Was I just spooked?
The inner cave was vast in size
with bits of quartz that looked like eyes.
Embedded in the limestone walls.
The bits of light reflecting quartz
which made me feel uneasily
that something was observing me.
I had not been in here before
And do not think I will again.
A feeling that I can’t explain.
I must confess I was afraid
I felt a cold hostility
as though I was where I shouldn’t be
Intruding on the privacy
This made me so uncomfortable
I left as fast as I was able.
When I look back I wonder why
an empty cave should frighten me
There was nothing I could see.
My friends all stayed though I had fled
explored the pot hole thoroughly
They never tire of teasing me.
I always go with my instinct
My subconscious knows more than me
It sees things that the eye can’t see.
I gave up speleology
I much prefer the open air
Where I can see all that is there.
To exploring underground
Where really I have no right to be
I think I acted sensibly.24/10/2009 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
So far, So good
Although I’m far from innocent
I have done things I now repent.
In self defence I must protest
I am no worse than all the rest
Whose sins have yet to come to light.
They still profess their innocence
Their sins well hidden out of sight
and yet feel free to take offence.
At peccadilloes I confess.
Which seems to me hypocrisy
as if somehow their sins are less
than those I confess openly.
Because they’re sure nobody knows.
Its human nature I suppose.
09/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I couldn't care less about who sees my bits... My friends asked how I could do scenes like that and not get excited, but it wasn't like that. My bits looked the size of a cashew nut!
quote by Colin Farrell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Late Evening stroll for Friend Bob
Night falls swiftly and silently.
Across the quiet countryside.
The new moon shows through fitfully.
Although the dark clouds try to hide.
This slender crescent from our view.
They succeed only partially.
Soft silver beams keep breaking through
providing light so I can see.
Quite well enough to find my way.
The darkness does not frighten me
though I prefer the light of day
But still stroll contentedly
by paths familiar to me.
Which lead me home eventually.
14/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Unknown Light
From out of the darkness came a living light
I knew not its size, it shone so bright
its warmth kissed and penetrated my skin
and gave me an overwhelming feeling within.
As the light came closer it began to change
into an unknown form that looked so strange.
Its light intensified so much I covered my eyes,
but I looked between my fingers and realised.
That the living light now had a definite outline,
but it kept changing to even that of mine.
It was much too bright to distinguish any features,
but I recognised past friends, family, and teachers.
Its warmth through my flesh filled me with words,
and my subconscious debated with some discord.
In seconds a feeling of happiness filled my entirety,
agreement was made, but it happened too fast for me.
A shudder swept through my body and mind
I somehow felt refreshed, renewed, and defined.
Once my life had no definite purpose or reason,
but now all is clear my direction is certain.
I don’t know who or what that living bright light was,
but it was definitely supernatural and mysterious.
And there’s no doubt about it, it shared its energy
the day it gave its precious light to me.
poem by Orlando Belo
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I have become a pragmatist for friend Leslie
I have become a pragmatist
I’ve been betrayed by so called friends
and people who I thought I knew.
With no attempt to make amends.
I sometimes wonder if it’s true.
Was I myself in part to blame
for trusting far too readily
that’s not the way to win life’s game.
Now that it’s too late I see
I acted rather foolishly.
I should have been more sceptical
and checked them out more thoroughly
at risk of seeming cynical.
I am no longer so naïve
I’ve learnt my lesson I believe.
16/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Seize the day for grandaughter chitra
Seize the day
We rarely know how others feel
Because they are afraid to say
and think it wiser to conceal.
Emotions that they daren’t display.
Although they are attracted to
your looks and personality
The are afraid if the tell you
you may reject them completely.
So seize the opportunity
it may not ever come again.
Speak honestly and openly
you may lose less than what you gain.
Perhaps she feels the same way too.
Unless you speak you’ll never know.
She’s probably as scared as you
to let her inner feeling show.
What fate decrees will come to be.
