REbel for friend Rema
The cockerel crew at break of day.
Bid working men to make their way
to where they earned their honest crust
when hunger drives a man needs must.
Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.
So harness Dobbin to the plough
and leave behind a straight furrow
or hasten to the factory
amongst the grim machinery.
Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.
Of if perchance you’re office bound
surrounded only by the sound
of papers shuffled to and fro.
You have no choice you still must go.
Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.
On winter mornings dark and cold
and summer days when it grows hot.
But I don’t care I am grown old
and have retired so I will not.
Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.
3-Aug-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
Self Opinion
At dawn, the rising of the sun
alerts the cockerel to crow.
Although in his opinion
The cock doth cause the sun to glow.
And there are many little men.
Who like the cockerel will crow
to prove their worth again, again.
I wonder was it always so.
I feel no need to brag and boast.
I am content to simply be.
My own opinion uppermost
Lacks not for credibility.
At least not in my own eyes
though others may think otherwise.
04/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The red cockerel
A red cockerel
Is roaming around a hen
With a view to mate
poem by Asif Andalib
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If you follow the lead of the cockerel, you'll be led to the poulterer.
The Captive Knight
The prisoned thrush may brook the cage,
The captive eagle dies for rage.
Lady of the Lake.
'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound!
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower,
And a Christian host, in its pride and power,
Thro' the pass beneath him wound.
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'I knew 'twas a trumpet's note!
And I see my brethren's lances gleam,
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream,
And their plumes to the glad wind float!
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'I am here, with my heavy chain!
And I look on a torrent sweeping by,
And an eagle rushing to the sky,
And a host, to its battle-plain!
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'Must I pine in my fetters here?
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight,
And the tall spears glancing on my sight,
And the trumpet in mine ear?
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice–be still!
'They are gone! they have all pass'd by!
They in whose wars I had borne my part,
They that I lov'd with a brother's heart,
They have left me here to die!
Sound again, clarion! Clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past.'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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No Escape
Death conquers all: None can defy
his clarion call all must obey.
He names the time the place the day
the very minute that we die.
A simple fact we can’t deny
nor yet in any way delay.
Death conquers all.
Although we feel compelled to try.
Each one of us in our own way,
some rave and rant whilst others pray.
It matters not all men must die
Death conquers all.
Rondeau Prime
(10-Jun-07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Solomon And The Witch
AND thus declared that Arab lady:
'Last night, where under the wild moon
On grassy mattress I had laid me,
Within my arms great Solomon,
I suddenly cried out in a strange tongue
Not his, not mine.'
Who understood
Whatever has been said, sighed, sung,
Howled, miau-d, barked, brayed, belled, yelled, cried, crowed,
Thereon replied: 'A cockerel
Crew from a blossoming apple bough
Three hundred years before the Fall,
And never crew again till now,
And would not now but that he thought,
Chance being at one with Choice at last,
All that the brigand apple brought
And this foul world were dead at last.
He that crowed out eternity
Thought to have crowed it in again.
For though love has a spider's eye
To find out some appropriate pain --
Aye, though all passion's in the glance --
For every nerve, and tests a lover
With cruelties of Choice and Chance;
And when at last that murder's over
Maybe the bride-bed brings despair,
For each an imagined image brings
And finds a real image there;
Yet the world ends when these two things,
Though several, are a single light,
When oil and wick are burned in one;
Therefore a blessed moon last night
Gave Sheba to her Solomon.'
'Yet the world stays.'
'If that be so,
Your cockerel found us in the wrong
Although he thought it. worth a crow.
Maybe an image is too strong
Or maybe is not strong enough.'
'The night has fallen; not a sound
In the forbidden sacred grove
Unless a petal hit the ground,
Nor any human sight within it
But the crushed grass where we have lain!
And the moon is wilder every minute.
O! Solomon! let us try again.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Incubator Cockerel
A handsome cockerel to be sure.
Came out of an incubator?
you don't say!
That's so cool way.
So a pet he shall stay
or served after the Entre'?
Of course he is a pet,
Or else, your son will be sad.
Like a father to the son,
From an egg he was born.
And to love with all his heart,
Never bear to be apart.
The Pleasure Of The Thought
A cat lays stretched out, contented on a wall,
The Farmer's Boy comes whistling down the lane,
One cockerel now proclaims his morning call,
And day begins to make swift way again.
Then others enter now upon this scene,
As to their daily duties they attend,
Some goats are tethered on the Village Green,
And the Miller, slowly starts, his flour to blend.
Three dairymaids with tasks to do, now run,
To cows, who await, their creamy milk to yield,
And as the dawn now welcomes in the sun,
It beams, from all the heavens, this land to gild.
What a pleasant picture here for us is wrought,
Leaving one with all the pleasure of the thought.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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sanctity is a divine clarion call
to every soul
to decide sometime
quote by by John Celes
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Bull Fighting
Bullfighting
Early morning on the flatland between Portugal and Seville a cockerel crews,
its hoarse wakeup call carries for miles. Vaqueros are already on the grassland
separating bulls form a herd; the bulls are five years old and have been chosen
for the bullfight. Within a week the selected bulls will be dead, slaughtered on
an arena of sawdust and sand, they have been allowed to roam free for years.
Most animals only live a few years, mostly in a pen, and never see grassland
before they are killed. How can meat eaters demonstrate, call for the abolition
of bullfighting? This sport, the only one, where an animal has a chance to kill its
assassin. I’m on a bus heading for Seville to see bullfighting, yes, I do admire bull
fighting; if lucky I might see one of the chosen bulls kills the toreador.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The BBC has the obligation to think big. And at the moment, that clarion call sounds an uncertain note to me.
quote by Jonathan Dimbleby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bereft for M lady Allison
Alone, alone, all, all alone
lost in a sea of misery.
