Justice for all storypoem
The bards of old their stories told.
In rhyming verse they had writ,
to entertain the young and old.
Sometimes they stretched the truth a bit.
To please their current lordly host
They would extol his bravery
and of his prowess loudly boast.
Although their words lacked verity.
They spread the news from far and near.
Tailored to suit their audience.
Some news which they were glad to hear.
The bards received in recompense.
The recognition and respect
accorded to them for their skill.
A place to sleep as you’d expect
and food and drink enough to fill.
Always treated as a welcome guest
in manor house or lordly hall
They could fulfil their host’s requests
with stories suitable for all.
Love stories for the ladies ears
and tales of war to suit the men
Old tales for those advanced in years
which could recall their youth again.
The bards were guardians of the lore
which was passed down from bard to bard.
The masters of bryhonic law
Which they had studied long and hard.
It took them one and twenty years
to earn the title of a bard.
Long years of travel sweat and tears.
Authority was their reward.
All men were subject to the law
from kitchen churl to lordly knight
All disputes then were brought before
a bard to judge as was their right.
He listened to the evidence
then made his judgement openly
Applied the law with common sense
but always judged impartially.
But that was then unlike today.
When every man obeyed the law.
But sadly we have gone astray
There is no justice any more.
The laws today are not applied
to rich and poor men equally.
All thoughts of justice cast
aside in our corrupt society.
A guilty man can go Scott free
when clever lawyers twist the laws
and find some technicality.
For which they are well paid of course.
There are no bryhon bards today
and poets get but scant respect
But still we try to show the way
We must protest poetically.
The conscience of society
that has to be our modern role.
To outline with our poetry
Justice for all should be our goal.
2-Feb-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Perverted Progress story poem which became a rant
The bards are dead and none recall
the glory days, when every hall.
Would echo to their epic tales
and hear the news they would regale
The ancient bards were men of law
They were welcomed at every door.
A peasant’s cot or chieftains hall
it made no difference at all.
They were accorded great respect
as arbiters as you’d expect.
These minstrels wise in Brehon Law
and holders of the magic lore.
All men were treated equally
and their decisions seen to be
delivered so impartially.
The way that justice ought to be.
No man could buy their loyalty
They were all that they claimed to be.
Men of prodigious memory
who could judge - impartially.
The rights and wrongs of any cause
and had the power to enforce.
Such was the power of Brehon law
which ruled the land in days of yore.
But time moves on and all things change
invaders come and re arrange.
The world to suit their foreign ways.
The bards refused to sing their praise.
So they were hunted down and killed
This left a gap which would be filled
by lawyers of a different sort.
Corrupt men who could be bought.
By those who had he greatest wealth
Well versed in lies deceit and stealth
Although professing probity.
Behind the scenes where none could see.
These lawyers aided thievery
and favoured those of high degree.
Against the poor but honest men
who had their lands and goods taken.
To fill the coffers of the rich
whose greed consumed them like an itch.
Unsatisfied they craved for more
and so perverted every law.
Judgement was now a mockery
which could be purchased for a fee.
A price the poor man could not raise
and thus he always lost his case.
Things are much the same today
unless you can afford to pay.
Outrageous fees which lawyers ask
You face an impossible task.
You wont get justice you’ll get law.
That’s what you pay your lawyer for.
To find some loophole you can use
so that you need not pay your dues.
Avoiding any punishment
however evil your intent
He’ll find some technicality
which he’ll invoke to set you free.
The golden days when laws applied
to all men equally were set aside.
So justice wears a blindfold now
that’s fastened tightly round her brow.
The lawyers dare not let her see.
How they have made a mockery.
Twisting the meaning of the law
and making use of every flaw.
and every legal argument
to thwart the laws avowed intent.
To protect the innocent.
Another failed experiment.
We have to find a better way
which does not favour those who pay.
As it was in days of yore
when no man was above the law.
Then justice was not bought or sold
the bards had small regard for gold.
They were renowned for honesty
dispensing justice without fee.
Supported by all honest men
we shall not see their like again.
Until the people indicate
they will no longer tolerate.
This rank injustice any more.
Demand we overhaul the law.
Rewrite them so they will apply
to everybody equally.
Justice must be seen to be done
to anyone and everyone.
