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.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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R.I.P story poem
Here where once there used to be.
A quiet village cemetery
A hallowed place in which to find
Tranquillity and peace of mind.
The graveyard served the village well
Though for how long no man can tell.
I’m sad to say the village died.
The land on which they all relied.
Suddenly lost fertility.
The people facing poverty.
Saw no good reason they should stay
and one by one they moved away.
To other places far from here
they seemed to simply disappear
to destinations we don’t know.
They had no choice they had to go
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Establishing a new precedent.
Establishing a new precedent.
On Christmas day just after lunch.
Uncle Jim’s drunk most of the punch.
Grandmas been at the gin again
Her silly giggles make that plain.
Mothers too busy washing up
to see how much booze Dad can sup.
The kids have gone their separate ways
without a single word of praise
For the preparation
their mum has single handed done.
It is the same thing every year
Nobody sees that it’s not fair.
To leave it all to poor old mum
A little help would be welcome.
At least that how it used to be
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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It might be you for M lady Tara
A silver snake the river ran
deep and slow beneath the moon
It knew as only rivers can
the time was coming very soon.
When some lone traveller must pay
the dues it was entitled to.
Some reveller who’s on his way
after he’s had a drink or two.
The river chooses carefully
the one who’ll be the sacrifice.
The victim will die quietly
his ordeal over in a trice.
Each year the river takes its toll
a man or woman who’s full grown.
Releases their immortal soul
from all the sorrows they have known.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Frustrated Ambition.
Frustrated ambition.
I can remember vividly
The first person that I chose to kill.
Although selected randomly.
It somehow made me feel fulfilled.
No longer a non entity.
Overlooked by everyone.
It proved my capability
To make my name and be someone.
I thought about it constantly.
I knew that I must kill again
I felt a growing certainty
my only thought was to regain.
The rush of the adrenaline
The sense of power which it brought.
As if the whole wide world was mine.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The price of progress.
The banks of Tyne are green again
The skyline boasts no shipyard crane
Our great shipbuilding industry,
a footnote now in history
The riversides no longer ring
to the harsh sound of riveting
It’s not the Tyne I used to know
although the daily tides still flow
up past Newcastle from the sea
Far cleaner than they used to be.
I wonder was it worth the cost
a thousand, thousand jobs were lost.
There was no clear cut policy
to deal with mass redundancy.
As usual the government
addressed the rising discontent
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Work To Make My Dreams Come True
My working day draws to its close
The light is leaching from the sky.
The western sky shows tints of rose
appealing to my artists eye
I rose this morning with the sun
And broke my fast at break of day
Then did the chores that must be done
For soon I must be on my way.
I am not yet self sufficient
Although one day I hope to be.
For now I have to be content
with working in a factory.
I am well paid for what I do
I earn enough to pay my way
and add some to my savings too
The same old routine every day.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Initiate
Initiate
The time has come for me to seek
the advice of my ancestors.
To take to heart the words they speak
which will reveal my future course.
I have my knife I have my bow
and that is all I am allowed
The time is now I have to go
Until my totem is endowed.
I have to learn to recognise
my totem by his qualities.
Though he conceals them from mens eyes..
True understanding is the prize.
A lot depends on what he sees.
The part of him that dwells in me.
Subjects me to deep scrutinies
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People Power. A rant.
The people’s voice so long suppressed.
Has now been forcibly expressed
Egyptians want democracy.
The world is waiting now to see
if their demands meet with success.
The winds of change are blowing free.
So tyrants sleep uneasily
They fear to hear the people’s voice
but really they have little choice.
If people choose democracy.
They can no longer rule by force.
Its time to take a different course.
The people have the power to
discard the old bring in the new.
By just resisting passively.
I have no doubt that some will die
As the dictators vainly try.
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One fine Day: perhaps for J T Ellison
The sea lies millpond calm and still, obedient to the Goddess’ will.
She has decreed it must be so and thus the ocean far below.
Represses its own urgent needs and to the Goddess’ will accedes.
Its gleaming surface satin smooth. It has no choice to tell the truth
The mistress of both sea and sky.Sees no good reason to say why.
She chose serenity tonight; she rules the sea and has the right
to give instructions to sea which must obey immediately.
Sometimes she lets the breakers roar as they approach the rocky shore.
The daily tides which ebb and flow, she will allow to come and go.
Although there is no urgency she knows of their necessity
The high tide will sweep clean the beach and leave behind its furthest reach.
A tide line marked by oddities which have been carried on the seas
From here and there and everywhere. Jetsam which can be foul or fair. Beachcombers will explore to see what treasures they can take for free.
Though they prefer the aftermath of some fierce storm that shows the wrath of the ocean in angry mood. Because they have long understood.
The treasures which they hope to find, an angry sea will leave behind.
A tranquil night produces less of valuables that will impress.
The early birds who comb the beach above the high tides which can reach much further when theres been a storm and far exceed their usual norm.
Tomorrow morning they will find the sea has not left much behind.
But they will still search carefully because they think that there might be
some treasure they have missed before. When they have searched the sandy shore
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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