Lingering Legends
The course of human history.
A complicated tapestry.
Composed of interwoven strands.
The work of three blind sisters hands.
Each strand recording some event.
Almost as if by accident.
I have no doubt that they will be.
Still recorded accurately.
The strands are closely intertwined.
Which makes it difficult to find.
A single strand you can purse.
You hope in time will lead you to.
Some one you can identify
Which other sources verify.
Some one well know to history
No longer wrapped in mystery/
But now exposed to public view.
So we can prove their legend true.
It seems to me won't succeed.
Until the day we learn to read.
The never ending tapestry.
.The sisters weave industriously.
Which they have done since time began.
With total disregard for man.
We try and try without success.
Our efforts doomed to be fruitless.
The three blind sister can ensure.
Their secrets will remain secure.
Perhaps that's how its meant to
We have to face reality.
If we had been supposed to know
We'd have succeeded long ago
The sisters weave their tapestry.
Recording human history
But they make sure we can't unwind.
The strands deliberately entwined.
Monday,18 June 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
I Rebel
The Norns who weave the tapestry
which rules the fate of mortal men.
Can make mistakes apparently
and some time have to think again.
Though each one blames the other two
and none will admit to their mistake
They have to weave the threads anew.
A lengthy process which can take
almost the life span of a man.
But even Norns are governed by.
The need to heed the master plan,
they have no choice the rules apply
A single thread that’s out of place
can alter mankind’s history.
So they comply with little grace.
What is to be must come to be.
Has man no choice but play the part?
They’ve woven in their tapestry
His path through life right from the start
is fore ordained: no man is free.
The three weird sisters can foresee
future events and bind them fast,
As pictures in their tapestry.
No mortal man can overcast.
The lasting spell the sisters weave.
Although he thinks his will is free.
It matters not what we believe
and therein lies the mystery.
If we believe that this is true.
We are but puppets on a string
and there is little we can do.
To change the slightest little thing.
But I rebel I don’t believe
and make my way as best I can
Accomplish what I can achieve
I am no puppet I’m a man.
22-Sep-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Oh That Tapestry
Oh that tapestry
How I have yearned
to weave it with
you.
A combination of
threads
gold and silver
strong and secure
closely knotted
in the end.
tears and laughter
woven together
creating us.
our lives inter-
woven
a coming together
began so long ago
oh that tapestry.
poem by Heather Burns
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The History of Now
The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.
The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.
Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.
We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.
The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.
The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.
poem by David SmithWhite
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Moral Cowardice.
.
Should I regret or just forget.
The things I’ve done or left undone
Accumulative unpaid debt.
Part of the web the fates have spun.
The three weird sisters spin the thread
and weave into tapestry
Each thread is chosen carefully.
Though blind the sisters see ahead.
The future fate of everyone.
No one escapes what they decree.
What is to will come to be
All that you did or left undone.
So I pretend it’s predestined
and just dismiss it from my mind.
Saturday,10 April 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Kismet 2009
A man cannot escape his fate.
He must fulfil his destiny.
A peasant or a potentate
what is decreed will come to be.
His future is decided by
the three weird sisters who still weave.
Their multi coloured tapestry.
It matter not what you believe.
Each thread that represents a man.
Their nimble fingers intertwine.
They do not work to any plan
Completely random in design.
For they are blind and cannot see
the chaos they have caused to be.
They too are ruled by destiny.
they cannot change: No more can we.
15/06/2009
Http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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History Stuff
Magical Mystical history and mystery,
Painted and woven on tablets and tapestry.
Cave painted hunts and sand script on tombs,
We dig for our history then fill in the wounds.
The secrets of Stonehenge and Silbury Hill,
That tapping and digging will never reveal.
See Picasso and Van Gogh, read Byron and Shelly,
Then watch the war on a plasma screen telly.
Chipped marble statues partly destroyed,
The wisdom of Nietzsche and ramblings of Freud.
Thank Romans for wine and Columbus for tea;
Thank genetics and Science for deciphering me.
History is stuff that lives in the past,
Historical characters the sets and the cast.
I’m living in history but today is for real,
I thank my lucky stars for this being alive deal.
So look me up in a thousand that’s me in the picture
I’m loving your history but I wish I could meetcha.
poem by Mark Fullick
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History Will Teach Us Nothing
If we seek solace in the prisons of the distant past
Security in human systems were told will always always last
Emotions are the sail and blind faith is the mast
Without a breath of real freedom were getting nowhere fast
If God is dead and an actor plays his part
His words of fear will find their way to a place in your heart
Without the voice of reason every faith is its own curse
Without freedom from the past things can only get worse
Sooner or later just like the world first day
Sooner or later we learn to throw the past away
Sooner or later just like the world first day
Sooner or later we learn to throw the past away
Sooner or later we learn to throw the past away
History will teach us nothing
History will teach us nothing
Our written history is a catalogue of crime
The sordid and the powerful, the architects of time
The mother of invention, the oppression of the mild
The constant fear of scarcity, aggression as its child
Sooner or later
Sooner or later
Sooner or later
Sooner or later
Convince an enemy, convince him that hes wrong
Is to win a bloodless battle where victory is long
A simple act of faith
In reason over might
To blow up his children will only prove him right
History will teach us nothing
Sooner or later the world first day
Sooner or later we learn to throw the past away
Sooner or later the world first day
Sooner or later we learn to throw the past away
Sooner or later we learn to throw the past away
History will teach us nothing
History will teach us nothing
Know you human rights
Be what you come here for
Know your human rights
Be what you come here for
Know your human rights
Be what you come here for
Know your human rights
Be what you come here for
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Author Of My Life
My God has penned the pages that told of my first breath
and has carefully written the paragraph depicting my death.
