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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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Changing perspective for bro Colin
A patchwork quilt of sunlit fields
Is visible as grey mist yields
to the majesty of the sun.
The morning mist and night shadows
are well aware that they must go
Now that a new day has begun.
The distant hills which I now see
Become for me reality
Now that the mists have fully gone.
No longer just a fantasy,
a half forgotten memory.
I wandered happily alone.
I did not lack for company
I had my book of poetry.
What more could any poet need
except a quiet spot to read.
31/08/2009
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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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Peccavi for friend Bob
A sword suspended by a thread, precariously above my head
A sin committed long ago I did not want the world to know.
My conscience nagged incessantly I dreaded the discovery
of what I had done as a child. Sufficient cause to be reviled.
By anyone who came to know the secrets that I hid below
my air of seeming innocence. How I’ve regretted my offence.
What I had done nobody knew nor were they ever likely to.
I did not wish to cause alarm nor did I wish the slightest harm.
To anyone I was a fool to think it would be rather cool.
To super glue the ladies loo which left a lady sticking to
The toilet seat to her distress. I was too frightened to confess.
I realised eventually that only I could forgive me
I still regret my foolishness. A childish prank no more no less.
The time has come for my reprieve I am forgiven I believe
My punishment draws to its close.Although in fact still no one knows.
Who superglued the ladys loo.There is no way that they could do.
I have repented of my sin but secretly suppress a grin.
When I recall the memory which all my life has haunted me
26/04/2009
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Serenity is my portion for M lady Ann Beard
The last rays of the setting sun
encarnadine the grey stonewalls
of my small house when day is done.
I watch content as darkness falls.
I have an unimpeded view
from where I sit towards the sea.
Each sunset shows me something new
the darkness holds no threat for me.
In fact I crave the quietness.
I choose to live in solitude.
I hate the city’s business
an anti social attitude? .
That may be true I can’t deny
I do not seek the company
of fellow men and I know why
I hate the close proximity.
Of the unthinking bustling crowd
Who advertise their discontent
broadcasting random thoughts aloud
By accident without intent.
The random thoughts they radiate
albeit quite unknowingly
combine together and create
a standing wave of misery.
Perhaps I am too sensitive.
Which would explain my attitude
The reason that I choose to live
in isolated solitude.
I’m woken by the rising sun
which bids me that it’s time to rise
and greet the new day just begun.
In perfect peace and quietness.
The grey stone walls now tinged with gold
I look towards the distant sea
Enjoy the beauty I behold
I am content as I should be.
08/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Faded photograph
A snapshot taken years ago.
Somewhat lacking clarity.
Of some young guys I used to know
In fact the skinny one is me.
The other two I can recall,
their faces well but not their names
Although I try nothing at all.
My memory is playing games
I wonder where they are today
I wonder if they remember me
The passing years erode away
your memories ability.
To regain any access to
some things you know that you once knew
Monday,13 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Penitent for Friend Konstantin
A gentleman in every way.
A relic from a bygone day.
His clothes well cut but out of date,
in his own time a fashion plate.
He’s not as he appears to be.
He is a ghost apparently.
Always appears at half past three
then disappears mysteriously.
Though who he was nobody knows.
A gentleman judged by his clothes,
we only know he comes and goes.
Because he has to I suppose.
A visitor from long ago
Though why he comes we may not know.
Perhaps he comes to demonstrate
that once he was a fashion plate.
Maybe condemned for too much pride
a fatal flaw he could not hide.
He must display at half past three
until he learns humility
.18-Feb-09 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A little Extra for M'lady Ernestine
I am the hostess with most.
I even boast a family ghost.
Who haunts the family estate.
Of course you must appreciate
she is quite free to come and go.
You never know if she’ll appear.
She’s been around for centuries
and she is rather hard to please.
She will not mix with commoners.
It is the gentry she prefers.
Just who she was nobody knows.
A titled lady we suppose.
A snob or course she is my dear
Her actions make that very clear.
Her history a mystery.
You have to be well bred to see
The ghost I like to brag about.
That she is real, please do not doubt.
If you should see her you can boast
that you have seen the family ghost.
Which seems to prove you are well bred
although the lady’s long since dead.
She recognises quality
the upper class like you and me
If you don’t see her though you try.
The answer is to simply lie
Just like the vast majority
of people who have claimed to see.
A non existent family ghost
A fable dreamt up by your host.
Which seems to prove as she contends
that people pose to please their friends..
They lie about the lie she told.
