Category: Photos

You have to be skillfully quick

To catch sight of the wily wind

Gone, in the flicker of a candle wick

The wind is here and gone in the blink of an eye

A crafter blaster, invisible and streamlined

We stoically lean against the air’s ghostly tricks

And blindly await the haunting to be reassigned

The wind is here and gone in the blink of an eye

Ivor Steven (c) March 2021

My downhill roll has begun

I am slowly drifting away from the sun

There is no one around to ring the bell

To signify this old fighter needs a spell

My corner is about to throw the towel in

As my leftover blood turns the colour of sin

I hope my life has not been in vain

After traversing those decades of pain

As now I am able to bath in the soothing rain

Cleansing myself before I float on Noah’s Ark again

Ivor Steven (c) March 2021

I often wonder and ponder

About the truthfulness of our future

Will the changing winds

Of tomorrow stay kind

Will the narrowing tunnel of light

Fade over time and fall out of sight

I have no answers to the storms thrust

I have no answers to those of flaky mistrust

I see pure oceans covered in white rust

I saw my riverbed of pure sand turn into stardust

Ivor Steven (c) March 2021

I rest quietly near the edge

Upon my peaceful little wedge

And in a doorway’s opening hinge

I see a brightness beyond the fringe

Illuminating my horizon’s promised forest

And I hear a hallelujah chorus

Am I dreaming my dearest?

Or is this a mirage of yesterday’s florist

Ivor Steven (c) March 2021

For every word

There is a breathe

In every breathe

Hurt and love dwell

Exhale hate

Inhale hope

See beyond the telescope

Hear that ringing bell

The universe is one living cell

An embryo’s brittle eggshell

Ivor Steven (c) March 2021

The Wednesday Challenge on Weekly Prompts is the word: Retirement. Please go over and visit their fabulous site by clicking >> HERE . Although my poem below doesn’t mention ‘Retirement’ directly, I think my words may be read as a poem about living in later years of retirement…

A Box of Old Crayons

Sometimes I stared at an empty table

And wondered if I would ever be able

To turn the fading power back on

I was unsure about another swansong

But each time I became lost and wrong

I found another box of old crayons

And from here and there words did flow

Nurturing my dry mirages to regrow

Replenished by the thawing mountain snow

Nature’s river rejoined my ocean’s undertow

Again duplicating my life of highs and lows

Ivor Steven (c) March 2021