Ivor.Plumber/Poet

What’s The Song Called

I’m still going with my theme of “Life As A Carer”, with old poems I’ve not posted, on WordPress, or anywhere else before . I hope as readers you don’t mind my indulgence with these pieces.

What’s The Song Called

What’s it called, tending to one for so long

Eternally battling on, right or wrong

The advocate, always trying to be so strong

Giving his very being, through every song

What’s it called, yearning for one to belong

Living beside a finality, from here to beyond

The partner, always trying to sing along

Wrenching at his inner soul, with every sad song

What’s it called, suffering for one so long

Patience wearing away, life seems an eon

The soloist, always crying, not so strong

Fearing his lost heart, until the last song

I didn’t realise I had written so many of these sort of “life as a carer” poems, these were written years ago, when I was struggling with the process of coping…… Please do not over react, many years have gone by, I’m Ok these days. Hopefully my words may help other carers that maybe in a similar situation, and realise that they are not alone out there, with their thought and doubts

Intrusion

The process of being alive

Such an intrusion on going awry

The engagement of caring in life

Such an intrusion on living to get bye

The labour of toiling for pay

Such an intrusion on flying away

The dishonour of begging for more

Such an intrusion on failing to score

The exhaustion of continuing to care

Such an intrusion on needing to dare

The silence of the evening moon

Such an intrusion on hearing too soon

The explosion of morning sunlight

Such an intrusion on pleading for quiet

The disharmony of singing this song

Such an intrusion in sighing, so long

Her Nightingales

Good morning readers( it’s morning somewhere), this is a piece I’ve not posted before, I wrote it 15 years ago, I’m leaving the poem in the original tense of when the words were written. the poem’s about Carole’s incredible nurses and carers who attended our house every day. I hope you enjoy the rawness of this early poem of mine.

Her Nightingales

The nightingales enter, our house feels raided

Unnerving every-time, our personal privacy invaded

Nightingales come and go, to and fro

A shuffling flock, some we don’t know

Drifting throughout our house, her nursing home

Tending to her endless needs, she’s never to be alone

Nightingales come and go, to and fro

They’ve showered her and they’ve been, today and tomorrow

Occupying our precious space, angels fluttering around

From the front door, to the back door, from silence to sound

Nightingales come and go, to an fro

They’ve fed her and they’ve seen, today and tomorrow

Permeating the air with chatter, brushing her red plume

Bedding her down, and leaving her lonely room

Nightingales come and go, to and fro

Comforting her and they’re between, today and tomorrow

Beyond Sunset

The day here is very hot again, hot enough to fry an egg on my front window sill, 107’F, at midday !! I found this poem that I posted last year on February 25th, it must’ve been hot back then too. I hope you enjoy the re-run.

Gradually the dying moonlight awakened my dawn

And the baptizing sunrise watered my eyes

Drowning the working hours of my shallow day

Dampening fiery thoughts of playing in the hay

Dusk hazily shrouds my cemetery lawn

And the rituals of sunset beckon my evening plight

Flailing and falling upon sleepless night

Finally laying prone under my weighted crown

Hear The Thunder

My tired voice is crying out, “there’s no time to wait !!”

Pleading, along with the world’s impatient majority

We need to hear the thunder, of peace bells ringing

Ringing to the crescendo of peace doves singing

The chimes are loud and clear

Loud enough for the universe to hear

Even through white marble walls

You’ll hear the thunder of the peace bell’s … call

We the people, from the planet’s four corners

Are united by our textiles woven together

We’ve attached our hands firmly to the bell pull

And tugging the pull cords, the thunder of the bells shall ring

We are gathering in every backyard

Every church hall

Every city street

Every farmers paddock

Every heavenly peace dove is escaping

You will see the doves flying high above

Even through the towers of tinted glass

You’ll see the peace doves … soar

Even through their white marble walls

They’ll hear the thunder of the peace bells … call

Even through their towers of tinted glass

They’ll hear the crescendo of the peace doves … call

Hear the thunder of peace bells ringing

Hear the crescendo of peace doves singing

Rainbows In The Sky

How blue can our blue sky beam

Before the sun’s fireball burst at the seams

The day is hotter than a smith’s melting pot

During the heat did mother earth lose the plot

All her rainbows have vapourised and waved us goodbye

The hidden gold has been stolen by the lord of the flies

There’s a cloudless horizon, as far as eyes can see

Even too hot for the industrious garden bees

Yorkie stands square, with a blazing black seat

Not to be sat on, like a boiling iron roofing sheet

Time to give the roasting body a rest

Lie down with a cooling fan, blowing over the chest

A Midday Sun

We have had weeks of blue skies and summer sunshine down here in Geelong, and there’s lots more to come they say. I thought I’d repost this poem of mine from January last year, and for you northern hemisphere readers, maybe it’ll warm you up a bit

A Midday Sun

Have you ever looked up at a Midday Sun

Shining through the weeping forest canopies

A golden glowing furnace, that’s larger than life

Glaring down, from there above

Have you ever flown up to touch the Midday Sun

Travelling through that deep blue sky and beyond

A vortex of colour, reflections of rainbows

Cascading down, from there above

Have you ever been blinded by the Midday Sun

By that purity of brilliant white

Forcing your singed eyelids to shut tight

The Corona’s fiery circles intensely bright

An Angels alluring halo of silvery light

Enchanting to your mesmerized sight

Encapsulating a lovers first flight

And burning your heart’s delights

Pakington Street

These sore ageing feet

Have been pounding the beat

Up and down, picturesque Pakington Street

Worn out soles are feeling the heat

This old soul has stopped for a sandwich to eat

Up beyond West Park, they’ll be a comfy seat

And a refreshing drink of chai latte and sweets

At the Depot Cafe, quaint and neat

A satisfying lunch, now I’m replete

Relaxed, and exercise complete

A few more pictures from my walk up and down, Pakington Street.

Pushing Yorkie Higher

Struggling with a shaky pen stroke

I’ve lost secret words, I wrote

An ill wind, sent them flying out the door

Misread and missing a music score

Scrawled along lines of my crooked path

Curling up, and falling in the draft

Sinking into a world I cannot see

An impossible mission for you and me

Crossing hostile foreign lands

Walking through deserts on my hands

Swimming turbulent oceans

Climbing jagged snowy mountains

Pushing on my bike, higher than high

Soaring over dark cloudy skies

Until finally, I found where dreams die

On her heavenly garden seat, she lies

Beyond The Brick Wall

My time’s feeling lost and unrequired

Yesterday, I was worn and tired

Today, I did reach for the sky

Tomorrow, I’ll give life another try

Yesterday, I hit the brick wall

Today, I jumped every puddle

Tomorrow, hurdles will be castles in the sand

Everyday, my unknown future lays in my hands

Every-week, my dream looks like potter’s clay

Today, I uncovered tomorrow is the next day

Tomorrow, is not my vision of times to come

Tomorrow, is the beginning of my shining sun