Impartially as it should be
and truly independently.
But Alas the bards are dead
and we have chaos in their stead.
Today the world is ruled by greed.
Me first, me first the only creed.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I keep my head for Sdi Mahtrow
I
I am a bard with tales to tell
I know my trade I know it well.
I am made welcome when I call
at any manor house or hall.
I have sweet tales of courtly love
which will the ladies spirits move
and epic tales of battle lore
to entertain the men of war
Plus jests and japes of every kind
All carried in my well stocked mind.
I travel round the countryside
collecting news from far and wide.
I try my very best to be
certain of my accuracy
Although sometimes I stretch the truth
some puissant lord’s anger to soothe.
I pride my self on honesty
although some critics disagree.
All bards at times are forced to lie.
There is a simple reason why.
I would much rather live than die
and when my life’s in jeopardy
I lie as well as any bard
to go on living my reward.
10-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spin Doctors for friend alex
In days of yore long, long before
the spoken word took written form.
The Bards, the guardians of the lore.
In Great Men’s halls they would perform.
Their epic tales from history
to entertain the listening host.
With tales of war and mystery
and heroes which their race could boast.
Each teller added something to,
adjusted what they had been told.
By teachers who had altered too
the ancient tales they had retold.
Each myth and legend seems to be
a twisted version of some tale.
Which was quite true originally
Our search for truth is doomed to fail.
There’s little evidence to find.
Although we can extrapolate
from different versions left behind.
These fragments we appreciate.
Contain some truth enwrapt in lies,
Driven by curiosity
embark upon an enterprise,
The ultimate futility.
Though we can guess, we cannot know.
Our theories could be correct
Events which happened long ago
change with each telling I suspect.
03/06/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Word from the Bards
IT IS New Year’s Day and I rise to state that here on the Sydney side
The Bards have commenced to fill out of late and they’re showing their binjies with pride
They’re patting their binjies with pride, old man, and I want you to understand,
That a binjied bard is a bard indeed when he sings in the Southern Land,
Old chaps,
When he sings in the Southern Land.
For the Southern Land is the Poet’s Home, and over the world’s wide roam,
There was never till now a binjied bard that lived in a poet’s home, old man;
For the poet’s home was a hell on earth, and I want you to understand,
That it isn’t exactly a paradise down here in the Southern Land,
Old chap,
Down here in the Southern Land.
The Beer and the Bailiff were gone last night and the “temple” doorstep clean,
And our heads are clear and our hearts are light with wine from the Riverine—
With wine from the Riverine, old man, and I want you to understand
That Bard, Beer and Bailiff too long were kin down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.
It is not because of a larger fee, nor yet that the bards are free,
For the bards I know and the bards I see are married enough for three;
Are married enough for three, old man, and I want you to understand,
They’ve a right to be married enough for four, down here in the Southern Land,
My girl,
Down here in the Southern Land.
But I think it’s because a bird went round and twittered in ears of men
That bards have care and the world seems bare as seen from the rhyming den,
And twittered in ears of men, old chaps, and got folks to understand
That a poet is something more than a joke down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Taking Liberties too far
The lack of enforced discipline.
Is where our troubles all begin.
The evidence is plain to see.
Things are not as they ought to be
Some legal technicality
allows the guilty to go free.
They thus evade due punishment
although they are not innocent.
It’s much the same in homes and schools
Where children disobey the rules.
Without regard to consequence
because they see no evidence.
They will be chastised in due course.
There is no point in having laws
which aren’t enforced impartially.
Applied to all men equally.
A civilised society
which fails to enforce it’s own laws.
Will slide into sheer anarchy.
The lack of discipline the cause.
The time has come: We must review
exactly what the law should do.
To deter those who break the rules
If we do not then we are fools.
08/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tutorial for David de Santis
I read some poetry today
by long dead poets from the past,
which I enjoyed I have to say.
Their golden words were meant to last
.
Though they long since returned to dust.
The legacy they left behind
for poetry students is a must.
It is as if they were designed.
To act as templates we can use
as we learn to write poetry
It would be foolish to refuse
to benefit from history.
So find a poet you admire
from the past or present day
You might just find his works inspire
you to write a different way.
