A gentle twilight settled over yesterday’s sky, its fading colours echoing the soft hush of evening. This poem grew from that quiet moment — a lingering farewell woven through the last light of day.
Echoes Of Goodbye
Daylight is on the soft edge of night. Today’s sentinel sun has wistfully said goodbye to the world’s indigenous blue sky.
Twilight time melodramatically commandeers earth’s chromatic horizon.
I stand here, amazed and wondering how do I explain these encircling, empyreal surroundings to the echoes of our final goodbye.
A final whisper of twilight, carried forward in song.
It was “our” 50th Anniversary yesterday, the 10th of September. Whispering Flowers was written back in early 2019, during my recovery from two strokes — a time when every small journey felt tender and deliberate. Today, the flowers have been delivered, and we’ve spent the afternoon in the sunshine, sharing an anniversary lunch at the café and a glass of red, letting the memories settle gently around us.
Whispering Flowers (Tullawalla, page 41)
Carole and I, 45 years ago, before her MS developed.
At the cemetery with flowers for Carole, and then to the Cafe for lunch and a toast to Carole.
Whispering Flowers (Revised)
I went shopping this morning, To buy her flowers For our anniversary day.
A bus trip to the local florist, then I boarded another bus to the cemetery — my first time on a bus carrying flowers.
Bouquet in hand, on I hopped, You could’ve heard a pin drop.
Over the silence, I heard solemn whispers. The men on the bus courteously nodded, And the ladies knowingly smiled.
Gratified, I dipped my cap in acknowledgement. Then I started to sense the day’s emotions arise, and with my honesty glowing, I felt proudly special.
And as Scarborough Fair drifts through the afternoon light, I carry her memory faithfully, where flowers and remembrance quietly meet.
Alex Steven (Dad), February 5th 1924 – July 3rd 2015
A Weary Old Plumber, I’m Thinking of You (Happy Birthday, Dad)
One hundred and two years ago When dark became day And the sun shone on you Did the gods of the world know How lucky they were That your sphere of love Was all-encompassing
A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to the hospital for the last time, on the day of her 65th birthday, thirteen years ago.
Hello Carole, time goes by, and my heart has not moved …
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 eon. Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone. Birthdays, hanging on by a breath. Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death. What does it all mean to be alive and cry? What does it all mean to live and to die?
After I had left the hem Without women I could not have survived my time I would not have braved the climb Ladies, you are my rhyme My mother’s of thyme
Helping me roll away the stone Maintaining these old bones Repairing the bridges, I have burnt Reciting the messages, I have learnt Cheering from the sidelines Supporting my broken designs Women of My Rhymes Mothers for a lifetime
During early February, my stunning Day Lily begins to bloom, which nostalgically coincides with my father’s birthday week. A potted perennial that I rescued from my dear departed parent’s homestead. The lilies always grace my garden in February as nature’s tribute to Dad, and today’s revised poem was originally written in February 2017, when me and Dad’s day lily moved into my villa, “Shangri La” …
Day Lily and Love (Revised)
Upon my pillow, I sleep Good morning, I do peek From the cushion of my dreams To my garden’s awakening beams Blushing red hues, oh so bright You bloom during the night
And after cuddling the dew You open up your scenic view Flowering, standing proud, and steep Perfection at my feet A glorious Lily, like the wings of a dove And by sunlight, you air your love
Today’s Throwback poem was my first attempt at writing a ‘Pantun’ poem format. Originally written in October 2018
Pantun : In its most basic form, the pantun consists of a quatrain which employs an abab rhyme scheme. A pantun is traditionally recited according to a fixed rhythm and as a rule of thumb, in order not to deviate from the rhythm, every line should contain between eight and 12 syllables.
Bedroom Fireplace
Oh wondrous lounge-room fireplace Your winter-time sparkling crackle Glows upon our old desire’s embrace Reciting words of trust, beyond our burnt shackles
Oh wondrous bed-room fireplace Your winter-time warming flame Narrates tales of our revere and grace Flickering words of love, beyond our given name
