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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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The High Moors free verse
The high moors lie beneath a changing Sky
As seasons in their turn assume the throne
The landscape changes yet remains the same.
Cosmetic changes superficially
appear to alter what is permanent.
Changing perceptions of what we can see
by adding or subtracting colouring
The pleasant shades of green wrought by the spring
The hues of summer heather dominates
and autumn paints the moors in shades of gold.
Then winter shows monochrome artistry.
Uninhabited. uninhibited
The high moors appear to be desolate
and yet sustain more life than meets the eye.
The circling hawks on high can see their prey
and stooping, swiftly expertly they dine.
They take some small life to sustain their own.
Obeying Natures rule kill or be killed.
The high moors can be very dangerous
especially to the uninitiated.
Their beauty attracts both wise men and fools.
And yet there is no place I’d rather be
Alone, or with congenial company.
13-Sep-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The High Moors for M'lady Tara
I love the beauty of the moors. Those vast expanses wild and free
But I am prejudiced of course; there is no place I’d rather be.
In any season I feel at home. The winte, spring, summer or fall.
Be because I claim the right to roam. There are no rules here none at all.
The only laws are those decreed by mother nature long ago
Thou shalt not kill except to feed. The laws all living creatures know.
I love the freshness of the spring despite the fact the winds are keen
I am quite happy wandering to search for any sign of green.
The bitter winter slowly passed and soon the hillsides will be grassed
Though snow still lingers here and there. As bald spots undergo repair.
Underground new life is stirring as the sunshine returns with spring
to warm the winter frozen land. This artistry I understand
Natures consummate artistry: Infinite in variety
Each plant supplies a different hue and shadows add a touch of blue.
A contrast to the greenery which dominates the scenery
The purple heather showing through as spring continues to renew.
The beauty of the moors again to be enjoyed other men
Who love the moors as much as me, a privilege completely free.
Eventually spring slips away, the moors preparing for the day
When they will bask beneath the sun. A slow process which has begun.
Beneath a sky of cloudless blue I chose a spot where I can view
The kestrels circling on patrol and see the landscape as a whole
With my field glasses I can see the sunlight gleaming on the sea
Much further than my naked eye and for moment wish that I
Had wings so I could freely fly (indulging in a fantasy)
Towards my other love the sea, dream I know that cannot be.
The year moves on at its own pace as autumn waits to take her place
The twilight falls much earlier, this is my favourite time of year.
The pace of life is slowing down the greenery is turning brown
The heather fades to lavender, wise rodents store their provender;
The young birds long since flown the nest are gathering to start their quest.
Quite soon they’ll start their journeyings carried on well practiced wings
The colours of the high moors fade no longer purple, gold and jade
Assuming neutral brown and dun the change to winter has begun
The north wind blows and sprinkles snow.In winter time I do not go
up to the moors I’ve earned the right to stay inside where I can write.
I am too old to brave the cold. I leave that to the young and bold.
13/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Suffer Little Children
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And i'll lay me down
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And i'll lay me down
Lesley-anne, with your pretty white beads
Oh john, you'll never be a man
You'll never see your home again
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Edward, see those alluring lights ?
Tonight will be your very last night
A woman said : "i know my son is dead
I'll never rest my hands on his sacred head"
Hindley wakes and hindley says :
Hindley wakes, hindley wakes, hindley wakes, and says :
"oh, wherever he has gone, i have gone"
But fresh lilaced moorland fields
Cannot hide the stolid stench of death
But fresh lilaced moorland fields
Cannot hide the stolid stench of death
Hindley wakes and says :
Hindley wakes, hindley wakes, hindley wakes, and says :
"oh, whatever he has done, i have done"
But this is no easy ride
For a child cries :
"find me ... find me, nothing more
We are on a sullen misty moor
We may be dead and we may be gone
But we will be, we will be, we will be, right by your side
Until the day you die
This is no easy ride
We will haunt you when you laugh
Yes, you could say we're a team
You might sleep
You might sleep
You might sleep
But you will never dream !
Oh, you might sleep
But you will never dream !
You might sleep
But you will never dream !
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Oh, find me, find me !
Find me !