She lied to show that she was bold
enough to make her story seem quite true.
And you believed the more fool you.
24/06/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Day by Day
I think it is impossible
To recall ev’ryone you met
and also highly probable.
That some you’re happy to forget.
The first lover who broke your heart,
Imprinted deep in memory.
Though you suspected from the start,
this was a dream which could not be.
The petty boss that bullied you.
When you were young and powerless.
It’s odd but you recall him too.
Though not with any kindliness.
Yet good friends fade from memory
erased by quickly passing years
almost you’d think impossible,
You wonder if you’ve slipped from theirs.
Although you meant to keep in touch.
You never did too much to do.
I wonder does it matter
because they have forgotten too.
Par for the course I understand.
Although sometimes spontaneously
they come to mind; you can’t command
the actions of your memory.
The present matters not the past.
It is consigned to history,
the pace of life is far too fast.
To take time out for reverie.
We touch on others and affect
each other in some subtle way
That is the truth we must accept.
We really live from day to day.
1-Dec-08http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Access Denied
Ofttimes enwrapt in reverie
I have a distant memory
but I cannot be sure it’s true
Of my mother who I barely knew.
She died so very long ago.
There is so much I do not know
I only know what I’ve been told
and that recedes as I grow old.
Although I try I can’t recall
her face: bring it to mind at all.
I feel I should be able to
but there is nothing I can do.
Sometimes I wake to find I’ve wept.
But I can do nothing but accept.
That time’s erased the memory
of the face I long to see.
Some faded photographs remain
which I look at, try to regain.
The memories I have repressed
It may be that it’s for best.
I was so young when mother died.
My wants and needs were satisfied.
By father and the family
and I grew up quite happily.
Would mother have been proud of me?
I she’d lived long enough to see.
The man her little boy grew into.
My mother who I barely knew.
Then I remember guiltily
my mother lost much more than me.
The grandchildren she’d never know
the chance to see her children grow.
But I still pursue selfishly
that one elusive memory.
That’s buried somewhere deep inside
A need that can’t be satisfied.
Perhaps because I’m growing old
and only have what I was told
to remember mother by.
I know I’ll fail but I still try.
24/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Unwelcome visitor
Begone sad ghost why dost thou bother me.
I knew thee not whilst living thou drew breath.
Nor do I wish to know thee after death.
Why dost thou visit me so frequently?
What is that thou hopest to gain from me?
Unlike the other dead who slumber peacefully.
Under the stone which they must lie beneath.
What wantest thou with me; I know thee not,
nor do I want thy ghostly company.
If once I knew thee I have forgot
Begone sad ghost thou dost not frighten me.
Go now there is no welcome here for thee.
9-Sep-08
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Grown men do cry
Old memories which linger still.
Can bring the tear drops to my eyes
Sometimes they take me by surprise
and cause my tears to freely spill.
I’m not afraid to say they do.
There is no reason I should be.
My memories both old and new
are an integral part of me.
Sometimes they’re tears of happiness
and I am smiling through my tears.
Though other tears recall sadness
that I have suffered through the years.
Old memories reminding me
of joy and sorrow equally.
Monday,09 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Am I? for friend Thad.
I think therefore I am but I
can only be aware of me.
If I should ask could you reply
with well considered honesty.
I am as I appear to be
to myself with my inner eye
Or do you see me differently
and if so can you tell me why.
Or will you simply lie to me
and tell me what I want to hear.
Because you think that you can see
the truth might be too much to bear.
I think therefore I am but I
Cannot claim true validity
There’s no real way to verify.
The simple fact that I am me.
Monday,25 January 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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Learning New Skills: something a little different
I smell the rancid stench of fear.
Although you sense that I am near.
You give no credibility
to anything which you can’t see.
You don’t believe in ghosts as such
And yet you’re conscious of my touch.
But you refuse to listen to
the inner voice that’s telling you
There are some things you can’t explain.
Some hidden aspect of your brain.
Which knows a great deal more than you
are prepared to believe is true.
You are aware your terrified
of something but you can’t decide.
If it is fact or fantasy.
Should you fight or should you flee.
I can’t do what I used to do.
All I can do is frighten you
I cannot harm you physically.
That pleasure is forbidden me.
I feed upon the scent of fear
To satisfy my appetite.
Before I died I used to kill
And if I could I would still kill.
But I cannot I’m just a ghost
one of the great unnumbered host.
Who have to pay the penalty
for who and what they used to be.
