Nunc Dimmitus For Friend Chandra
The deep notes of the organ sound,
The choirboys look slyly round
to see what mischief they can find.
They look like angels but I find.
They’re really demons in disguise
a choirmaster must be wise.
They seem to have endless supplies
of mischief hid behind their eyes.
But I forgive them when they sing.
The treble voices echoing
high in the roofspace where they bring
pleasure to all those listening.
I love and hate them equally.
But now and then I can still see.
They’re not so different from me,
When I recall I used to be
a naughty little choirboy.
Full of tricks meant to annoy.
The mischief all small boys enjoy.
This knowledge which I now employ.
To keep my choirboys in line
Ensuring that they sound divine.
They do respond to discipline
just as I did when I was nine.
Each one posses a fine voice
sufficient reason to rejoice
I don’t regret I made the choice
to teach cathedral choirboys.
06/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
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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Mischief & Control
There is a fire within all of us
There is a river flowing in your soul
To put out the fire when it gets out of control
There is a stranger in all of us
That we try to get to know
There is a wise woman in there, too
She's trying to run the show
I can not escape the constant equipoise
In between the mischief and control
Swinging from the pendulum of desires
In between the mischief and control
There is a painter in all of us
She knows exactly which brush to choose
She knows exactly where to make a stroke
But there's an army of voices
She might have to get through
There is a writer in all of us, yeah
He knows what to say and he knows when it's done
But then there's this twenty-foot blank page
You gotta fill, darling
Or you think your life has no meaning
I can not escape the constant equipoise
In between the mischief and control
Swinging from the pendulum of desires
In between the mischief and control
Excuses piling up like junkyards
We never want to sort through
Efficiently we hide our needs
And all along a voice is calling out please, please
'cause i'm so hungry and i'm so tired
I feel so lonely, i feel so wired
I need my angel...where is my angel
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mischief Control
There is a fire within all of us
There is a river flowing in your soul
To put out the fire when it gets out of control
There is a stranger in all of us
That we try to get to know
There is a wise woman in there, too
Shes trying to run the show
I can not escape the constant equipoise
In between the mischief and control
Swinging from the pendulum of desires
In between the mischief and control
There is a painter in all of us
She knows exactly which brush to choose
She knows exactly where to make a stroke
But theres an army of voices
She might have to get through
There is a writer in all of us, yeah
He knows what to say and he knows when its done
But then theres this twenty-foot blank page
You gotta fill, darling
Or you think your life has no meaning
I can not escape the constant equipoise
In between the mischief and control
Swinging from the pendulum of desires
In between the mischief and control
Excuses piling up like junkyards
We never want to sort through
Efficiently we hide our needs
And all along a voice is calling out please, please
cause Im so hungry and Im so tired
I feel so lonely, I feel so wired
I need my angel...where is my angel
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Merciful Release?
Merciful Release.
The mist descended suddenly.
Totally unexpectedly.
I could not see to find my way
So I decided I should stay
Just where I was. It seemed to be.
The wisest choice
I’m not so certain that it was
I think perhaps that is because.
The clammy fog embraces me
And whispers to me quietly
You have no choice.
If I decide to let you go
I am quite certain you will know.
Not to brave the moors alone
These moors are mine all that I own
and I rejoice.
I have the power to heal or kill
I always had and always will.
These moors are worthy of respect
It is mission to protect.
It whispered sotto voice.
I will remember till I die.
There is no reason I should lie
The day the mist enveloped me
and whispered to me quietly
I hear that voice.
In nightmares to this very day.
Although it let me go my way.
I still retain the memory
Of the lesson taught to me.
The moors own voice.
Although it spoke so quietly
Is etched deep in my memory
I can’t forget although I try
And to this day I wonder why.
It made the choice
To set me free as suddenly
as the mist had captured me.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever know
Why it chose to let me go
I had no choice.
The moors have little time for fools
They can and will enforce their rules
I'm forced to take it seriously
Or pay the price
Tuesday,15 November 2011
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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unwanted recollections for J.T ellison
I slept and in my dreaming wept
for promises I made: Unkept
The promises I did not keep
return to haunt me in my sleep.
Sometimes prevailing circumstance
had meant that I had little chance.
To do what I said I would do,
at other times it’s sad but true.
Some promises I made were not meant.
