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As you the readers, might be aware, I’m hugely influenced by the works of Leonard Cohen. This poem bares format similarities to Leonard’s poems/songs,  “Love Calls You By Name”  and, “Bird On A Wire”. I’m Forever grateful for Leonard Cohen’s profound impact on my writings and my life’s attitudes.  This old poem was written when my Lady’s deteriorating medical condition and medical equipment and care needs, left me no alternative but to relocate myself to the other bedroom of our home, where upon, the music played and my words flowed.

Missing You.

Missing you, like a bee and her distant hive.

Like the sun with no sky.

Missing you, like the moon of last night.

Like my eyes with no sight.

Between the rain and my pain.

Between the calm and the storm.

Between the waterfall and the pond.

Between my heart and the beyond.

Missing you, like a swallow with no breeze.

Like a whale in the sea.

Missing you, Like the universe with no dark.

Like the strings in a harp.

Between the rage and your cage.

Between the winds and the waves.

Between the ground and your flowers.

Between the castle of your towers.

Missing you, like the beach with no sand.

Like the dove from above.

Missing you, like a mother and her newborn child.

Like a lonely stag in the wild.

Between the river and the broken levee.

Between the kiss of your hips.

I know you can hear me,

I know you can see me,

I know you’re near,

Yet you’re far away from here.

Ivor Steven.

A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to hospital for the last time, on the day of her last birthday. I’ve slightly edited the wording overnight, and now a general birthday poem for all to enjoy, and posting here, on this “my day”.

Under The Snow.

We emanate to a birthday.

We deflate to a final day.

Birthdays, they all come, they all go.

Birthdays, in the sunshine, under the snow.

Birthdays, slow to mature, quickly an aeon.

Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone.

Birthdays, hanging on by a breath.

Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death.

What’s it all mean to be alive and cry.

What’s it all mean to live and to die.

Ivor Steven.

It wasn’t that much of a task,

To be with me.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be that past lover.

What’s it like, to be a distant mother.

What’s it like, to have no real cover.

What’s it like, to have a body of another.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be about and free.

What’s it like, to be a fish in the sea.

What’s it like, to be a queen bee.

What’s it like, to smile with glee.

Please set her free,

And give her back to me.

Let her be,

And set her free.

Ivor Steven.

I’m becoming impatient,

Here waiting,

Waiting for a concrete lid.

Too many stop signs,

And lifetime bans.

I’m a good man,

So I’ve been told.

But there’s a chasm,

And the concrete’s,

Yet to fill the void.

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.