Despite your lack of confidence.
I can tell you with certainty.
This has been my experience.
Say what you feel what can you lose?
Sometimes you have to take a chance.
A still tongues is of little use
when you are searching for romance,
26/04/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Legendary profitabilty.
A quiet space a secret place.
A rocky cave in the cliff face.
Which somehow makes you feel welcome.
A hermit once made this his home.
A healer and an herbalist.
The legends say he did exist.
It’s said he never charged a fee
But gave his services for free.
To the poorest folks of his day.
But those who were rich enough to pay
Had to pay accordingly
For medicine the poor got free.
He was regarded with respect.
Exactly as you would expect.
His treatments worked effectively.
Because he knew the properties.
Of every herb both root and leaf.
And which to use to bring relief.
From common ailments of the day
His nostrums drove the pain away.
Although his fame spread far and wide.
He was determined to abide.
In the haven he had chosen
Far apart from other men.
As a hermit ought to do
And to his principles be true.
None knows his true identity
Lost in the mists of history.
The cave can still be seen today
And tourists come from far away.
Perhaps from curiosity
although there’s not a lot to see.
The tourists are prepared to spend.
That’s why the local all pretend.
That they believe the legends true
Because it suits their pockets to.
Sell souvenirs to visitors
at an inflated price of course.
You might well think I’m cynical
The locals are quite typical.
If there’s a profit to be made
Encouraging the tourist trade.
You can be sure they will supply
whatever tourists want to buy.
The legends may or may not be
Well rooted in reality.
What does it matter anyway
As long as it can be made to pay.
Thursday,02 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Are You There
Written by dewey bunnell, 1977
Found on harbor and highway.
The day we lost our voice with little choice, I cant explain
An act of agony
And someone told me too that its true when you call aloud
Its only destiny
Or is it mystery
But then we came around and sang our song and acted proud
And posed for memory
We made a cry to the underground
Are you there
I looked and saw that they were still around
But do you care
I drank a little bit, so underlit to see it now
The show was never seen
And all the time I lost is never lost
Its only thumbing through eternity
We made a cry to the underground
Are you there
I looked and saw that they were still around
But do you care
Who are you going to see
What are you going to be
You made a cry to the underground
Are you there
I looked and saw that they were still around
But do you care
Are you there (are you there)
Are you there (are you there)
Are you there (are you there)
Are you there (are you there)
Are you there (are you there)
Are you there (are you there) ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's up to you for M lady Flora
The mist that crept in from the sea.
Advancing inexorably,
enveloped first the sandy beach.
Then well beyond the high tides reach
Invaded streets and avenues
the thoroughfares that people use.
To go about their business.
A wet and cold unpleasantness.
Which nobody had seen before
at least along that friendly shore.
Exuding sheer hostility
as if the demons of the sea.
Deciding that humanity.
had forfeited their right to be.
Had gathered there with one intent
to prove the sea omniscient.
The villagers were sore afraid
some cursed and swore while others prayed.
Though neither made much difference.
Against such mist there’s no defence.
The village disappeared from sight.
Hid by a mist as black as night.
When morning broke there was no one.
No body left to greet the sun.
Now to this day the village stands
although nobody understands.
What happened on that dreadful night
when the sea fret absorbed the light.
No one survived to tell the tale.
Enough to make the bravest quail.
Perhaps you think I’m telling lies
But you will find to your surprise.
If you should choose to visit me
from my front window you can see.
The evidence that what say
A village empty to this day.
Nobody dares to move into
the empty village and renew
a single house in which to live.
Because of legends kept alive.
By older folks who can recall
the night the demons came to call.
If you should wish to you could buy
the whole village and you could try.
To sell the houses one by one
if you’re convinced it can be done.
I think your work would be in vain
What happened once could come again.
To local folks it is taboo
and there is nothing you can do.
but try to sell to foreigners
Who do not know about the curse.