I knew that I had no intent
of doing what I had promised.
There seems to be an endless list.
The guilt I feel is real and deep.
My conscience will not let me sleep.
All of the things I should have done
but did not do each single one
Returns at night to punish me.
I must admit deservedly.
Sins from the past I now regret.
I only wish I could forget.
But I cannot although I try
Because I acted wrongfully
I understand the reason why.
My guilty conscience bothers me.
3-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hooked.
I’m sure, deprived of poetry
descent into insanity
would follow.Inevitably
It is my prime necessity
Poetry is my drug of choice.
Without it I would have no voice
either to lament or rejoice.
For I depend on poetry
to validate that I am me.
I am addicted hopelessly.
Wednesday,23 December 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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And no bird sings fot new friend Mel
.
The breeze which rustles in the trees
assisted by the birds and bees
Whose interlacing melodies
produce pastoral symphonies
Which vary as the seasons change
and the musicians re-arrange
the notes to suit their vocal range.
I think it would be very strange
if suddenly there ceased to be.
The music which can set us free
from worries temporarily
and silence reigned; permanently.
The sound of silence echoing
instead of song birds carolling.
13/04/2007
Revised
18/04/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Voices In The Sky
Bluebird, flying high
Tell me what you sing
If you could talk to me
What news would you bring
Of voices in the sky
Nightingale, hovering high
Harmonize the wind
Darkness, your symphony
I can hear you sing
Of voices in the sky
Just what is happening to me
I lie awake with the sound of the sea
Calling to me
Old man, passing by
Tell me what you sing
Though your voice be faint
I am listening
Voices in the sky
Children with a skipping rope
Tell me what you sing
Play time is nearly gone
The bells about to ring
Voices in the sky
Just what is happening to me
I lie awake with the sound of the sea
Calling to me
Bluebird, flying high
Tell me what you sing
If you could talk to me
What news would you bring
Of voices in the sky
Voices in the sky
Voices in the sky
Voices in the sky
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Their evensong; my pleasure for friend Thad
I sit outside the monastery
and pass an hour pleasantly
Listening to the brothers chant
I find their plain song elegant.
I wonder why, it puzzles me
Why do some men voluntarily
decide upon monastic life.
Are they afraid of worldly strife.
It seems to me that they retreat
from normal life; admit defeat.
I’m sure they see it differently
To me it is a mystery.
What can they possibly achieve.
This question really baffles me.
I must suppose that they believe.
It’s pleasing to their deity.
But I am not a Christian
I have my own philosophy.
More suited to a simple man.
Which is all I claim to be.
They have a choice they can decide
to worship God in their own way.
I am content to sit outside
I do not have the right to say.
What they should do or should not do.
My own motto is tolerance
that’s why I come to listen to
the plain song. which my ears entrance.
When night falls and all is still.
The final notes have died away.
I exercise my own free will
and rise to make my homeward way.
My God does not expect me to
stick to a rigid discipline.
The way the brothers have to do.
To pray or not the choice is mine.
14/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Until we meet again For MY lady
When I am dead just bury me
in a deep hole and plant a tree
Without any ceremony,
whats left behind’s no longer me.
If I go first it’s not by choice
so do not weep, rather rejoice.
You know that we will meet again,
My leaving’s bound to cause you pain
I’ve run my race I can’t complain
I’ll join you on some higher plane.
If I go first it’s not by choice
so do not weep rather rejoice.
Should you go first then I will know.
You had no choice you had to go.
Though I will weep I’ll weep for me
because I know you’re flying free
But I will wait impatiently
for friendly death to come for me
It’s my belief that we will be
together intermittently
in other lives in different roles.
Remaining always kindred souls
The bonds we have death cannot part
we have been twin souls from the start.
My love for you, your love for me
will last beyond eternity.
Because we are one entity
as we were always meant to be.
8-Dec-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Auntie Emmaline for Friend Leslie
Auntie Emmaline.
My cousin Peter was a prig.
A precious little Mamas boy.
Who thought it rather infra dig
a little mischief to enjoy.
He combed his hair and shined his shoes
and was polite to every one
I was quite pleased to hear the news
that he had just up and gone.
To live with a girl, Elsie Ma.
Who was no better than a whore.
It made me glad I have to say.
He’s not my rival anymore.
Nobody says that should I should be
just like Peter. Dear me no.
