A Quilt, For A Good Man.

I’ve had this quilt for five months now, a belated birthday present from last year. The quilt covering me every night, and I wonder and I dream, of the past, and the future. The past clings to me, like a warm blanket, and the future awakens every morning, when I toss the sheets back over the quilt.20170308_145809

A Quilt, For A Good Man.

A quilt, made by hand.

Definitely for a man.

Bold and beautiful.

But again, I was a fool.

A quilt, for lonely nights.

Definitely made for a cool moonlight.

Patterns of music notes and instruments.

But a gift, not Mozart’s 1st movement.

A quilt, reminding me constantly.

Definitely not unpleasantly.

Like winter leaves, grey and black.

And again, there’s no turning back.

 

Ivor Steven.

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‘Til Death Do Us Part

A poem I wrote over five years ago, about where my life was at that time. I haven’t been blogging for long, and I’ve posted other poems. Sorry but I haven’t been posting any of my poems in any sort of sequence, but maybe that’s wrong. I suppose life is a many jumble puzzle, and my words are there to just to help me, and if you, the reader find them interesting, and of some benefit, then so be it.IMG_1786

‘Til Death Do Us Part.

She’s there, in that tall pale building of brick.

Where the Nightingales care and tend to the sick.

She’s there, away from home and her comforting bed.

Where the Doctors try to fix the endless ills, from her head.

She’s there, her absence, reminds me of future plights.

Where my anxieties for her well being, endure her fight.

She’s there, I need to visit her, all day, and every night.

Where the distance to reach her soul, is out of sight.

She’s there, I’m wondering about that far away dome.

Where my lost personal affection, leaves her all alone.

She’s there, in those misty clouds, church bells ringing.

Where she’s nearing sombre sounds, of angels singing.

She’s there, her constant pain, remains tight in my heart.

Now I’m convinced, like I said, at the very start.

There’s no place like home, for her gathering dark.

And I promise to her, again, ’til death do us part.

 

Ivor Steven.

There’s Room

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There’s Room.

“It’s A Small World”, they say.

My dog, she’s small.

The little courtyard is hers.

My house is small.

The lounge/dining, is enough.

My kitchen is like a galley.

The laundry/bathroom, is clean.

My bedroom is broad.

A double-bed, and studio desk.

My bookcase and humble vaults.

A display of history and wine.

My room, resonating Leonard’s ballads.

My room, my words and dreams.

My room, a song for you.

“Oh”, where are you.

 

Ivor Steven.

My Girl

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My Girl

She’s a constant joy,

Tiny like a toy.

She leaps and prance’s,

Does hind-leg dances.

She slips and slides,

Does tummy glides.

She lays on all laps,

Loves all-day pats.

She’s a mirror of love,

Knowingly, from above.

 

Vaults And Bookcases

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A cool Sunday morning, wearing old brown slippers and warm bedclothes.

Looking through my window, and hearing crows singing, I suppose.

Sitting here on borrowed chairs, at a homemade table, built by dad.

Listening to my music of sorrow, ballads of truth, voices humming so sad.

The tunes vibrating softly, from my brothers equipment, quietly in tempo with my pulse.

Staring at the tall wooden bookcase, displaying visions from my deepest vaults.

The dusty shelves, lined with personal photos, whom I’ve lost and found over the years.

Mostly pictures of her, now departed for a while, always engulfing my many fears.

And images of family and friends, but they’re all smiling as if nothings wrong.

Oh how we mysteriously grin, for that camera pointed at our souls of song.

There’s memorabilia, and her little trinkets, all reflecting on my hidden veneer.

And unopened dry red wines, dotting the racks, like mirrors of yesteryear.