I'll haunt you when you laugh
Oh, i'll haunt you when you laugh
You might sleep
But you will ...
Oh ...
Over the moors, i'm on the moors
Oh, over the moors
Oh, the child is on the moors
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Superior Force for M 'lady Tara
Across the windswept moors it came.
A cloudburst worthy of the name
A million, million spears of rain
which pierced the earth again again.
The suddenly the storm has passed.
The sky no longer overcast.
A vast expanse of palest blue
with sunlight shining down anew.
The raging wind has ceased to scream
as if the storm had been a dream.
The thirsty earth has drunk her fill
replenished every flowing rill.
I venture forth resume my stroll.
But in the distance hear the roll
of thunders war drums ceaselessly
Beat out a rhythm threateningly.
Far, far away towards the coast
the storm clouds gather in a host
Preparing for a fresh assault.
The rain will fall without a halt.
The sea absorbs it easily
until the storm clouds wearily.
Give up their fight against the sea,
They cannot win its plain to see
The storm moves on but leaves behind,
a vivid picture in my mind.
A sight I never thought to see.
Rain pouring down torrentially.
So that the raindrops hid from view
The moorlands that I loved and knew.
A sight I may not see again
my moors submitting to the rain.
5-Jan-09
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I am now in Gibraltar. It is a large place and there does not seem to be room in this letter, in which to express my feelings about Moors in bare legs and six thousand Red-coats and to hear Englishmen speak again.
quote by Richard H. Davis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who wanders all the moors will taste all the berries.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
quote by Barry Cornwall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Les-Durham smoke
Twas like a transferred odd bargain;
the harbor waited - wraith's silence,
Hope lived in souls - utopian thence,
a notion spelled thrice - and again.
Had sent the mail - my filed advice,
upon moors stood, mist-blurred double-dyed,
the ghosts of sodding souls who died,
dark traveler asked for bride price.
In air he thumped, rhythmic like waves;
and cruel did ask for his death toll;
in town the women wore black stoles,
the 'lost in sea' dwell in void graves;
As Charon hummed, our ship entered,
in this harbor where life's borders,
in verse 'bout cold of rhymed folders;
wake-waters trail was off-centered.
He stood upon the moors - I knew
the wind whipped ropes upon head-mast,
- we drew the guns; he lifted fast;
my shots echoed, debt-law to ensue.
I felt the slug, he moved across,
alread'-a-ghost, on moors he stood;
Tasted the blood - lifted, I should,
red drops dropping on grass and moss.
I lit a rolled Les-Durham smoke,
children were watching me round-eyed;
twas May, perhaps another died,
I heard bells ring and three craws croak.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Basho's Death Poem
Sick on my journey,
only my dreams will wander
these desolate moors
poem by Matsuo Basho
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I Came Home At Last
'It's me it's Terry I came home at last'
is a Wuthering Heights reference
declaration I am off roaming wild moors
to landscape tempest fight
as much as a spectre apparition can
in a storm of decades thoughts
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th' autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet—how softly sweet!—it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.
'It was spring, and the skylark was singing';
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.
In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.
Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!
It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and hoar,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.
There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—
From the side of the wintry brae.
But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.
It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!
But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.
For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!
For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!
What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?
It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, 'The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun.'
But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.
The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed—how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.
Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th' autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet—how softly sweet!—it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.
'It was spring, and the skylark was singing';
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.
In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.
Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!
It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and hoar,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.
There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—
From the side of the wintry brae.
But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.
It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!
But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.
For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!
For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!
What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?
It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, 'The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun.'
But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.
The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed—how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.
Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pure Shores
I've crossed the deserts for miles
Swam water for time
Searching places to find
A piece of something to call mine
(I'm coming)
A piece of something to call mine
(I'm coming)
(I'm coming)
Coming closer to you
Went along many moors
Walked through many doors
The place where I wanna be
Is the place I can call mine
(I'm coming)
Is the place I can call mine
(I'm coming)
(I'm coming)
Coming closer to you
I'm moving
I'm coming
Can you hear
song performed by by All Saints from Saints & Sinners
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Holcombe Poem/Poem For a Girl I Didn't Meet
walking on the moors thinking about how I didn't meet you yesterday
heather underfoot and mist over Pendle
the moor changing like an animal/brown to green grey to
purple with the weather
sky blue at the edges
like a letter that came too late .
