Tit Bits #13

This is my 13th writing of “Tit Bits”, and coincidently today is Friday 13th. I’m not sure whether this means good luck or bad luck for my post today ??

Our pain is like rain

The pain comes and goes

Heavy and light

He’s got us trumped

There’s more poison

In his venom

The facts are there, for all to see

But all the blind eyes are covered in cotton wool

Their ears are buried in the sand

And toes paddling in their own bullshit quagmire

Now is the time to help

Doing the little things that count

Little step after little step

And in time they become one big stride

I hope these tears of mine

Become the glassy mirrors

Of hope

For the frightened children

They need our love

Love is a life-line

Love feeds a soul

Love revives a heart

Love is the meaning of life

Life is love

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018 

 

A Single Atom

Weekly Word Prompt:  Subliminal  click to view all the responses to this weeks word prompts 

For the weekly word prompt “Subliminal” I’m reposting this old poem of mine “A Single Atom”, which I originally created from a very mixed up and vague dream I had when I was experiencing a lot of guilt complexes about a new relationship I was having at the time, only a year after my wifes passing. My subconscious was subtly  injecting doubts into my mind during my sleep !!

A Single Atom

I see a shooting star, traverse the full-moon

Like a jungle bushfire, raging out of sight

I feel the heat of midday, smothering the night

Like a warm body, inside her tomb

I see the dawn, without the golden sun

Like a Lyrebird, singing all out of tune

I hear the morning rain, without a cloud in the sky

Like yesterdays floods, leaving her high and dry

I see a sandy beach, awash by a tidal wave

Like a burning desert, water is her grave

I fill lonely sheets, with empty dreams

Like a dark chasms’ irrelevant beams

I see a summer leaf, wilted by a frosty Autumn

Like an unwatered orchid, opening to an old anthem

I feel like a splintered heart, inside a single atom

Like a snakes dead skin, her rejected emblem

Ivor Steven. (c)  2018

Grindstone Potion

From before the start

You ripped out my heart

And splintered my bones

With your sharpest stones

You laugh and mock

I’m pieces of crushed rock

 

Waiting at every station

You left me in slow motion

With beach-sand in my pocket

I’m holding an empty locket

Cast adrift in the ocean

I’m free of your grindstone potion

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Featured Image:  Bing.  whyou.deviantart.com

Dimpled Fingers

An insightful and thought provoking poem by my dear friend Jane of janebasilblog . “Together We Can Help”. Please take the time to read her words and add your comments. “Let Us Not Be Silent” https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2018/07/01/let-us-not-be-silent/

janebasilblog's avatarMaking it write

child poverty

.

Dimpled fingers
that reeked of crayon and ink,
riffled the fat book whose images depicted
thin children with unfamiliar skin-tones
from different races.

Blatant deprivation
is not pretty. The charity knew this.
Skin was scrubbed and wrapped in clean clothing.
The touched-up, sunrise smiles of these cute kids
seduced even the school-yard bully.

We each paid
our fisted shilling and took an image home.
Girls chose girls, and all knew which boys
were school-yard romance material
by what gender they selected.

It felt virtuous;
saving the children of the world
at the cost of a shilling.

My own photograph girl
boasted exotic black-sheep curls,
milky cocoa skin, ebony eyes that, even
through the monochrome, looked as if the whites
had been soaked in my my mother’s bag blue.
Her smile suggested a regular pastime
of birthday treats, an ignorance
of hunger and misuse.

My mind reeled; beneath
a…

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Is The Plumber A Poet, Or Is The Poet A Plumber

Weekly Prompts Photo Challenge  

Unusual Shape

Squares And Rounds

Do you see what I see

There’s a kennel on the shed

‘Twas a little dogs favourite bed

20180625_153048 (1)

Do you see what I see

There’s a five foot hole in the ground

Plumbing pipes all around

 

Do you see what I see

There are stormwater pipes under the house

An old plumbers been a dirty mouse

Do you see what I see

There are downpipe boxes and bends

A craftsman joined the ends

Shapes are up

shapes are down

Squares and rounds

 

The plumber’s had a busy week

The poet’s feeling tired and meek

Far too sore to even speak

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

A Single Weeping Tree (A Villanelle)

This is my first attempt at writing a Villanelle style of poem. As a beginner, I took the easy way out and restructured one of my old poems, and actually I’ve wanted to revise this old classic of mine, the poem was originally called “This Lost Shadow”, and dear Shefali of  writtenframes  ,inspired/prompted me to try to write one. I’m not sure if I’ve got the Villanelle style technically ok, so please, I’m open to any suggestions and corrections to my effort here.

 

I’m singing this song about a single weeping tree

Why am I so sleepy, am I ageing too quickly

I’m writing that book for a soul gone cold

 

I’m so physically worn and mentally at sea

Why am I so anxious and lonely

I’m singing this song about a single weeping tree

 

I’m writing a song about my return to the fold

Why am I so sore, have I lost my plea

I’m writing that book for a soul gone cold

 

I’m a furnace log, burning up with glee

I’m a sinking ship, all about to flee

I’m writing this song about a single weeping tree

 

I’m an overburdened camel, not to be told

I’m an empty desert, a void, far as the eye can see

I’m writing that book for a soul gone cold

 

I’m a broken branch, withering and dying, oh so slowly

I’m this lost shadow, wandering this barren land furtively

I’m singing this song about a single weeping tree

I’m writing that book for a soul gone cold

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Thank you to dear Shefali for her wonderful encouragement and invaluable assistance, and if you would like to have a try at a Villanelle here’s a very good “How To” link,              A link to help you : https://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Villanelle