Experiment with every kind,
free form, free verse, formality
then in due course you’re sure to find
which one of these is your forte
The time you spend to learn the rules
is one investment you must make
Like any trade you need the tools,
Before you can attempt to make
your claim to be a master bard.
The road to fame is long and hard
with very little cash reward.
you have to try, no one is barred.
30-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Alas, A Bard’s a Bruised Reed!
They make me mad- some people, known/ unknown;
They make me sad- their wiliness / ego;
They’re after money’s comfort on this earth!
Sense/ common-sense are things that’re a dearth.
They know how poets have suffered in life!
They know how poets land in utter strife!
They stay unmoved/ inert- husband or wife:
They wound my heart with words akin a knife.
Oh how I wish I should be, never me!
Oh how I wish I were akin to them;
Yet, I can’t simply change: I’m thus destined;
To Poesy must Bards always well bind.
Poetry isn’t something that pays at once;
It isn’t something that gives plenty returns;
A Poet seeks the truth without/ within;
And Truth is God: God abhors only sin!
Being like earthlings is not always right;
The destiny of world, poets do fight;
Most Bards cannot be dishonest, may be;
Their minds are fixed to Eternity.
And if they change, could they God realize?
Good Bards prefer to be always soul-wise;
And like a phoenix die, again arise;
And show the world to be heavenly-wise!
Oh, one can’t take me for an easy ride;
I can’t my emotions and passions hide;
I can’t live on with ego great and pride;
My thoughts to be aright, God helps decide.
The superfluous from the thing that’s deep;
The virtual/ surreal from real;
The transient from what is permanent;
God help me to know and my soul to keep.
Alas, a Poet is a bruised reed!
His works on earth are immortal indeed;
His heart of love is uniquely his creed;
His mind wants peace and never yearns for greed!
Alas, a Bard’s a bruised reed!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Silent Eloquence for M lady Dee Daffodil
They say dead men do not tell tales.
This once was true but not today
Forensic science rarely fails.
Technology has shown the way.
We re-examine evidence
long thought to be of little use.
Our scrutiny is so intense,
that criminals are bound to lose.
Although they think they’re free and clear.
No one can tie them to their crime,
we’re dogged and we persevere.
We do not rush, we take our time.
Some criminals who still walk free
will soon discover that we can
prove their guilt indisputably.
In variably we get our man.
We have the latest gadgetry
we can recover D.N.A
from tiny fragments easily.
Eventually then you will pay.
The full price for your evil deed
although you think you’ve got away.
We will persist til we succeed.
We’re on your track and there we’ll stay.
We’ll forge a chain of evidence
that proves your guilt beyond all doubt
Then you will pay for your offence.
As in due course you will find out.
When you are brought before the court
No doubt you will plead not guilty.
You aren’t as clever as you thought.
You thought you’d got away Scott free.
Although Dame Justice may be blind.
She is prepared to listen to
any evidence we can find.
That pins the blame squarely on you..
Dead men can speak eloquently
and do when we investigate
assisted by technology
You can’t escape it is too late.
23-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To a Vers Librist
"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free;
The shackles that encumber me,
The fetters that are my obsession,
Are never gyves to your expression.
"The fear of falsities in rhyme,
In metre, quantity, or time,
Is never yours; you sing along
Your unpremeditated song."
"Correct," the young vers librist said.
"Whatever pops into my head
I write, and have but one small fetter:
I start each line with a capital letter.
"But rhyme and metre--Ishkebibble!--
Are actually negligible.
I go ahead, like all my school,
Without a single silly rule."
Of rhyme I am so reverential
He made me feel quite inconsequential.
I shed some strongly saline tears
For bards I loved in younger years.
"If Keats had fallen for your fluff,"
I said, "he might have done good stuff.
If Burns had thrown his rhymes away,
His songs might still be sung to-day."
O bards of rhyme and metre free,
My gratitude goes out to ye
For all your deathless lines--ahem!
Let's see, now . . . What is one of them?
poem by Franklin P. Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hungry For Justice?
Justice system as told
Is made for the people
That will be a guiding light
To have fairness to everyone.
To the poor and the wealthy
The laws are the basis
To identify the violations
In the civilized society.
But is there sense of fairness
For those who are accused
By opening the leveling field
Regardless of economic status?
When the rich man is accused
Justice is intentionally delayed
Until the time will come
Case will be dismissed and forgotten.
