Author: ivor20

The Sandbox Writing Challenge 2018 — Exercise 6

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This week’s challenge is What is holding you back? 

From, calensariel, Impromptu, Promptlings.

The Invisible Me

I’m too soft and creamy, like melted chocolate.

Naive to a fault, until it’s too late.

Vulnerable, like a wafer and ice-cream in-between,

During a local hot day of one-hundred degrees.

Afraid of being visible to the vast unseen.

Confidence is scrambled, and of low esteem.

Drowning, like our worlds sick honey bees.

Choking on my words of melancholy and wanna be’s.

Crawling like a man cut-off below the knees.

Falling like a stone, and I’ve yet to set her free.

Far too trusting for these rough open seas.

And no idea of what, I want to do or be.

Scared of my own illiterate tendencies.

Wondering if a publisher would even read me.

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

To all young hearts, bought and sold.

Broken, shattered, and made of gold.

Have you ever watched your love die.

Have you seen tears of sand in her eyes.

Did you ever feel her grasp let go.

Did you see her blood drain of flow.

To all you who pretend, reading here.

To all you who think, you know how and where.

Have you ever been in the death ambulance.

Have you held her hand without a glance.

Life happens like that, you see.

Happened to me, not a chance to plea.

I traveled often, with her and thee.

So many times, angels entered her grave.

How many times would she be so brave.

More than a dozen, through the heartache years.

Finally a thirteenth chariot, did fill, with tears and fears.

Ivor Steven (c) 2018.

Upon my pillow I sleep.

Good morning, I do peek.

From the cushion of my dreams.

A pads radiating beams.

Blushing red hues, oh so bright.

You bloom during the night.

After cuddling the dew.

You open up your scenic view.

Flowering, standing proud and steep.

Perfection at my feet.

A glorious Lily, like wings of a dove.

And by Day you air your love.

Ivor Steven (c)  2018.

The Sandbox Writing Challenge 2018 — Exercise 5
What it is about you that you feel makes you
different from everybody else? From Calensariel, Impromptu Promptlings

I am not so different.

I am not an animal.

Crying in a cage.

I live in a bubble of air.

Like everyone else.

I breathe the same.

Stand alone during the game.

I limp and shuffle.

At this age, we’re all lame.

The brain is forgetful.

But the memory bank is full.

I tire more quickly.

And plug-in early.

Beauty sleep and a recharge.

Dream of a pretty face.

Tomorrow she’s a new showcase.

Life is no longer a race.

Hiking at her comfortable pace.

I am not so different.

I am not unlike you.

Like everyone else.

I seek love and grace.

Ivor Steven. (c)  Feb 13th 2018.

This is another poem from way before I started blogging. I wrote the words seven years ago. Sincere thanks to Jane of, Janebasilblog, who’s wonderful poem, “Like A Sister” prompted me to post my poem out of my old Archives.

One Day

Not asking you to marry me, or to be my lover.
Nor am I expecting you to be like a kind mother.
You know in your heart, there are no others.
I’m alone during my nights, under the covers.
All I want from you, is to look for no other.
All I need from you, love me like a sister and brother.

She’s fading away, not complaining and no bother.
Her dying life, has given me no time to hover.
One day not so far away, her eyes beneath the clover.
She’ll rest peacefully, and I’ll be crying over and over.
All I want from you, is to hold me while I recover.
All I need from you, love me like a sister and brother.

Ivor Steven (c)   2018

Dreams

Wishing them to come true

Realising our visions

And watching them perish too

I’ve been told, “Life is a Process”

Like in a fruit juice processor

Dreams

Peeled, sliced and diced

Thrown into the mixer

Puree

Filling a Tupperware container

Tagged and dated

Placed neatly into the freezer

Dreams

Like in a blue Tardis fridge

Duly forgotten, frozen in time

Until

The freezer suddenly dies

A clean-out is required

Puree dreams gone rotten

Thrown-out into the garbage bin

Afterwards trucked to the rubbish tip.

Dreams

Dead and buried

Covered in yesterdays mildew mud

A slushy natural fertiliser

Hereafter regenerating our muses

Sprouting like magic mushrooms

Feeding the new brides and grooms

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

The sand’s not really gold.

More like warm silk.

And the water’s not that cold.

Mild like cool Milk.

Pieces of seaweed, ankle-deep.

Smooth wet sand underneath.

Caressing my saltsea feet.

The Oceans clear bluey-green waves.

Carry surfers to shore.

Then paddling out for more.

So many happy souls.

Every face a smile.

Mums, dads and their young ones.

Old grandparents too.

And blokes like me.

All enjoying the sea.

Sand-castles built with glee.

Hungry seagulls.

Drifting on the sea-breeze.

Prancing for a feed.

The commune beach.

A lesson to teach.

No matter who you are.

Even here from afar.

Pale white or sunburnt skin.

Could be cream or tanned.

Bodies short and tall.

Rotund and thin.

All frolicking as one.

Under our southern solar Sun.

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Featured Image:  Bancoora Beach, near Breamlea, Victoria, Australia.

This Week, Calen again invites us to revisit her sandbox. She asks:

“You find yourself in a quiet room looking at your reflection in this beautiful old mirror. What do you see? Is there anything in particular you like about yourself? Is there anything you don’t like? Tell us about it.”

I see an oldish bloke, who likes to write poetry

Attention seeking, or even some notoriety

Why don’t I try to write a bigger story

Flash fiction, and there’s enough for a book

Am I too afraid to really look

All my poems are quite shortish

Like last years birthday cake wish

Maybe I’ll say, “I’m far too lazy”

I can’t tell them, I’m a bit crazy !!

Nor that I’m a cute Lord of wizardry

I better start on another view

They want to know about me and you

I see a bald headed man, like my dad

And that’s not at all bad

I always said, if I grew up

To be half as good as my dad

I’d be very happy and proud

And well ahead of the crowd

He was a kind and thoughtful man

I suppose I’m honest and lend a hand

I see I’m now showing my age

My journey has torn many a page

And it’s not that I’m overly sad

It’s my veneer that show’s everyone I’m glad

I’ve lived my promise, for better and for worse

I did my job, a carer during her curse

Ivor Steven (c)

The day is one of rain.

Washing streets of thoughts down the drain.

Cleansing the stains.

Flooding the silence again.

The day is dismal and grey.

Drowning the sun, it begun in May.

Many years full of dismay.

Pouring rains, here to stay.

Ivor Steven (c)

Thank you to Gina of, Singledust, and Linda of, Urban Poetry, for both suggesting that I write words about the rain here in Geelong today. Hope the poem meets your approval Ladies.