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 lived 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.


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 hazardous clouds are hovering so low

Who’s making the lower world enchanting?

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 ageing 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…


Some Time Now

Anniversaries, they come and they go.

Some time now, since that final May snow.

Anniversaries, they have floated past,

Some time now, I reminisce the last.


Anniversaries, none ever forgotten.

Some time now, since your everlasting smile was taken,

Anniversaries, through to coral, every hue.

Some time now, since a wave passed through.


Anniversaries, when love grew stronger,

Some time now, since the years became longer,

Anniversaries, through, love, suffering and pain.

Some time now, since our river filled with rain.

Your troubles fell with an Autumn leaf.

Forever enshrined in your honourable belief.


Ivor Steven. 

Gracious Lady

There’s a lady on the horizon,

Standing against the dusk.

Viewing her sinking sun.

She’s not quite in tune,

Hiding between the dawn,

And her fading moon.

A quietly gracious lady,

On her old verandah bench.

Sitting between her shallow pond,

And her broken fence.

Waiting patiently to be set free,

To beyond her flowering wattle tree.

Glowing against her brightest star-light,

Avoiding her darkest night

In This Limbo

Thank you Jan, of “Book ’em, Jan O”, for prompting me to retrieve this one out of the broom closet, and publish it, just for the “hell” of it !!


I’m trapped in this limbo cave,

Between here now, and being there.

Like being between the crack of dawn,

And making your morning debut.

Like starting your breakfast fair,

And the larder’s completely bare.

Like being showered and cleansed,

And doing your spruce for no-one at all.

Like being ready for today,

And there’s no tomorrow ’til fall.

My time’s standing still here in limbo,

And my patience is wearing away.

Like the sunset and its extended dusk.

And there’s only that vacant twilight zone.

Like going to that luncheon date,

And there’s no girl on her chair.

Like travelling to town at night,

And the streets are dark and empty.

Like they’re all hiding from you,

And waiting for your midnight showdown.

Like being in this limbo cave,

And no-where to go, no-where at all.


By: Ivor Steven.

A tattooed Blond

I’m neither here nor there,

Half asleep or half awake.

Not quite conscious,

Like a drifting snowflake.

Sinking through a prism,

Where I fantasize and over-achieve.

Seeing a blond haired vixen,

Thinking I’ve seen her tatt’s before.

I’m retreating, hiding,

From her beckoning embraces.

My drunken mates at the bar,

Giggling and smirking, as if I can’t see.

Between there’s a tattered curtain,

A pale veil, shadows lurking.

A vision frighteningly surreal,

Like a fiery chasm.

The blonds tattoos spasm,

Chasing my body into the surf.

A bubbling sensation, wildly scary,

I sprawl atop the tattoos in the sand.

And I wonder what to do,

With her bloodied tattooed hand,

Wishing I could escape from here or there.

I suddenly awaken, and burst into tears,

Recognising my weakly fears.


Ivor Steven.