Then by grace the myriads of paragraphs between
are the pages which record my life on this earthly scene
For the God and author of all human history
has chosen to weave my name into its' tapestry.
Carefully mapping out my life well before my birth
and then He chose to walk with me each day on earth.
Based on Psalm 139: 13-16
Silver Strands
I found some silver strands resting on my pillow
Old Mother time taunts me, like dreadful weeping willow
I found more silver long strands dancing on my shoulder
Yes, constant sad reminder; I’m much much older
I found many silver long stands swimming in my shower
Stroking and washing away my youthful flower
Now, I see silver long strands crying on my head
Screaming, no to my youth and yes it is now dead
I hear silver long strands singing on my brush
To validate my years, No-no-no they must hush...
poem by lecie Bailey Jackson
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Sometimes I Find Poems
Sometimes I find poems
Like they were jewels in the sand
So excellently written
A blessing to read and understand.
Sometimes I find poems
Composed like it was a work of art
The writer weaving word tapestry
As he writes diligently from his heart.
Sometimes I find poems
Laced with just verbal grime
With random musings or lost words
That to read them is a total waste of time.
So to the writers who value the pen
With all respect, I give you my salute
With the hope you keep writing again and again
And to this site your work you contribute!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Tapestry Of Emotion
The path that all life treads,
are a tapestry’s linen threads,
and the eye of the needle,
are the hearts of all the people,
woven in and out of each other,
so we are all sisters and brothers,
in the weave of life’s pattern,
from the moment of the rising sun,
to the time of the twinkling stars,
we’re imprisoned in life’s aging bars.
If you could what thread would you use?
Yes, what path would you choose?
One of passion, heat and glory,
or one of pristine and noble sobriety,
so stop, look and listen,
to life’s pneumatic system,
confusing you with its instructions,
whilst you seek its seduction,
for life is all about emotion,
entangled in the world’s commotion,
for life, love, fear, want and need,
all keep driving us to succeed.
poem by Dale Mullock
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What is Hope?
Never was a larger word
than Hope;
all dreams reside there;
In the Future,
resides our desires laid bare;
our Now wants to go there
our Past wants to be washed away
or celebrate there-
inside Hope's Cathedral.
Hope is the Promised Land.
both Means
and Destination.
But, what good does Hope do
if it goes away
after
what we hope for comes true?
Is there not another dream then
that Hope must then fulfill?
But, here we ask
what then is Hope itself?
Is it my Expectation Confident
that what I want
will come true?
Is it merely that Leap of Faith
that all that currently ails
will dissipate
in my hoped-for future state?
If all is risked on this single word
then we must know exactly
what it is;
for me
what is Hope's meaning for me?
Well the Expectation idea
that Hope is the confidence that
want I want will come true
is too much for me.
I don't have that kind of confidence
do you?
Nothing for me is ever for sure
not even Hope
itself
because, as we all know, Hope can
give way to Black Despair where
by definition Hope has gone
and fled.
Since no one can read our future states
we bob and weave between
hoping for hope
but fearing despair.
I rather like the Leap of Faith Idea
where we all make
the assumption that actions now,
will in future state,
pay off
and Hope will fulfill the expectations
we have placed there.
But note,
it is all too true that Hope
then is fully based
on Leaps of Faith
and then we ask
faith in what?
If all of Human-Kinds Hopes
distill from Human-Kinds Dreams
then upon what faith did cavemen
dream of a better world?
Upon a pagan God,
restless shadows on the cave wall,
incantations said and made?
But the pointed point here is
that our ancestors did have
blind faith in something which
caused them to feel that dreams
they dreamed
had some Hope of becoming Real
and that Hope
had to involve for them an enormous leap
beyond what they could see
in their lives then.
So Leaping then is what we do
even where there is no evidence
in reality that our dreams
however fervently held
will ever actually come true.
So Hope we see
is bound up with
Mystery
and Leapings
into Voids
with nothing more
than the belief
that in dreaming
it
we can make it come true-
be brought into reality.
Rather like writing a poem.
Humm, the moral here:
Nothing can be done
unless one
has the dream
and Hope
to make it so
and by hoping bring it
into reality.
This seems to be
the true History
of Human-Kind
at its best
and
at its
worse.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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For my sisters
The women I call sisters
Are always there
The women I call sisters
Will always care
The women I call sisters
Can make me smile when times are blue
The women I call sisters
Are always very true.
