Words! A Mind of Their

Some poems arrive in notebooks. Others begin life squeezed into the bottom margin of a newspaper. Later, at the café, the scribbled notes were deciphered and shaped into a poem. Fortunately, my handwriting proved just legible enough to rescue the words before they drifted too far into the moon-zones.

Words! A Mind of Their Own

I cannot touch my toes
and putting on my clothes
is a task for these old bones,
while my brain’s in moon-zones
floating around on polished stones.

Now where’s that HB pencil?
Quick, before the thought has flown.
These days, this body’s a slow-rising utensil,
and my words have a mind of their own.

Some thoughts arrive quietly, circle for a while, and eventually settle into words. The HB pencil was found, the words came to rest, and the moon-zones drifted peacefully onwards with this song.

Ivor Steven © October 2026