The rotten apple on the tree.
But what the family do not know.
Is that I arranged for them to meet.
I knew she would lead him astray
He had no chance at all poor Pete.
I don’t regret it in any way.
I’m sure that Peter has more fun.
Than if he had stayed safe at home.
Today he’s just another one
Who felt that it was time to roam.
Far from his mothers eagle eye
escape from under mothers thumb.
They were some things he had to try
and realised their time had come.
He was disowned immediately.
His name is never mentioned now.
Sometimes I meet him on the sly
I like him better now somehow.
Now that he’s not held up to be
the Icon I should emulate
To tell the truth he’s just like me
Although he found out rather late.
Though I appear respectable.
I have a wild streak which I hide.
My aunt finds me acceptable.
I think she would horrified
to know that I both smoke and drink
and chase young ladies ardently.
But things are seldom as you think.
I find that fooling her pleases me.
A good God fearing lady who
still believes whole heartedly.
That there are things one does not do
Quite blind to life’s reality.
29/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Villanelle Of Spring Bells
Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.
Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring
warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Submitted by Andrew Todd
poem by Keith Douglas
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Wildfire
The border of this fire crackled and snapped.
It's undulating movement that moved
All over the earth's body.
It's leaping orange and red intertwined,
This fire in all it's glory made me scream.
It made me heat up, this fire of old and fire of new.
This fire's constant singing made me wonder how it had a voice.
But it did, sometimes lower and sometimes higher, and then
So high.
This fire was nature's mischief maker and he made mischief.
Of all the leaves, branches and trees around him,
And he made mischief on me.
One day I disclosed to all my friends,
This fire was not a true fire.
It didn't burn down anything,
But it so excited me that it did burn my heart.
It excited my whole body and burned through my soul.
This fire just lit up my life.
But this wildfire was no ordinary fire.
This wildfire was my lover.
For this there was no other.
For his mother had named my lover Wildfire.
Watching his antics and speeding around on the playground,
I'll always hold Wildfire tightly in my arms because he's so hot.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Take and be prepared for my friend C.P
The desert plains of ice and snow are not a place I’d choose to go.
Nor sandy wastes under the sun dry deserts don’t suit everyone.
The high plateaus of the Andes; I can assure you will not please.
Perhaps I’m choosy but I find such desert places most unkind.
I much prefer the moors I roam which welcome me. I feel at home.
Although they’re barren, wild and bleak I find the solitude I seek.
Each to his own I must suppose. My own high moors are what I chose.
I listen when they speak to me, I understand them easily.
They can be dangerous it’s true. You can take risks if you choose to.
I don’t take risks I know the rules. The high moors have no time for fools.
I have been sometimes weather bound by sudden mists which cloak the ground.
I have sufficient sense to see my moors are merely testing me.
Mistakes the moors will not forgive, I am prepared so I survive.
A wise man gives the moors respect but fools don not but they expect.
Tolerance for their carelessness their stupid unpreparedness.
The moors are not the enemy they judge all men impartially.
Some learn by hard experience there’s limits to their tolerance.
But others pay the penalty. Killed by their own stupidity.
06/09/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Mischief
LET those who're fond of idle tricks,
Of throwing stones, and hurling bricks,
And all that sort of fun,
Now hear a tale of idle Jim,
That warning they may take by him,
Nor do as he has done.
In harmless sport or healthful play
He did not pass his time away,
Nor took his pleasure in it;
For mischief was his only joy:
No book, or work, or even toy,
Could please him for a minute.
A neighbour's house he'd slyly pass,
And throw a stone to break the glass,
And then enjoy the joke!
Or, if a window open stood,
He'd throw in stones, or bits of wood,
To frighten all the folk.
If travellers passing chanced to stay,
Of idle Jim to ask the way,
He never told them right;
And then, quite harden'd in his sin,
Rejoiced to see them taken in,
And laugh'd with all his might.
He'd tie a string across the street,
Just to entangle people's feet,
And make them tumble down:
Indeed, he was disliked so much,
That no good boy would play with such
A nuisance to the town.
At last the neighbours, in despair,
This mischief would no longer bear:
And so–to end the tale,
This lad, to cure him of his ways,
Was sent to spend some dismal days
Within the county jail.
poem by Ann Taylor
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Reviewing the Situation for Friend Thad
On looking back now I am old.