The women I call sisters
By choice, are my best of friends
The women I call sisters
Will be there with me till the world ends
The women I call sisters
Are blessings from God above
The women I call sisters
Are sisters that I'll always love.
poem by Trinette Naidoo
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The ugly human face
Wailing with tears and
Helplessly in commotion,
All of you’re telling to write
The history of hatred, enmity, killings,
The history of human ugly face.
My pen is dried up,
Tell me in which medium,
And language should I write.
Where to begin and
Where to end
Such history of human ugly face.
Oh! Betrayer
You’re telling me to wipe out from the history
Of such human ugly face,
That shattered and shook human conscience,
That haunts the face of those innocent people,
Killed and hurt; widows and orphans.
That hums: that reminds.
Telling me just to close my eyes.
But I’m not blind.
Telling me not to speak,
But I’m not dumb.
Telling me not to write the truth,
But I cannot write anything but the truth.
How can I deceive the history where I belong?
Human memory is short,
Tears would dry up,
The blood would be washed away with time
But the silent words, written in the heart of each human ugly face
Imbedded forever and immortal.
Let me dip the pen in the smeared blood,
The blood of all religions, caste, creed and colour, poor and rich,
The thick blood of those innocent persons.
poem by Dr.bhagya Chandra Rajkumar
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Tapestry
Every thread of creation is held in position
By still other strands of things living
In an earthly tapestry hung from the skyline
Of smoldering cities, so gray and so vulgar,
As not to be satisfied with their own negativity,
But needing to touch all the living as well.
And every breeze that blows kindly is one crystal breath
We exhale on the blue diamond heaven:
As gentle to touch as the hands of the healer,
As soft as farewells whispered over the coffin.
Were poisoned by venom with each breath we take
From the brown sulfer chimney and the black highway snake.
And every dawn that breaks golden is held in suspension
Like the yolk of the egg in albumen.
Where the birth and the death of unseen generations
Are interdependant in vast orchestration,
And painted in colors of tapestry thread
When the dying are born and the living are dead.
And every pulse of your heartbeat is one liquid moment
That flows through the veins of your being.
Like a river of life flowing on since creation
Approaching the sea with each new generation,
Youre now just a stagnant and rancid disgrace
That is rapidly drowning the whole human race.
And every fish that swims silent, every bird that fly freely
Every doe that steps softly,
Every crisp leaf that falls, all the flowers that grow,
On this colorful tapestry, somehow they know
That if man is allowed to destroy all we need
He will soon have to pay with his life for his greed
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Became My History
You were once a mystery,
The one I loved to solve.
Deciphering your code,
Always got me lost.
I thought of understanding you more,
But before I realised it,
You became my history.
You were once a mystery,
Discovering you was a thrill,
Every puzzle I put together,
Granted me fulfilment,
But as time flew by,
you became my history.
You were once a mystery,
Every clue brought me closer,
Every step brought me nearer,
Only to make me smile,
I thrived on your addiction
But after a while,
You became my history.
You were once a mystery,
the very foundation that kept me stable,
Once I comprehended you, I began to feel able,
You were the ocean to my boat,
The cell to my system,
However, even without the distance,
You became my history.
You were once a mystery,
Clouded in question marks,
Trying to understand,
Trying to comprehend,
I was left with numerous thoughts,
The more I tried, the more I learnt,
The less I craved, and before I knew it,
You became my history.
poem by Zushan Hashmi
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A Tapestry for Life
The weaving of many
threads together
creating a beautiful
tapestry.
A tapestry for life.
Two young lovers
carressing in the moon
light.
Planning for a future
weaving their tapestry
for life.
poem by Heather Burns
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Spinning Threads
Spin the threads of
life
creating a golden
tapestry.
Weave together love
and memories,
how it was yesterday.
Being woven together
on the loom of life.
Spin threads of gold
and silver,
to make a tapestry
of delight.
Spin the threads of
gold,
spin the events of
life.
poem by Heather Burns
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Life And The Five Elements
Five sweet sisters and brother, water, air, fire, earth and sky one:
Moving and pushing the life, full of sorrow and fun.
Five rosy sisters and brother, in days from creation to today’s nix:
Developing and developing – every thing for life’s happy fix.
Five timeless sisters and brother, from evolution to today’s dream:
Water, Air, Energy, Food and Environment enough for life gleam!
Five tireless sisters and brother, from hell to heaven:
Each life that calls, I say 'FLIES IN SEARCH OF DREAM! '
Five deathless sisters and brother, none is the youngest or oldest one:
And no body can claim or propose, no body is near or dear done.
Five omnipresent sisters and brother - but free from clutches of time and age
No body can stop and engage them, but all are under their bondage.
Five dancing sisters and brother, of life and life nothing more:
Sun of new lives so gracious and majestically rises so much before!
Five mighty sisters and brother - Their age, well, never mind!
Universe jogs along with them, like the rest of human kind:
But the miracle and mysticism of life, sisters and brother no body knows
But the puzzle remain unsolved 'how the world goes'!
poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
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You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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