I own the site and I would sell
quite cheaply and I’d wish you well
If you’re prepared to take the chance
There’s been a change of circumstance.
For there are profits to be made.
Maybe the mist will not invade
maybe the tales I tell aren’t true
what you believe is up to you.
I am too old to change my ways
and I prefer to end my days
believing as I’ve always done.
This village should left alone.
24-Jul-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Harmony restored for M lady Ernestine
The vicar, such a nice old gent.
Sees both sides of the argument.
But there is little he can do.
He will not choose between the two.
Maintains a strict neutrality
and prays for guidance reverently
The Sabbath should pass peacefully,
quite free from all hostility.
But Oh Dear Me it isn’t so
the organist will have to go.
So we regain tranquillity
and hear the choir properly.
The organist will take offence.
But we must act in self defence.
The vicar acts reluctantly
and grants the choirmaster’s plea.
The organist just has to go.
He played far too fortissimo.
05/11/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Could this be you?
I
Cannot
understand
intolerance.
I don’t even try.
You have the right to be
bigoted if you so please.
All I can do is pity you.
Who are enslaved by your prejudice.
I much prefer to keep an open mind
Tuesday,13 April 2010
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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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Such luxury is not for me. for friend Thad
A marble floor that’s silken smooth
and walls of carven cedar wood.
What does such ostentation prove?
I do not know but feel I should.
Such luxury is not for me
I am contented with my lot.
I make no effort to impress
I have sufficient for my needs.
It matters not that I have less
than those who feel they must succeed
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot
I see no reason to display
I much prefer my privacy.
I live my life in my own way
Accepting life’s reality
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot
Though I indulge in fantasy
from time to time like everyone
I know it’s not reality
only a dream that’s quickly gone.
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot.
I earn my living honestly
although I’m just an artisan
Better to live quietly
as befits a simple man.
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot
A marble floor that’s silken smooth
and walls of carven cedar wood.
What does such ostentation prove?
Something I’ve never understood.
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot.
Tuesday,10 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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You do, don't you?
Most women seem to lack dress sense
And those who don’t have confidence
To know that they need not obey
what all the fashion gurus say.
They seem to know instinctively.
How they should dress to look their best
and will not follow slavishly
Fashions dictates like all the rest.
They know their shape, they know their size
They know what suits their colouring.
Become the focus for all eyes
at any sort of gathering.
You know if this applies to you
I am quite certain that you do.
Monday,16 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I believe in Fairies too for M lady Ernestine
Sometimes at night across the sky.
I see the silver dragons fly.
Although not everyone can see
the dragons dancing gracefully.
My friends think I have lost the plot
but I assure them I have not.
I don’t know why they cannot see
what is so very clear to me.
Perhaps I have an open mind
and they do not, so they are blind.
Moonlight reflecting on their scales.
This is a sight that never fails
to make me stop and realise.
Some cannot see though they have eyes.
They don’t believe the evidence
of their own eyes. It makes no sense.
Because they can’t believe it’s true
and won’t adjust their point of view.
But I believe and I can see
the dragons flying easily.
When twilight falls if you just try,
you too will see them fly
Unless you too, have closed your
mind and don’t believe in dragon kind.
2-Jul-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Natural Artistry
Natural artistry
The onion domes against the sky
by morning light blush rosily.
Before the sun has risen high.
Resplendent in his majesty.
He paints the domes with gleaming gold.
Without finesse but lavishly.
His whole approach is overbold.
I prefer delicacy..
The pastel shades that I could see
before the blazing sun applied
his crude form of artistry
and hid the beauty from my eyes.
With coats of gold he misapplied,
that he believes mistakenly.
Will be pleasing to the eyes
of the vast majority.
Who only value opulence.
I could be wrong he may be right.
But I prefer the evidence
which is provided by my eyes.
Te golden glow the sun supplies
to onion domes is transient.