I wish this is only a dream
And there’s no enough basis
That in our society
There’s double face of justice!
That upon waking up the truth
There are still many patriots
Who are fearless to reveal
The true spirit of Justice.
poem by Bonifacio Alba
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just deserts
I’ve killed before and will again.
I kill for justice not for gain
So many criminals go free
because of their ability.
To hire a lawyer who will try
To make the truth appear a lie
So they escape just punishment.
Although it is self evident
That crafty legal argument
based on some ancient precedent
The merest technicality
persuades the judge to set them free
I’m not constrained by petty rules
and those that are I see as fools
I pursue justice ceaselessly
and do my duty faithfully
And those I deem deserve to die.
The punishment that I apply.
Is merely justice long delayed
I play the part that I have played.
That of the executioner
Or murderer if you prefer.
For many years without remorse
And I will carry on of course.
I’ve killed before and will again
As long as criminals obtain.
Immunity they don’t deserve
a fact I frequently observe.
In courts of law. Guilty men go free.
Blind justice can depend on me.
To disregard such foolishness
I am completely pitiless.
Though self appointed I redress
injustice with some small success.
I operate in secrecy
It is a prime necessity.
You do not need to know my name
I have no wish for worldly fame.
I take my duties seriously.
and that’s reward enough for me.
I rectify the courts mistakes
a little thought is all it takes.
Each guilty man the courts set free.
I’ll execute eventually.
But I must make it crystal clear
that innocents have naught to fear.
I only punish guilty men
before they can offend again.
Prevention is better than cure
I see no reason to endure.
Acquittals earned by lawyer’s lies.
I think a higher law applies.
If you transgress then you must pay.
There’s nothing more I need to say. http: //blog.myspace.com.poeticpiers
13/07/2009
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
11 Minus 2
I am living closer to a bard whose mind is afar off with wisdom!
But i always lay low to learn from him;
Because, his words touches me like the songs of the lovely birds around.
I am sitting here with the bard today,
But i am 11 minus 2 years old! !
Yes, very young to learn from him all year round,
And his wisdom is all that i need to imperove on my status-que in life.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A simple man.
I am not a Christian
Nor a Muslim or a Jew
I am just a simple man.
Who has a different point of view.
I can't believe the fairy tales.
Which I was taught in my youth.
Because the evidence fails
to convince me of their truth.
I am prepared to listen to.
What you believe with due respect.
But I expect respect from you.
Though you're entitled to reject.
What I believe as being false.
A matter of selection
I dance a jig you choose to waltz.
A different dance for everyone.
Sunday,12 February 2012
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bardic tradition
The yarns I spin to entertain
are never wholly fictional
I let sufficient truth remain
so they can seem quite factual.
Sometimes I find readers accept
My narratives as being true.
Although it’s not what I expect
it makes me proud to think they do.
From the feed back which I receive
It seems I unintentionally
create something they can believe.
It’s highly complimentary.
Though fashions change, bards can still spin
a likely tale to take you in.
Saturday,30 January 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sunday morning Pests.
Two thousand years or so ago.
Three criminals were crucified.
And yet today we claim we know
One was the son of God and died.
We cannot prove that this true
there’s very little evidence.
But we are still expected to
give these stories full credence.
By word of mouth they were passed down.
Translated from old Aramaic.
They came from sources now unknown
Could they free from all mistake.
When they written finally
Although no doubt with good intent
Were they translated properly
or were they changed by accident.
By accident or purposely.
Perhaps a mixture of the two
To claim divine authority.
To me it simply will not do.
To tell me that I must believe.
What may or may not be true.
Is something which you won’t achieve.
There’s very little you can do.
I can’t accept on faith alone.
Until you can prove the things you teach.
are truths that stand up on their own.
Consider me beyond your reach.
Christianity could very easily
have flourished for a while and died.
It owes its popularity.
To information men supplied.
Who had some private axe to grind
Men who stood to benefit.
Perhaps you think I am unkind
that I can’t prove a word of it
I can’t deny that it is so
I don’t expect you to agree.
But I believe you do not know
The whole truth any more than me.
I can respect what that you believe
I do not find it difficult
But I’m not willing to receive
Indoctrination by some cult.