Gone all the happiness I’ve known
because my love is gone from me
She did not volunteer to go.
When our call comes we have no choice
the only certainty we know.
When my call comes I shall rejoice
I know that you will wait for me.
Not even death can break our bond.
We swore to love eternally
until time ends and far beyond.
Without you there is nothing left.
I sit alone and weep bereft.
10-May-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A sad melody in a Livestock
This is the story of a cockerel and a pullet.
Her name is Diana; not the princess
And his name is Charles; but not the prince.
Anyway the poor two creatures are true exemplary lovers.
Meanwhile the cunning poulterer writes in his blood-stained business diary the dates of their unfair destiny to the town butchery.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Initiate 2008
Reveille sounds a trumpet call
Rise from your beds reluctantly
This wake up call applies to all.
Strident with authority.
We do things militarily.
You will now wash and shave your face
You signed on voluntarily
and now you have to earn your place.
A raw recruit’s of little use
still tainted by civilian ways
A subject for stripeys abuse.
Of sympathy there’s little trace,
For drill instructors have no hearts.
Their job to turn boys into men
Reveille sounds and the day starts,
Your protests must remain unspoken.
You’ll be harassed from morn til night.
Your only duty to obey.
Until you learn to get it right
and do things in the army way.
If you survive and make the grade.
One of the few the very few
to reach the passing out parade.
Your parents will be proud of you
Though it was tough you had enough
pride in yourself to stick it out.
Showed you were made of sterner stuff
than those who failed without a doubt.
You proved yourself to be a man
So wear your uniform with pride,
you earned the right. You know you can
succeed although you were sorely tried.
You did what you set out to do
achieved the goal you had in mind
You toughed it out and saw it through.
Now you can leave boot camp behind
In coming years you will recall.
When you must face the enemy
and see your fellow soldiers fall.
Your boot camp days nostalgically.
25-Aug-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Wrath of Ants
God in All His Wisdom Grants;
Power to creatures great n' small
Evil beware! The wrath of ants!
When men hear His clarion call
poem by Ray Lucero
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Above and beyond the call of duty for JT Ellison
Above and beyond the call of duty
Do Roman ghosts still guard the wall?
Far from their homelands in the sun.
I wonder if they thought at all.
They would remain their duty done.
As corpses in cold northern clay
or dreamt that they would return home.
In triumph on some distant day
to a well earned heroes welcome.
Sometimes when the blue twilight fall
I sit enrapt in reverie
and fancy that I hear their calls.
Although there’s nothing I can see.
Though one or two claim they can see
the roman sentries on patrol.
Along the wall quite frequently.
A sad parade of earth bound souls.
Who died too quick to understand
that they were dead their spirits free.
So they obey the last command
still do their duty faithfully.
Do Roman ghost still guard the walls?
I cannot answer honestly
I only know when twilight falls.
I think they might quite possibly
.15-Jul-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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In Command for All The Moms
When I was born I had no choice
whether to protest or rejoice.
I was evicted forcefully
for no good reason I could see.
I would have stayed permanently
had it been left up to me.
Wrapped in the comfort of the womb
where up to now I was welcome.
But Mother Nature obviously
had other plans in mind for me.
She makes the rules all must obey,
that’s how I saw the light of day.
I quickly learnt as babies do
Who’s in control? it's me not you.
5-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Naked and unashamed.
We dance sky clad beneath the moon.
The Goddess’ wishes to fulfil.
In gratitude for every boon
The goddess grants us as she will.
We celebrate fertility.
As did our forbears long ago.
Restoring the vitality
the earth requires. This we know
because the Goddess tells us so
She taught them as she teaches us
the Rituals that we need to know
Our dance is not lascivious
We circle always deosil.
The same direction as the sun
as we obey the goddess’ will
We mean no harm to anyone.
To cause no hurt; this is our law
All witches must strive to obey.
The basis of our sacred lore
for those who worship her today.
Though we must worship secretly
and hide ourselves from public view.
Perhaps one day we will be free
To worship as we wish to do
Monday,02 August 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Ne'er Ask the Hour
Ne'er ask the hour -- what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second:
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.
Then fill the cup -- what is it to us
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.
Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
A dial, by way of warning.
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,
And how fast that light was going.
So fill the cup -- what is it to us
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Foregone Conclusion. For M'selle Perrault
My muse like any woman will
use her feminine wiles and skill
To persuade me to her view
and will persist until I do
Exactly as she wants me to.
I’m well aware that she will win.
Should I surrender just give in?
I must defend my self respect
it is the least she will expect
So I protest to no effect.
When my muse makes up her mind.
Like any poet I will find.
I have no choice but to obey
and there is nothing I can say.
She will reject each argument.
That I can muster and present
Although it’s futile to resist.
My fragile ego will insist
I have no option but persist
to register my discontent.
Though this does not deter my muse.
She knows full well I can’t refuse.
She knows from my past history.
I will submit reluctantly
She always wins eventually
She knows I must put on a show
to satisfy my male ego.
She is prepared to wait until
I do obey her sovereign will.
She makes that clearly evident.
I cannot win I’m bound to lose
When I argue with my muse.
She’s confident she will prevail.
After all I’m only a male
Somewhat naïve and innocent.
She knows I am a gentleman
that’s why she’s certain that she can.
Persuade coerce or bully me
Until give in and agree.
My muse will brook no argument.
Sunday,24 October 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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