My Dragon, The Revival

My harpooned Dragon’s, fallen and out of breath.

Gazing around, pleading, near death.

The slayers spear, protrudes from his scaly vest.

And I quietly hear his soulful pounding chest.

Quickly, I plunge my sword, cutting shard.

Removing the spears horrid barb.

My Dragon exhales a fearsome howl.

Eyes bulging, tears flowing down his jowl.

In agony, thrashing his spiky green tail.

Then slowly abating, like a windless sail.

Is he dying, lying there loudly groaning.

Nostrils snorting, neither afire nor smoking.

Suddenly, his left wing begins flapping.

And my Dragon’s head rises, stretching, arching.

Green horns twitching, like a mythical serpentine.

Yellow eyes glowing, like magical sunshine.

My Dragon’s revived.

And ready to skydive.

 

Ivor Steven.

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My Dragon

A monstrous Dragon, breathing fire.

Did arise from the gurgling mire.

Dark gangrenous green, from head to tails.

Claws blackened, sharp as nails.

Purple secretions, from his scaly chest.

A spear harpooned, a grizzly mess.

Nostrils ablaze, bloodied red.

Eyes seeping yellow maggot heads.

My Dragon’s crying, and nearly dead.

 

Ivor Steven.

My Monster Story entry for this month’s Slasher Monster Magazine, please check the Magazine out, by blogging our wordpress site.

Soft Showers

Those years have been and gone.

Since you’ve live here, my lonely swan.

Sadly, I’ve existed through love again.

However, nothing like your passing’s pain.

And I’ve found I’ll never be the same.

Unveiled by life’s everyday falling rain.

Sometimes the heavy rains flood my very core.

Other-times the soft showers soothe my pores.

And as I once said.

Out of my wounded head.

“How many rivers of tears must we cry,

Before all the deepest wells run dry”.

 

Ivor Steven.

Dreaming Words

A special thanks to, ~M, Her Writing Haven, she’d just posted her first poem written many years ago, a writing full of feeling and emotion. So she’s managed to prompt me to post my first ever poem, from many many years ago, also full of feeling and emotion. Thanks again to, ~M….

 

I wake up,

Dreaming words of you.

Falling like the morning dew.

You’ve been resting tonight,

Under white sheets, out of sight.

Once, you were mine to hold,

But no more of being bold.

And no-one’s at fault,

Fate sent you a horrid jolt.

I lie here,

Dreaming words of you,

I hear the flick of your bedside light.

And you softly call my name

You smile at me, a sigh, a wave, Hi.

Hi, I smile at you and sigh.

Tears rolling down from your eyes.

I grimace, shielding my eyes,

Crying again tonight,

The same as last night.

Always, I’m here for you.

Always dreaming words of you.

 

Ivor Steven.

Pakington street

A dear friend of mine, and a wonderful singer/songwriter. These are the lyrics of his newest song.

Terrybalmain

Pakington street was the place we’d meet

when I was a younger man,

there used to be a rope factory, but now they call it The Strand.

not very far from Corio bay on the western side of town

the sky was blue and the wind was soft and the leaves were turning brown.

She was the girl with the honey blonde hair

with eyes so crystal bright,

I met her there on Pakington street on an April autumn night,

not very far from the place I lived on the western side of town,

when the sky was blue and the wind was soft

and the leaves were turning brown.

We used to share a drink or two and dance to the local bands,

She was my love, she was my life, she was my friend in hand

In my heart, I still feel the beat, I still see her dancing feet,

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A Mushroom Anthem

Why is there always a dark side,

When the moon shines so bright.

Who’s taking us on this blindfold ride,

While our reasoning is out of sight.

 

Why is there always a silver lining,

When the clouds are hovering so low.

Who’s making the lower world glowing,

While our malignant demons grow and grow.

 

Why do we call them magic mushrooms,

When all they bring is gloom and doom.

Who’s controlling this aging Mother,

While our pleading hands are hustled undercover.

 

Ivor Steven.

Featured Image:  Taken at Hollybank Nature Park, Tasmania, 17th April 2014.

Return The Bullets

I’m not very accomplished at writing about the problems of the world, I get far too angry and confused to write something sensible, but this poem is totally inspired by two of Tom Waits songs/words, “Make It Rain” and  “Satisfied”.

 

The mind awakens to secret cannons shattering my bed.

All the violence of the worlds inside my head.

The killing and maiming of all the innocents who fled.

What happens when all the little lambs are slaughtered.

When the peoples of all religions and creed are dead.

And we can’t return the murdering bullets back into the barrel.

I’m afraid.

The backyard stairway is far too steep to climb.

The hand rails are way out of reach to find.

And the public change-room windows are covered with bars.

Now encircling the city hall, the security backdoor is ajar.

Entering the marble aisle, the White-room appears vacant.

And guileful leaders have run, leaving a chasm of gloomy dark.

I’m wandering.

Where to go, the healing house is full of ugly holes.

The citizens cowering in shadows behind splintered lighting poles.

And the crumbling streets are awash with rivers of leftover blood.

Now the warring bosses have to fight amongst themselves.

Throwing poison pens and paper darts at each other.

Never bruised nor battered, using ivory towers as cover.

I’m terrified.

The dusty mushroom cloud, slowly settles on the barren ground.

With the sands of distant lands, shifting into every nook and cranny.

We need the good Doctor, to help us cure these alien scourges.

And foreigners arriving upon waves of our neighbouring seas.

The deathly TV images, wrongly implanted for all to see.

As the Press only gossip and drivel with selfish glee.

I’m stupified.

The guns of freedom lands, haven’t even stopped the cull.

Death to friends or foe, no matter, to rulers from above.

Their only rules, the poor and weak to be kept totally down trodden.

One day the surviving meek shall inherit their radioactive dirt.

And the rich will feast upon their own contaminated bread.

And we’ll never return the murdering bullets back into the barrel.

 

Ivor Steven.

Featured Image: Source, Wikipedia, mushroom cloud over Nagasaki, August 9th 1945…