In My Room

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In My Room, and my nuts.

Top left, impressive long-stitch craft, by Carole.

Framed by my kind and gentle Dad.

Bottom right, CD’s to be ripped into my music library.

 

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My Bookcase, and my hats.

Made for my 18th birthday.

By my dear Grand-pa, the carpenter.

Recipe books, photo albums.

Fiction and non-fiction.

My Vaults, my nicknacks !

 

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My Girl, snuggled in her bed.

Lily, a special gift to Carole.

From one of her Angelic Carers.

My shoes, sorry girls, just 3 pair.

 

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My Desk, my computer set-up.

A scanner, and 2 printers.

Middle right, my record turntable.

Top left, my poetry folders.

 

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My bedhead, my go at cabinet making.

My speakers, a cherished gift from my brother.

My poetry reading, my needful dictionary.

My bedside lamp, my lifetime night-light.

My note-pad, my night-time essential.

My pillows, my dream-time catchers.

 

Ivor’s little tour, inside my little bedroom, where my dream-time, memories, visions, and thoughts, turn into my words. This presentation, inspired by,  derrickjknight, and his gorgeous photographic tours.

Let Her Be

It wasn’t that much of a task,

To be with me.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be that past lover.

What’s it like, to be a distant mother.

What’s it like, to have no real cover.

What’s it like, to have a body of another.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be about and free.

What’s it like, to be a fish in the sea.

What’s it like, to be a queen bee.

What’s it like, to smile with glee.

Please set her free,

And give her back to me.

Let her be,

And set her free.

 

Ivor Steven.

My Nuts Are Missing

Breakfast time

Healthy cereal and milk

And a few nuts

I like to nibble

On my nuts

Oh no !

Nuts……

“Where art Thou”

No nuts in the larder

Oh my tasty nuts

Not to be found

Not in the bedroom

Only a small home

My nuts can’t be

Far away

Oh nutty me

Tell me now

Where would’ve

You looked

For my nuts

.

.

Oh no

My nuts are frozen

Now to find my car keys

 

Ivor Steven

Smoldering

My internal flame for her, still flickering.

Burning like the old Olympic torch.

Eternally glowing, without a permanent home.

Charring the timbers of all her defenses.

The leftover ashes, blistering my soul.

The fire-front ruins, leaving me dark and hollow.

A flame, not to be easily extinguished.

A fire, always smouldering in my heart.

 

Ivor Steven.