So please don’t knock upon my door
Attempting to convert me to your view
Because I’ve heard it all before
and I’ve got better things to do.
Than listen to the likes of you.
02/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No remorse story poem
No remorse
Beneath the waves my lover lies.
They search for her without success.
I see suspicion in their eyes
They do not know but some still guess
I loved her well and faithfully.
I thought she was the perfect wife.
Behind my back she betrayed me.
I had the right to take her life.
Or would have had long years ago
The price of infidelity
was to be slain and justly so.
Though today’s laws do not agree.
I could not kill her openly.
Though she had earned the punishment.
I had to plan it carefully
and see no reason to repent.
My conscience does not bother me.
I still sleep peacefully at nights.
She feeds the fish beneath the sea.
I wish them hearty appetites.
I have no doubt that in due course
the tides will wash her bones ashore.
I do believe I had just cause.
She won’t betray me any more
D.N.A may identify
to whom the naked bones belong
but never how she came to die
Nor will they prove that it was wrong.
It could have been an accident.
Or a guilt induced suicide.
The only thing that I resent
That I had no choice but to hide
The punishment she well deserved.
Instead of acting openly
I think that justice has been served.
Though no one knows the truth but me.
My lover lies beneath the waves
I visit her quite frequently
as other people visit graves
I walk the shore beside the sea.
22-Aug-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Armchair
In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr
Grandfather's father would repair
With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair,
The glass to clink;
And oftenwhiles, when not too "fou,"
They'd roar a bawdy stave or two,
From midnight muk to morning dew,
And drink and drink.
And Grandfather, with eye aglow
And proper pride, would often show
An old armchair where long ago
The Bard would sit;
Reciting there with pawky glee
"The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;"
Or whiles a rhyme about the flea
That ne'er was writ.
Then I would seek the Poet's chair
And plant my kilted buttocks there,
And read with joy the Bard of Ayr
In my own tongue;
The Diel, the Daisy and the Louse
The Hare, the Haggis and the Mouse,
(What fornication and carouse!)
When I was young.
Though Kipling, Hardy, Stevenson
Have each my admiration won,
Today, my rhyme-race almost run,
My fancy turns
To him who did Pegasus prod
For me, Bard of my native sod,
The sinner best-loved of God -
Rare Robbie Burns.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Well suited
I feel no need to power dress
No longer trying to impress.
My style today is casual
What you see is what you get
and I confess to no regret.
Today I can be comfortable/
I need not wear a shirt and tie
and try to act impressively.
I find it rather comical.
When I observe young men today
trying hard to make their way.
It’s not at all unusual.
For them to think they know it all
But pride oft goes before a fall
and sadly that is typical
When we are young we foolishly
we must dress fashionably
So that we seem acceptable.
Now that I’m old I do not care
If no one likes the clothes I wear
I dress to suit myself not you
it is my right and so I do.
25-Mar-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Respectable
Ah, it aint so easy is it? you almost lost your place.
And perhaps youre wondering how youre going to cope with your disgrace.
Well your wealth is well established and your friends were never few,
And all the things they told you of youre finding to be true.
Well if truth can free the guilty while the innocent must die,
Then I respect, respect, respect the coldest lie.
And you talk of human justice while you drive on fancy wheels.
And you push them to their limit just to see how nice it feels.
Well it doesnt really matter if shes living or shes dead,
You just drive away forgetting that your bumpers dipped in red.
Well if thats the kind of justice that our hall of justice claims,
Then I respect, respect, respect old jesse james.
And most cordially they caught you and they asked you to obey.
And they threw you into prison, just in case you could not pay.
Well king arthur jousted lancelot, who stole away his wife;
And your lawyers jousted with the court to save your precious life.
Well if living is what matters though you lie with every breath,
Then I respect, respect, the ones we put to death.
And you won your case most easily and soon you will be free.
But there will be a million more who lose their liberty.
Not because of what they did, but what they did not do:
They did not pay a lawyer or a judge to see them through.
Why, they had no friends to call on and they could not raise their bail.
Well if winning is what matters, I respect the ones who fail.
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Justice requires that to lawfully constituted Authority there be given that respect and obedience which is its due that the laws which are made shall be in wise conformity with the common good and that, as a matter of conscience all men shall render obedience to these laws.
quote by Pope Pius XI
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!