A never ending punishment
For those who can’t or won’t repent.
As long as I can frighten you
I will continue making do.
A lesser thrill I must confess
But it feeds me none the less.
The taste of terror exquisite
It titillates my appetite
for cruelty. I am still proud to be
operating sadistically.
Inflicting mental cruelty.
A student of psychology.
Although you sense that I am near
You cannot understand your fear.
There’s very little you can do.
I am more powerful than you.
Though disembodied I exist
as tenuous as morning mist.
And while I do your fears persist.
You need to find an exorcist.
30/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Ghost Behind My Eyes
There is person living in my head
She comes to visit every night in bed
I fight the demon, but it just wont fall
The voices in my dungeon starting to call
The spiders dancing on the wall
Suicide of love we could have had it all
And it is you, you are the ghost behind my eyes
The ghost that tells me lies
The princess of the dark has made my mind home
My haunted head and her wont leave me alone
She dances on my heart with fire in my soul
I hate that feeling when Im loosing control
The spiders dancing on the wall
Suicide of love we could have had it all
And it is you, you are the ghost behind my eyes
The ghost that tells me lies
I wish to God that I could sleep
Again, oh peace again
And wake up from this nightmare
Free again
Free again, oh me again
There is a woman in my head
She comes to visit every night in bed
The spiders dancing on the wall
Suicide of love we could have had it all
And it is you, you are the ghost behind my eyes
You, you are the ghost behind my eyes
You, you are the ghost behind my eyes
Behind my eyes
The ghost behind my eyes
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
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Here and There for M'lady Mary Gordley
To you they are pure fantasy.
To me they are reality,
So we are bound to disagree.
In worlds I visit frequently,
you can see dragons flying free.
But only if you have the key.
To open up your tight closed mind
to all the wonders you can find
when reality is left behind.
Try it out what can you lose,
travel anywhere you choose.
You have free will you can refuse.
But when I need a holiday.
I close my eyes and drift away.
7-Jun-08
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Global Warming? I think not.
Snow has fallen, snow on snow.
The temperatures remaining low.
There is no sign of any thaw,
In fact we are expecting more.
It’s snowing intermittently.
With intervals of weak sunshine
but it is freezing constantly.
With dread black ice the bottom line
A hazard for the traveller
who has no choice but has to go
Though most of them would much prefer
to stay at home out of the snow.
Authorities are struggling to
ensure the major roads are free
of snow to let the traffic flow.
Albeit very carefully.
Its more than thirty years ago.
Though some of us can still recall
the problems caused by heavy snow.
But memories don’t help at all.
We have to cope with here and now
and not what happened years ago.
We have to show that we know how
to overcome this winters snow.
We do not know when thaw will come
as it has always done before.
But we are sure we will welcome,
the sight of snow free roads once more.
Tuesday,05 January 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Silent Alarm for Friend David Threadgold
The darkness hosts a multitude
of atavistic memories.
which influence our attitude
Towards the things we cannot see.
The hunting owl which quietly
on noiseless wings seeks out his prey.
His night tuned eyes can clearly see
as if it was as bright as day.
Some see him as an enemy
and view his passage with alarm.
Although he’s acting naturally
with no intent to cause them harm.
Men fear the dark which seems to be
a breeding ground for ancient fears
embedded inescapably
in memories from their forebears.
Their fear of being eaten by
some marauding predator
which pounces on them from the sky.
Man will recall for evermore.
15-Aug-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Vanity
The lady wept hot bitter tears
but could not stay the passing years
She tried to hide the evidence
and willingly spared no expense.
She bought the latest creams and pills
and lotions guaranteed to please
But none of them could cure her ills
Because old age is not disease.
Her older sister wiser far
although she was particular
about hygiene and cleanliness.
Also the way she chose to dress.
Was not afraid of getting old
nor of the tales her wrinkles told.
She said she’d earned them honestly,
displaying them triumphantly.
Old age is not an enemy
you can accept it gracefully.
Or waste your money foolishly
pursuing dreams that cannot be.
24-Jun-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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No Chance!
.
Though gifted with great eloquence.
The candidate lacks common sense
He phrased his speech in such a way,
that few in any chose to stay.
His words though chosen carefully
would never get him elected.
They didn’t understand a word he said.
He might as well have stayed in bed.
We did not know what he stood for
and saw him as a crashing bore.
A patronising upper class snob
who’d never had a proper job.
Which spoilt his opportunity
to be elected an MP
Wednesday,08 September 2010
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