Wondering And Wandering
So early, on this cold summers day.
A gloomy morn, grey clouds reflect the way.
No desire to arise, come what may.
An empty bed, here I could stay
Sad and alone, wondering I pray.
Would love find home, while wandering astray.
Ivor Steven.
My internal flame for her, still flickering.
Burning like the old Olympic torch.
Eternally glowing, without a permanent home.
Charring the timbers of all her defenses.
The leftover ashes, blistering my soul.
The fire-front ruins, leaving me dark and hollow.
A flame, not to be easily extinguished.
A fire, always smouldering in my heart.
Ivor Steven.
There’s Room.
“It’s A Small World”, they say.
My dog, she’s small.
The little courtyard is hers.
My house is small.
The lounge/dining, is enough.
My kitchen is like a galley.
The laundry/bathroom, is clean.
My bedroom is broad.
A double-bed, and studio desk.
My bookcase and humble vaults.
A display of history and wine.
My room, resonating Leonard’s ballads.
My room, my words and dreams.
My room, a song for you.
“Oh”, where are you.
Ivor Steven.
My Girl
She’s a constant joy,
Tiny like a toy.
She leaps and prance’s,
Does hind-leg dances.
She slips and slides,
Does tummy glides.
She lays on all laps,
Loves all-day pats.
She’s a mirror of love,
Knowingly, from above.
By The Waters Edge.
Home
Take me to my home.
Home is where my heart is.
Home is on that windy hill.
Home is a secret valley.
Home is a heavenly cloud.
Take me to my home.
I’m waiting here, alone.
I’m packed ready to go.
I’m departing this old place.
I’m leaving this world behind.
Take me to my home.
I know the beyond will be greener.
I know you’ll be there.
I know you’ve been waiting.
I know you’ll hold me again.
Hold me in my home.
Tears of liquid joy.
Like rivers of fear.
The memories so clear.
And drinking plenty of cheer.
Tears of liquid joy.
Like waves from the heart.
Two great oceans apart.
And wishing for another restart.
Tears of liquid joy.
Like dredged canals of the soul.
Leaking from the broken porthole.
And wishing for a free parole.
Tears of liquid joy.
Like a flowing molten alloy.
Passing through a secret convoy.
And singing like the last choirboy.
Crying liquid joy.
Ivor Steven (c) 2017
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 