There’s a lady on the horizon,
Standing against the dusk.
Viewing her sinking sun.
She’s not quite in tune,
Hiding between the dawn,
And her fading moon.
A quietly gracious lady,
On her old verandah bench.
Sitting between her shallow pond,
And her broken fence.
Waiting patiently to be set free,
To beyond her flowering wattle tree.
Glowing against her brightest star-light,
Avoiding her darkest night
Thank you Jan, of “Book ’em, Jan O”, for prompting me to retrieve this one out of the broom closet, and publish it, just for the “hell” of it !!
I’m trapped in this limbo cave,
Between here now, and being there.
Like being between the crack of dawn,
And making your morning debut.
Like starting your breakfast fair,
And the larder’s completely bare.
Like being showered and cleansed,
And doing your spruce for no-one at all.
Like being ready for today,
And there’s no tomorrow ’til fall.
My time’s standing still here in limbo,
And my patience is wearing away.
Like the sunset and its extended dusk.
And there’s only that vacant twilight zone.
Like going to that luncheon date,
And there’s no girl on her chair.
Like travelling to town at night,
And the streets are dark and empty.
Like they’re all hiding from you,
And waiting for your midnight showdown.
Like being in this limbo cave,
And no-where to go, no-where at all.
By: Ivor Steven.
I’m neither here nor there,
Half asleep or half awake.
Not quite conscious,
Like a drifting snowflake.
Sinking through a prism,
Where I fantasize and over-achieve.
Seeing a blond haired vixen,
Thinking I’ve seen her tatt’s before.
I’m retreating, hiding,
From her beckoning embraces.
My drunken mates at the bar,
Giggling and smirking, as if I can’t see.
Between there’s a tattered curtain,
A pale veil, shadows lurking.
A vision frighteningly surreal,
Like a fiery chasm.
The blonds tattoos spasm,
Chasing my body into the surf.
A bubbling sensation, wildly scary,
I sprawl atop the tattoos in the sand.
And I wonder what to do,
With her bloodied tattooed hand,
Wishing I could escape from here or there.
I suddenly awaken, and burst into tears,
Recognising my weakly fears.
Ivor Steven.
I’m frightened, and I’m too scared to wait.
And knowingly, I’m arriving late.
The ghouls are spying from the hill.
And lower fools are poisoning her will.
Underneath her, a wicker complete.
Above, she’s suspended from a stake.
The bonfires started, against the rules.
And the crowds rejoicing, as the fire drools.
Waiting agog, for her garments to ignite.
The flames are sparking for her, on this night.
And the mob’s listening for her ungodly screams.
But there’s not a whimper, within she beams.
And secretly, I see her black cats drowning tears,
Are extinguishing all her burning fears.
Ivor Steven.
Featured Image: Artwork, by Kerri Costello, Graphic Design Artist, my amazing niece/second cousin, who lives in Philadelphia, she’s so very talented, and a very special person in my life, thank you Kerri.
My faith in humanity
Is wearing thin
Like the Arctic icecap.
My generousity
Backflipped by tricks,
Like an acrobat’s fall.
My naiveness exposed,
Like a pricked condom.
My smile erased,
Like Trump’s first promise.
My kindness stolen,
By camels, across the desert.
And a trusting spirit broken,
By a few faceless ghouls.
By: Ivor Steven
Featured Image: A copy of the cover of the book “Melpomene”, Edited by Gwendolyn Taunton, Containing works both old and new, Melpomene offers a prime selection of literature on the melancholic side of existence, the transformational beauty of the esoteric, occult secrets hidden in verse, sorrow, doom and the inevitable grasp of death.
I do wonder,
What’s important in life.
Why’s it so important,
To have someone to talk to,
And a companion too.
Does it matter,
If we remain alone and bare,
And love continues to be unfair.
I do wonder,
What’s important about our pounding hearts.
Why’s it so important,
To have a soulful beat, like a bass drum,
And walk a single path with your loved one.
Who cares,
If we leave a hopeful trail of crumbs,
And the Bowerbirds eat everyone.
And I do wonder,
Why’s love so important.
And I crave for the answer,
Before I’m dormant.
Ivor Steven.
Featured Photo: Taken by my, Samsung Galaxy S5, 24/08/2017, sunset at the end of my Court, here on the top of Geelong, Bell Post Hill.
Every time I opened a photo album,
I saw her personal emblem.
Every time I turned about face,
I felt my pain, all again.
Every time I switched on the screen,
I waited for a different dream.
Every time I tried another channel,
I cried during the battle.
Every time I played another sad tune,
I sang until the next full moon.
Every time I walked out the back door,
My head would be in the clouds.
Every time I looked up to heaven,
My angel would be at the gate.
And I saw the rain on her face,
And I felt the memory rain, all again.
Ivor Steven.
Early Sunday morning
At my desk
Writing in pencil
The inks frozen
No joke Kelvin
Send the firewood
Light up my heart
With soulful words
Give my fingers a start
Knuckles are throbbing
An arthritic chill
My dog’s coughing
Poor little Lily
She feels it too
Ah, not to worry
A sombre smile
A sun-ray
Shining through
Thawing my will
Freeing my quill
Ivor Steven.
Artwork: By Kerri Costello, Graphic Design Artist, my beautiful niece/second cousin, who lives in Philadelphia, she’s so very talented, and a very special person in my life, thank you Kerri. More of her Design/Artwork attached below.
Arctic Winds
I’m winter hibernating,
Inside an Eskimo’s hut.
Feeding only on fish oil,
And frozen blue blood.
My heart’s cold and dormant,
Cowering under a dampened vestment.
Pumping only yesteryears rust,
And icicles of my dust.
My eyes are swollen rocks,
Amidst polarized sockets.
Terrorising all that’s passed,
Like forgotten arctic icebergs.
My veins are hollow crevasses,
Inside a glaciers ice-flow.
Sheering and groaning chasms,
Like my memories deepest fjord.
Ivor Steven.
Source: A 106-Year-Old Fruitcake Found in Antarctica Still Looks ‘Like New’ — FOX40
Reblogged this especially for “Simple Observer”. enjoy Patrick, “can’t have your cake and eat to”
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 