Sculptures and Poems
A time to relax and rest
After another bodily test
No poems in my pocket
Nor in my Itmims Rocket
There’s no words left in me
Nor lyrics tied to my tree
I’ve only photos from Saturday
The Sculptors Exhibition day
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
I blog
I then clog
I’m in a smog
Don’t expect me to nod
Ivor is a blob
And a writing snob
Time to glob
And join a normal squad
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
A few years ago, I was fortunate to have a girlfriend called Sue
This morning I was listening to this tune on YouTube
And I thought, isn’t life intriguing, how songs can trigger our memories
The happy and sad times, of many hidden stories
I’ve always been a respectful man, and in my mind, the secrets will stay
And I’ll continue on my way, with a smile in my heart, remembering the good days
The song by “Dirty Three”, featuring Warren Ellis on violin…… and Warren is the violinist for Nick Cave’s backing band “The Bad Seeds”…..enjoy….
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
Yes, I am small in this overburdened world
But I flutter freely when unfurled
I could be a family picture collage
Or a tiny squirrel amongst the foliage
On his journey, of ups and downs
Collecting and storing his acorn crowns
The trick is to enjoy the ups
While the floodgates are shut
Sometimes, I did nearly drown
Other times, I floated upside down
During the many seasonal rains
I wondered, if I’d every swim again
So then, I pretended to write a biblical book
Ignorantly thinking no-one would ever look
Afterwards, I thought I could walk on water
Then my boots became water-logged
And if you need to walk a mile in my shoes
You’ll have to learn how to swim, and sing the blues
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
Walking barren pastures of sand
With only detergent hands
Old arms are empty of nature’s seeds
I only see, future investment greed
And history’s lessons, are hard to understand
When we’re taught, disrespect by corporate bands
Who only extinguish life, and fracture our lands
Instead of regenerating our planet’s, last stand
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
The Last Chicane
I’ve been climbing every rung
Even the broken ones unsung
I’ve played every sad song
Even when the words were wrong
I felt my bird fly away
Even though her nest stays here today
I’ve praised my swan’s eternal flight
Even through the hardest fights
I’m listening to the bells chiming
Even above lyrics that aren’t rhyming
I’m beginning to flutter my wings again
Even after missing the last chicane
I’m preparing for the next equestrian
Even tasting potions of bubbling champagne
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
After months of anxieties and tears
Today was softened, on a smooth lake of old fears
The specialist report was stable
Grey clouds settled under his table
Obvious scars inside the head
Were idle seeds in the garden shed
Life is allowed to continue, cautiously
Back to a normal daily odyssey
Writing about cosmology and ideology
As battology turns a page on neurology
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
Another older poem from last year, and quaintly appropriate for this historical gold-mining town of Ballarat
My Kite And Bike
Here I am in this ancient town
Climbing the local mystical Blue Mountains
Standing in the world’s greenest paddock
Flying my yellow and purple kite
On that old magical golden thread
My kite is soaring higher and higher
Towards our planet’s crimson sky
A sky covered by the clouds rainbow hues
Creamy clouds, opaque, thick and soft
Powerful and solid grey, hovering aloft
Where pristine snowflakes abound
All bright and shiny white
Heavy enough to ride my silver bike on
Peddle my way through today’s slippery black-ice
And wallow in the colourful heights of tomorrow
Ivor Steven (c) 2019
I’m feeling a bit older this morning after last night’s party!! , so here’s an older poem I’m reposting…
Not Here Nor There
My time is slowly passing.
Age is creeping, not lasting.
I’m frail and growing older.
My body shivers when it’s colder.
And sweats like hell, in the heat.
My mind is feeble and weak.
I don’t seem to remember.
Whether it’s March, April, or September.
Here I sit, what am I doing.
There I look, where am I going.
There I ask, what’s for tea my dear.
Oh, I forgot, she’s not here.
Well best I retire to bed.
And wrest this weary head.
Under a linen sheet, like a hood.
Laying here, on this piece of wood.
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
Featured Image Above: The Box Office Cafe, kitchen, which is made from an old shipping container.
Spoil Me, (With Apologies To David Redpath)
Sorry David, but here I am again
At West Geelong’s, Box Office Cafe
Spoiling myself, for Saturday lunch
Geelong’s own version, of ‘Go Dog Go Cafe’
Where owners and their furry pals all meet
Chatting and barking, one social togetherness
And yes, I get to give the doggies, pats and hugs
There’s Bronson, the well behaved little Pug
Duke, a very young Dalmatian, he’s going to be a big boy
And another Duke, a striking auburn Labrador
Sorry David, I’m going to describe my feast now
Firstly, a real Aussie cappuccino coffee
Followed by Bao Buns, with slow cooked pork
A sweet and sour glaze, and fresh herbs
With cucumber, pickled carrot, fried shallots
Complimented by a delicate Gochujang mayonnaise
Then of course, I had to have a delicious cake
David, I couldn’t resist, a Berry Velvet teacake
Leaving me no option, but to wash it all down
With one of those politically incorrect, Blackman’s lagers
Cheers everyone, I’ll be on holiday, in Ballarat this week
Ivor Steven (c) October 2019
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 