. . . Undine rising from the maters her golden hair
dripping in the moonlight . . . dead bird on a fence blood
dripping from its neck . . . Isis ,searching the rushes
for her murdered lover . . . small girl with a fishing rod
in a rushing valley full of ferns . . . the last .supper
followed by the Four lust Desserts . . . watching the
white mocking figure at the edge of the DarkForest
. . . beating naked blond haired girls with
long stemmed purple flowers . . . Osiris judging
the dead mist rising up the valley seaweed tangled
in her moonlight hair . . .
trains
moving through valleys
chimneys
springing from hillsides
streams
tumbling through boulders
clouds
tilting from the horizon
and
me
on the moors thinking about the girl I never met.
poem by Adrian Henri
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Poetpower
Poetpower
Poets are a necessity
as every thinking person knows.
The conscience of society.
Who else but poets dare to pose.
Hard questions to the powers that be
which they could answer if they chose.
Instead of imposed secrecy.
Which gives us reason to suppose.
That they have something to conceal.
So we suspect dishonesty.
Our probing questions will reveal
it’s mainly inefficiency.
Which does not alter how we feel.
If the admitted openly
The problems which they now conceal
We’d listen sympathetically.
Instead of treating us like fools.
Who have no right or need to know
They hide behind their book of rules
try to maintain the status quo
We poets use our words as tools
to prove to them it isn’t so
for public tolerance soon cools.
A truth they do not seem to know.
01/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Winter's Song
I was scooting through the blind white streets
A song, the song, whispered in my ears
The song of winter, of joy and fears
Frozen stiff where sanity retreats
The snow blew, as blizzard winds ought to
Abreast my face, chiseling with might
So there I howled at the moon’s delight
Ignoring the child sledding through
My next steps teetered toward minty moors
Though I found a dear, I chased my hart
Through a wicked twisting trail apart
From dear tidings due from you and yours
Here I did learn what it means to roam
Then turned and hummed winter’s song back home
poem by Jay Bradley
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The Century is to Trust
To the century is trust of sadism,
Toy the balloon of trust and faith,
Been the beauty, been agnosticism,
A religion has born from a wraith.
To the millennium is madness,
An anxious feeling all-encompassing,
Like the moors to ride and find sadness,
Even in the light of the trespassing.
My days and nights are numbered,
Forever, we wait in duels and afterward.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A new experience for Friend Colin
Across the windswept moors there came.
A long drawn out and eerie cry.
What could it be in heavens name?
Another echoed in reply.
I will admit quite openly
I’m not at all ashamed to say.
This eerie wailing frightened me.
I still remember to this day.
When first I heard a vixen cry
as she was seeking for a mate
The dog fox voiced a quick reply.
Which gave me cause to hesitate.
I’m glad to say I persevered
and faced up to the sound I feared.
I saw the vixen easily
and heard her call repeatedly.
I was no longer frightened by
her strange unearthly screaming cry.
Just then the dog fox came in sight.
She greeted him with mute delight.
What happened then I do not know
I felt it only right to go
Now that I had identified
the animals that loudly cried
their needs upon the evening breeze.
I left to let them mate in peace.
Although their cries had frightened me
I treated them respectfully.
I walked as quickly as I could
towards my home, I understood
they had the right to privacy.
There are some things no man should see.
24-Jun-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Equal rights
Why should I love my enemy?
My enemy does not love me
Why should I turn the other cheek?
and give him cause to think I’m weak.
I show my enemy respect
but let him know that I expect
from him similar courtesy.
He can and will expect from me.
If he is wise he understands
I will not bow to his commands.
I am quite sure I have the right
To fight if I am forced to fight.
I can accept you don’t like me
And I dislike you equally
You have the right to your own view
You must remember I do too.
It’s possible to disagree
And yet not be an enemy.
I think we have the right to choose
If we so wish opposing views.
I do not choose my enemies
I would much rather we were friends
I think my enemies choose me
My rights I will fight to defend.
7-Nov-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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