Although pleasing to most men’s eyes,
an artists eyes are different.
I keep my vigil faithfully
though I confess impatiently.
Tomorrow morning I shall see.
The onion domes bathed in beauty.
Before the sun can brutalise
with crass insensitivity.
The pastel colours dawn applies
to onion domes against the skies.
Thursday,27 May 2010 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Learning New Skills: something a little different
I smell the rancid stench of fear.
Although you sense that I am near.
You give no credibility
to anything which you can’t see.
You don’t believe in ghosts as such
And yet you’re conscious of my touch.
But you refuse to listen to
the inner voice that’s telling you
There are some things you can’t explain.
Some hidden aspect of your brain.
Which knows a great deal more than you
are prepared to believe is true.
You are aware your terrified
of something but you can’t decide.
If it is fact or fantasy.
Should you fight or should you flee.
I can’t do what I used to do.
All I can do is frighten you
I cannot harm you physically.
That pleasure is forbidden me.
I feed upon the scent of fear
To satisfy my appetite.
Before I died I used to kill
And if I could I would still kill.
But I cannot I’m just a ghost
one of the great unnumbered host.
Who have to pay the penalty
for who and what they used to be.
A never ending punishment
For those who can’t or won’t repent.
As long as I can frighten you
I will continue making do.
A lesser thrill I must confess
But it feeds me none the less.
The taste of terror exquisite
It titillates my appetite
for cruelty. I am still proud to be
operating sadistically.
Inflicting mental cruelty.
A student of psychology.
Although you sense that I am near
You cannot understand your fear.
There’s very little you can do.
I am more powerful than you.
Though disembodied I exist
as tenuous as morning mist.
And while I do your fears persist.
You need to find an exorcist.
30/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Blind Justice for friend Thad
Grey stone walls wherein confined.
A prisoner can meditate
upon the life he left behind
and curse the vagaries of fate.
What weeps upon the withered walls?
sad shadows from his distant past.
His subconscious does not rest at all.
Reminding him that time can pass.
At different rates according to
the differing of circumstance
When he knew freedom the time flew
But when confines there’s little chance
Of happiness that once knew.
Heed now the knocking on the door.
The iron door which will lead to
the gallows then to nothing more.
What glow through the barred window streams?
The last rays of the setting sun.
Never in his wildest dreams
did he believe he’d be the one.
To die when he was innocent.
For something which he had not done.
It seems that fate will not relent
and that his time is nearly gone.
He has appealed to no avail.
The court confirms that he must die.
The stoutest heart is bound to quail
when facing death. Though he will try
to show that he is not afraid.
There is still chance of a reprieve
Which would correct the error made.
He has no choice but to believe.
That some last minute miracle
will save him from the hangman’s noose.
He knows it is illogical
its all he has. He cannot choose.
To just accept and give up hope.
Although it is improbable.
He might escape the hangman’s rope
He still believes it’s possible.
Who’s are the footsteps he can hear.
which hesitate outside his door.
It opens and confirms his fear.
The chaplain and the governor.
19/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Monochromatricks For M'lady Tara
When winter comes the forest trees
all do a colourful striptease
Discarding their leaves one by one
until the very last is gone
but even so they’re beautiful
although not so colourful.
A tracery of black on white
silhouettes against the light
grey white of the wintery sky
But pleasing to an artists eye
I like the sheer simplicity
I can attempt successfully
to paint though I’m an amateur.
In monochrome as I prefer
.
19/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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He calls me Honky.
My friend’s as black as ebony
and he delights in teasing me.
He says I am the coloured man
I can’t deny it no one can.
My hair is blond my eyes are blue.
His words are obviously true,
My facial skin is pink and white.
to anyone with normal sight
His eyes, his hair and skin are black
I cannot counter his attack
But he’s my mate so I don’t care
His banter isn’t hard to bear
We’re much the same bar for our skin.
What matters most must lie within.
Monday,16 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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