I see the errors which I made
I watch as memories unfold
but they no longer trouble me.
The times I failed to make the grade
I tried but unsuccessfully.
I can forgive myself I find
although I still have some regrets.
I have attained a peace of mind
Old age has taught me tolerance
of life’s triumphs and life’s upsets.
You win or lose: You take your chance.
On looking back now I am old
I can forgive myself I find.
6-Jan-09
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Mischief
Let those who're fond of idle tricks,
Of throwing stones, and hurling bricks,
And all that sort of fun,
Now hear a tale of idle Jim,
That warning they may take by him,
Nor do as he has done.
In harmless sport or healthful play
He did not pass his time away,
Nor took his pleasure in it;
For mischief was his only joy:
No book, or work, or even toy,
Could please him for a minute.
A neighbour's house he'd slyly pass,
And throw a stone to break the glass,
And then enjoy the joke!
Or, if a window open stood,
He'd throw in stones, or bits of wood,
To frighten all the folk.
If travellers passing chanced to stay,
Of idle Jim to ask the way,
He never told them right;
And then, quite harden'd in his sin,
Rejoiced to see them taken in,
And laugh'd with all his might.
He'd tie a string across the street,
Just to entangle people's feet,
And make them tumble down:
Indeed, he was disliked so much,
That no good boy would play with such
A nuisance to the town.
At last the neighbours, in despair,
This mischief would no longer bear:
And so to end the tale,
This lad, to cure him of his ways,
Was sent to spend some dismal days
Within the county jail.
poem by Jane Taylor
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Feelings Of A Fiancee
A fiancee, longing for her lover
who had gone to a distant place to earn,
To come back and embrace her, feels as follows:
While I see him again
After longing for him to come to me,
I don't find his faults and mischief;
While I don't see him for some time,
I don't see nothing but his faults
And mischief!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Help
Listen to the sound/
Of birds a’singin’/
Softly they are found/
In the air ringin’/
Buzz my life/
I’m alive and well/
Hard to smile sometimes/
But the truth will sell/
Baby/baby/
Hear my voice/
Sweet and sound/
I’m your clearest choice/
Near to me/
Are you mine? /
I’m losing myself/
I cannot find/
Fill my threshold/
With pain in disguise/
I will unfold/
Beneath my skin what fries! /
Baby/baby/
Hear my voice/
Sweet and sound/
I’m your clearest choice/
On my mind/
It is there/
My future existing/
In living air/
I am trying/
Tyo make it so hard/
I hate it so much/
Cuz the end is so far/
Baby/baby/
Hear my voice/
Sweet and sound/
I’m your clearest choice/
Feelings surpassed/
Blown away/
Will I come home/
Again to live another day/
Long gone/
Is myself/
I will never find it/
The answer which is help/
Baby/baby/
Hear my voice/
Sweet and sound/
I’m your clearest choice/
poem by Seanzie Haha
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Bleak outlook; for some.
I did not think things could get worse.
But I was wrong quite obviously
The guardians of the public purse.
Decided unilaterally.
We must reduce expenditure
I have no choice but to agree.
Though I am absolutely sure
all will not suffer equally.
The savage cuts which they propose
may well reduce the deficit.
I see no reason to suppose
that everyone will benefit.
The rich of course won’t feel the chill.
The little man will have to pay.
He always did and always will.
Because that is the Tory way.
It is their mission to conserve
the privilege which they enjoy
By any means which will serve
and any means they can employ.
Perhaps I have a biased view.
.Maybe I am too cynical.
Though I believe my words are true.
I could be wrong it’s possible.
That they are acting for the best.
A dangerous experiment.
Which when they put it to the test.
Might just succeed by accident.
Then they will claim all credit due.
But if it fails they will deny
as politicians always do
They had no choice; they had to try.
Though you may take a different view.
Not everybody will agree
What you conclude is up to you.
I think we’ll have to wait and see.
I do not think this government
Will last.The strains are showing now.
The general public discontent.
How long before their final bow.
The rich cannot impose their will
As they have always done before.
Why should the poorest foot the bill
A question that they can’t ignore.
Although I’m sure that they will try.
By quoting massaged statistics.
Which I for one choose not to buy.
I can see through their dirty tricks.
Thursday,21 October 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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