïve curiosity
They were convinced that there must be.
Some reason why the stars shone bright.
But different men thought differently.
It seemed that there would never be
consensus as to who was right.
But now with new technology
We have gained the ability
To study stars far out of sight.
The use of radio telescopes
can raise and sometimes dash our hopes.
They are in use by day and night.
We still can’t solve the mystery,
are we alone or might there be
Races hidden from our sight.
In other distant galaxies
Too far away for us to see.
It seems entirely apposite.
That like the early men we try
to read the message in the sky.
Perhaps one day we’ll get it right.
Saturday,01 May 2010.
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A guest of Her Majesty for Friend Thad
Brunhilde Bloggs no fixed address.
Was very fond of cheap red wine.
Somewhat disordered in her dress.
Her voice a grating nasal whine.
She begs for cash from passersby.
Her manner almost threatening.
Her raging thirst to satisfy
at each refusal glowering.
A policeman tells her “move along”
and she reacts aggressively
Insists she has done nothing wrong.
But he has little sympathy
He has no choice but to arrest
and take her into custody.
She has become a public pest.
Which no one is allowed to be
Brunhilde Bloggs has an address
at least for several months to come.
She got what she deserved no less
but she was luckier than some.
Who passed out cold and froze to death
in some back alley out of sight.
A victim to cold winters breath
in drunken dreams of sheer delight.
11-Sep-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Two schools of thought.
.
The lady chose to take offence
Although I said she wrote fine prose
She may not know the difference
between poetry and prose
She thought that she wrote poetry
But what she wrote was free form prose.
I offered no apology
It was not my fault that she chose.
Not to learn the basic rules
defining prose and poetry
Two very different writing schools
in which to show your artistry.
The so called experts can’t agree
and coined the term poetic prose.
Though writing cannot possible
be classed as poetry and prose.
If it’s not metered it is prose
no matter how poetical.
But you’re entitled to compose.
Fine prose and call it poetry.
Though I suggest respectfully
you should be proud of writing prose.
As some do most successfully.
But it was poetry I chose
Thursday,11 March 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Harmless pastime for friend Thad
When I survey the skies at night.
I try to count the points of light
although I know it can’t be done
I still attempt to just for fun.
The light which we perceive today
has taken centuries they say.
To travel at the speed of light
from stars beyond our human sight.
Perhaps its true, perhaps its not
but does it matter. Not a lot.
The stars I think that I can see
are part of my reality.
Though they burnt out eons ago.
the speed of light seems very slow.
I see them as they used to be
and that is good enough for me.
I understand each is a sun
but still I count them just for fun.
Those distant twinkling points of light
To me a source of pure delight.
I like to sit and fantasise
about these beacons in the skies.
Set my imagination free
as I sit watching quietly.
6-Mar-09
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