Author: ivor20

What’s it like to be an orange Pumpkin-head.

Only black sockets for eyes instead.

And a cut-out smile full of seeds.

Queer ears made of rings and beads.

Inside, your brain is scooped out for pigs feed.

Leaving a dark void that doesn’t bleed.

On top you’re like a crinkled dome.

And your sore neck’s being speared home.

What’s it like to have a retina thread,

As a throbbing nerve-end tread.

With your cell fibres smashed to a pulp.

Knifing across your tender scalp.

Ebbing towards your aching neck.

And crushing you like a busted shipwreck.

Then a wooden spike pierces your fragile brain.

Where the horrid harpoon spreads your pain.

Photo Source: Amazing Halloween Jack O’Lantern pumpkins, carved by Ray Villafane -pinterest.com

Ivor Steven.

There’s a sharp pain

Inside my brain.

Harpooning my eye,

More than Ouch, I cry.

So hard to write,

Blurry is my sight.

All I do is peep,

And I must rest and sleep.

I’ve not lost the knack,

And I shall be back……….

Ivor Steven.

I’m at this basement bar, and the so-called music’s as loud as thunder.

So loud, I can’t even hear, speak, or begin to wonder.

My inner and outer ear-drums are echoing with the continual pounding.

All around the incessant rapp music’s booming and thumping.

The annoying repetitive sounds, drumming away inside my head.

However, somehow my beating heart is remembering my girl instead.

And my attempted idle chats, are overwhelmed by the piercing howling.

But who’s listening anyhow, to my drunken words and lecturing.

It’s probably the extra ales tonight, and I’m slowly drowning away.

Leaning against the bar, elbows entrenched, as if I’m here to stay.

Suddenly my bar-stools vibrating, is it the noise, or am I bodily shaking.

From my old and new nerve-ends being frightfully awakened.

My soulful tears, with all their leftover fears, again quietly trickling.

But there’s no-one to actually notice, within this buzzing cocoon, so resounding.

Ivor Steven.

You’re like an infant of mine, a distant cloud in the sky,

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like a teen of mine, who somehow learnt to fly.

Always gliding high, and passing her by.

You’re like a child of mine, forever asking me why, why, why.

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like an ex-girl of mine, her first words were a lie.

Always chasing the answer, by using her thighs.

You’re like a friend of mine, who left me high and dry.

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like a Lady of mine, her only instinct was to try.

Always seeking final peace, as life went by.

Ivor Steven.

Artwork: Painted by self, using acrylics, 1967.

Loneliness, is watering your garden vegetables

And having no-one by your side to watch them grow

Loneliness, is playing your favourite sad song

And having no-one listening to you singing out of tune

Loneliness, is viewing your family photo album

And having no-one to share your private memories with

Loneliness, is being home sick, oh so very sick

And having no-one to tend to your aches and selfish moans

Loneliness, is awakening to the crisp morning dew

And having no-one to feel the warmth of your heart at sunrise

Loneliness, is walking a sandy beach until the tide comes in

And having no-one to hold when the ocean finally covers you

Loneliness, is lying upon your empty bed

And having no-one, having no-one here at all

Ivor Steven (c)  2017

Featured Photo: Courtesy of Neil Robinson, Geelong, 2017.

I’m travelling to the City by train.

Going to see a BK Opera performance again.

My niece, a leading singer in the show.

And these carriages are gently swaying to-and-fro.

I’m arriving an hour early.

Doing so, quite deliberately.

As the venue’s a classic olden Hotel.

A bar to relax in, and have a spell.

Drink a boutique ale or two.

And some friendly chatter too.

A young lady, Julia, I meet.

She’s polite and sweet.

We shake hands and talk warmly.

Happily saying to me, she loves poetry.

And I offer her an Opera ticket free.

But alas, she’s about to take her leave.

Upstairs I go, soon the show’s to begin.

I’m eager to hear the young Soprano’s sing.

The Opera’s an unusual Production.

A lover’s tragic telephone conversation.

The four separate settings are of a Lady’s Boudoir.

Our singers attire, glossy gowns and silky nightwear.

There’s soft lighting, satin cushions and screens.

And the Opera is divided into four scenes.

In four Hotel rooms, with a Soprano Artiste’.

Our audience standing during each piece.

I’m transfixed, as the soloist sings.

And we applaud from the small room’s wings.

A most intriguing and wondrous show I’ve seen.

An Opera called, La Voix Humaine.

Ivor Steven.

Many thanks to Colleen of “chatter master”, for her helpful advice and encouragement. I found this piece difficult to explain and write the words. And attached here, the link to the details of BK Opera’s production of La Voix Humaine.  https://www.bkopera.com.au/la-voix-humaine-2017

The cold morning frost, accompanies a winter’s dawn.

I’m snuggling warm in bed, wondering about the day ahead.

It’s Sunday, my home’s empty, a great void instead.

The cool quiet and the loneliness, are unbearable.

The passageway to my light is dark, and hard to feel.

If only I knew, the light at the end of the tunnel was real.

In this grotto of fading night, lying low, out of sight.

Where my dreams are false, waiting for another right.

Ivor Steven.

Am I afraid, or am I being slowly discouraged.

Dismayed by the emptiness of my beating heart.

Am I consumed, or am I being bodily starved.

Eaten by the cells of my inner sentiments.

Am I infatuated, or have I been possessed.

Devoured by the recess of my lonely soul.

Am I swimming after the impossible loveboat.

Drowning in the wake of a passing icebreaker.

Ivor Steven

Music Video: Provided to YouTube by Universal Music Group North America.