Tag: Music/singer/songwriters

Grandma’s Hands

I wonder what mum and grandma are thinking

Mum was born after the First World War

A child of the roaring twenties

Then she became a poor teenager, of the great depression

And a young nurse, during the horror’s of a second World War

A time when everyone’s supplies were rationed

 

Everyone helped each other, when things run out

Everyone knew a son, that been killed in the war

Everyone gave you a soft shoulder to lean on

Everyone shared each others pain

Our parents and grandparents survived

And taught us compassion, and the value of every single life

 

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

Boy In A Bubble

I’m living inside my bubble of air and sea

But my shadow is drifting away from me

A distant silhouette beyond my arms reach

Now I’m an isolated sand-grain off yesterday’s beach

 

I’m walking alone and free in today’s daydream

Thinking of life, crossing-over to be with my honey and cream*

This commonwealth of man has isolated the birds and bees

Now I’m hoping to hug this dark forest’s future trees

 

honey and cream* >> https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2018/10/28/cream-and-honey-2/

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

Even the Church-mouse Had Fled

I stood beside the librarian, and didn’t know why she was crying

My poetry group’s Sunday meeting was cancelled this morning

I had last night’s dreams in my hand, as a readable draft

They were soulful words that needed to leave my heart

But my poet’s notebook remained virally unread 

I was left segregated, and even the church-mouse had fled 

 

Next morning, during the dawn’s half light

I lay there half awake, recalling my other half’s restless night

By then the evening tears had cleansed my misty sight

And washed the dusty notebook pages back to white

Alive again, my 2B pencil had begun to rewrite

About my dreams of life’s old wrongs and future plights

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

Airborne Distrust

The winds of time have changed us

And poisoned the fallen petals on our beds of snugness

Life’s dreams are flooding in rivers of hard rain

Where every river ends up in oceans of choking drains

 

Today there’s a gale, blow wind, blow

Cover us in pure white snow

Cool off our noxious foes

Drown our secret fears and toxic woes

 

There’s gathering piles of angel dust

During these days of airborne distrust

Laying unnaturally on barren ground

Making us weary and feeling unsound

 

We’re here cowering on uncovered platforms

Waiting out this passing sandstorm

And there’ll be the winds drenching rains

Before, quietly and calmly, the rainbow glows again

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

 

Kelly’s Smile

 

 

Kelly’s Smile

 

A balmy Autumn evening

And poet’s words are unveiling

Over twenty wordsmith recitals

Here within the poetry group’s citadel

 

Black Veil, White Veil, is the allotted theme

A topic of intriguing extremes

Encouraging opposing moonbeams

From the writers imaginative dreams

 

After the entertaining poetry event

I stroll across to the music bar I frequent

And I hear a singer’s voice extraordinaire

Kelly has a genuine smile, and is a storyteller with flare

 

Eventually my exciting night, becomes tired embers

And I meet up with fellow poetry group members

The friendly Jeff and Stephanie and there’s happy hugs all-round

Kindly they offer me a lift, and I’m homeward bound

 

Below Left: Me & Kelly               Below Right: Stephanie & Jeff, back at my place

 

 

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

 

 

Goodbye Yorkie, Hello Phillie

Goodbye Yorkie, Hello Phillie

 

Today I returned Yorkie to his owner

He’s been here for fifteen months

And what an interesting time we weathered

Here on guard, under my verandah

 

He’s seen all of my downs and ups

Helping  with those unsteady recovery steps

Nursing my body through the hurtful setbacks

And assisting this damaged mind to stay focused

 

Yesterday, was our last exercise session together

I shall miss our silent conversations

Daily, I would be chatting away to him

And stoically he stood, quietly listening

 

But as the saying goes

Out with the old and in with the new

I’ve been kindly donated a replacement for Yorkie

“She” will be on my verandah tomorrow

In time for my Philadelphia cousin’s visit next month

And I think I’ll name her “Phillie”

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

Jingle Jangle for My Easter Bonnet

This Saturday the Weekly Prompts challenge is: HATS. Please go over and visit “Weekly Prompts” fabulous site by clicking >>HERE ... And my poem here, is scrappy piece, about my attempt to go on an Easter trip…. 

 

Jingle Jangle for My Easter Bonnet

 

My notebook’s running on empty

There’s pages of invisible words

And blue lines are leaping forward

Leaving my empty threads behind

 

I’ve empty pockets

Lined with holey socks

And my empire’s purse

Is loosely tied to my Easter bonnet

 

How am I going to fly?

Without costly wings

I’ve not even a jingle jangle

Of silver change

 

And my dream’s destination

Now seems out of range

But I don’t need to travel too far

To reach my Easter bar

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

 

Living On a Wooden Bridge

 

Today’s poem is a rewrite of a piece original called “Living On a Knife Edge”. This poem was one of two, that I submitted to be published, but the other poem was accepted ahead of this piece, and so readers I’m posting this rewritten poem for you to peruse today…..

 

Living On a Wooden Bridge

 

Fire, fire, there’s raging fires

I need help to stamp out the flames

Burning down this old timber bridge

A traveler’s last causeway to the edge

Carrying today’s harsh realities

Spanning a lifetime dreams and fantasies

 

Rain, rain, there’s a Noah’s flood

I need help to stop the cascading suds

Fill the sandbags with riverbed mud

Smother the leakages with woolly rugs

Ring out the qualms and doubts

And refuse doctor’s drugs and handouts

 

Warning, warning, outside there’s a heatwave

I need help to see through the dusty haze

Douse the fiery furnace tonight

Close the doors, the fireflies are alight

Open your eyes, and view the glowing sights

And cross the bridge into life’s future delights

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020