Gone but not forgotten.

My father's bald and wears a wig
My older brother shaves his head
I wonder is it infra dig
Agreeing with what mother said.
About masculine vanity.
Women prefer a man with hair
Though they accept that it might be.
Only temporarily there.
The hair you run your fingers through
By middle age may disappear
The only thing that you can do.
Is stroke his ego not his hair.
He's still the man you chose to wed.
Although his hair has departed.

Wednesday,18 April 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Big Boys don't cry for Thad

I dreamt a dream I can’t recall.
I only know I dreaming wept
tears soaked my pillow as I slept.
I can’t remember it at all.
I try to penetrate the wall
What sorrows into my dreams crept,
I’ll never know I must accept.
I try to climb the wall but fall.
I cannot conjure up my dream.
There are some things I may not know,
such as the reason for my tears.
I must confess to me it seems
I have emotions I daren’t show.
Except when sleeping it appears.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Cynic or realist

I don’t donate to charities
which may seem mean in others eyes.
But when I see the fees they pay
to their fund raisers there’s no way.
A large slice of what we donate
is swallowed up as sure as fate.
To pay inflated salaries
and high administrative fees.
A small percentage of the whole
will go towards the stated goal.
It’s possible I may be wrong
but I have been around to long
to swallow their publicity
Which relies on our naivete.

7-Mar-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Redistribution

My motives, multifarious
my methods are nefarious.
The things I steal so various.
Though what I find hilarious.
To see detectives pretend to
solve my crimes; they cannot do
Although they have solved one or two.
Burglaries by lesser men
They are quite sure I’ll strike again
but they don’t know the where or when.
I baffle those poor gentlemen.
I am an unrepentant thief
I steal to bring the poor relief.

7-Jan-09

http: // blog.my space.com/poetic piers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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In the Lead

My pencil’s charged with poetry.
It can write verses fluidly
and inscribe them on the sheet
in rhyme and perfect metric feet.
It’s such a simple artefact
but filled with magic that’s a fact.
A pristine page is quite enough
to make my pencil do it’s stuff.
My pad, my pencil and my muse
can’t see a challenge and refuse
A blank page they can’t bear to see.
That why I’m writing poetry
I have a pad I have a pen
which forces me to write again.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Old age is a frame of mind

I saw my only son today
and noted to my great dismay
his hair is now completely grey.
I think that this must be Natures way
of pointing out I’m older too.
A fact with which I can’t argue.
That does not mean I should not do
the things that I’m still able to.
I lack the youthful energy
I used to squander wastefully
But what I have I use wisely.
I am not old; refuse to be.
The passing years I just ignore
don’t even count them anymore.

30-Jan-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Spoilt For Choice

Daylight reveals now night has fled.
The mangled bodies of the dead.
Now provender for hungry crows
Who feast alike on friends and foes.
Opposing armies fought and died.
Now enemies lie side by side.
The scavengers do not care
What uniform the bodies wear.
To crows all bodies taste the same.
They are the winners in the game.
The foolish game men choose to play.
So when the battle moves away
It does not matter in the least.
They are content to stay and feast.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Practice makes perfect

A bronze gong sounds and resonates.
The echoes slowly die away.
The ancient monk still meditates.
As he does every single day.
He falls into a trance like state.
Which he achieves with practised skill
The sound waves cannot penetrate.
His consciousness against his will.
The ancient monk sits tranquilly
.Detached from our reality.
He is content to simply be.
Enjoying the tranquillity.
Of being free from illusion
Earned by meditation.

Wednesday,25 April 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Compulsion

Writers must write: They are possessed
by inner demons who insist
That they must write and they know best.
We lack the power to resist.
We have no choice we are compelled
all of our secret thoughts to share.
However random or misspelled
our inner demons do not care
Put pen to paper and compose
is their command and we obey
by writing poetry or prose.
They know we dare not disobey.
If we don’t write we know no rest.
As any writer will attest.

(11-Nov-07)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Under the influence

Imaginations heady brew
With which all poets quench their thirst
may prove a little strong for you.
I would advise small sips at first.
Until you grow accustomed to
the strange effects it can produce
which will forever change your views
becoming wider more diffuse.
You can explore the universe
and travel at the speed of thought
Adventures which inspire verse
as the best method to report
The visions which you wish to share
with other people everywhere.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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