Fruit Juice Processor And Frozen Dreams


Wishing them to come true

Realising our visions

And watching them perish too

I’ve been told, “Life is a Process”

Like in a fruit juice processor


Peeled, sliced and diced

Thrown into the mixer


Filling a Tupperware container

Tagged and dated

Placed neatly into the freezer


Like in a blue Tardis fridge

Duly forgotten, frozen in time


The freezer suddenly dies

A clean-out is required

Puree dreams gone rotten

Thrown-out into the garbage bin

Afterwards trucked to the rubbish tip.


Dead and buried

Covered in yesterdays mildew mud

A slushy natural fertiliser

Hereafter regenerating our muses

Sprouting like magic mushrooms

Feeding the new brides and grooms


Ivor Steven (c)  2018



Water-wrinkled Hands And Sand Between My Toes.


The sand’s not really gold.

More like warm silk.

And the water’s not that cold.

Mild like cool Milk.

Pieces of seaweed, ankle-deep.

Smooth wet sand underneath.

Caressing my saltsea feet.

The Oceans clear bluey-green waves.

Carry surfers to shore.

Then paddling out for more.


So many happy souls.

Every face a smile.

Mums, dads and their young ones.

Old grandparents too.

And blokes like me.

All enjoying the sea.

Sand-castles built with glee.

Hungry seagulls.

Drifting on the sea-breeze.

Prancing for a feed.


The commune beach.

A lesson to teach.

No matter who you are.

Even here from afar.

Pale white or sunburnt skin.

Could be cream or tanned.

Bodies short and tall.

Rotund and thin.

All frolicking as one.

Under our southern solar Sun.


Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Featured Image:  Bancoora Beach, near Breamlea, Victoria, Australia.


Clear Blue Jar


Laying here looking above. 

Staring toward the sky. 

Wondering why, 

Why is our sky blue. 

How do we perceive hue’s 

And why say “feeling blue”, 

When it’s not true. 

The blue I see, 

Is no-one’s fool. 

So why fool with me. 

Seeing every new face, 

Has your forever smile. 

Yours on every dial, 

Like yesterdays last mile. 

Doing your time in style. 

Smiling faces, new and old alike. 

Beaming, even from afar. 

Like your sparkling star.

Smiling at my new life. 

My life in a clear blue jar. 


Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Featured Image:  This mornings clear blue sky, using a Samsung Galaxy S5.

Ivor Steven: Broken Plates and Rabbit Stew

Thank you to the Slasher Monster Magazine team, for publishing my poem in their truly awesome Magazine, and thanks “Team” for the gruesome artwork, quite a sickly looking, messed up stew !!



Have you ever had that weird fantasia sort of dream.

Where you can’t see beyond the silver screen.

Greyness is black and red is green.

Straight lines are wavering slivery beams.

Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams.

Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen.

Blueness in blood and plasma in streams.

Like chunky bittersweet rhubarb pie and cream.

Being injected directly into your open arteries.

Hallucinating a mad, mindless vortex of fun and games.

Spiralling outside in moonshine, as bleak bedroom coldness reigns.

Over mountains made of bland home-style rabbit stew.

Slowly eaten with a wooden teaspoon, hundreds of times.

Digested, your tummy gurgles and ejects buckets of spew.

While a hairless dog chases the postie’s bike, a whistle screams.

Dawn awakened to ice-covered broken plates and frozen lakes.

Shattered upon creek-bed rocks and your floor’s underlay.

This nightmare dream begun in April and ended dismayed.




View original post 23 more words

Olive Eyes

I’d forgotten to pump-up the car tyres.

The car’s out the front.

We’ve got to be going soon.

The appointment note is crumpled in my hand.

It’s over an hours drive to the city.

My mother-in-law is waiting to see us off.

She’s pensive, knowing I’m on edge.

Feeling for her daughters predicament.

My wife, my patient, looks at me forlornly.

Her pleading olive eyes make me more panicky.

Now to transfer her from our bed.

Into her borrowed wheelchair.

I’ve no idea, it’s my first go.

Damn, the chair’s tyre’s are nearly flat too.

No time now, we must leave.

Another transfer into the car.

I almost stumble, she’s awkward to move.

She’s unsteady, her legs aren’t working.

I firmly grab her around the waist.

And she clasps her arms over my shoulders.

A gentle embrace of respect.

We wryly smile at each other.

She looks at me, with her pleading olive eyes.

I stay strong, but I’m anxiously shaking.

Finally I’ve positioned her into the car.

I somehow fold the borrowed wheelchair.

Frustrated, throwing the chair into the boot.

Off we drive, I’m trying not to over-speed.

Nervously over-gripping the steering wheel.

The whites of my knuckles plain to see.

Soon we’re approaching the city centre.

Agape, I’ve little idea of where to go.

She looks at me with her pleading olive eyes.

Bravely I say “Just a few more blocks”.

Blindly lucky, I eventually find our destination.


An imposing building, tall and dark grey.

Ungracefully I transfer her out of the car.

Wheeling her in, “damn” these flat tyres.

Eight storey’s up to the Doctors rooms.

He’s a renowned Neurologist, there’s none in our town.

We greet him, he’s a confident, but sombre man.

And my wife looks at him with her pleading olive eyes.

Knowingly, I think, he’s seen those sort of eyes before.

There were tests, lots of questions, and more examinations.

Our time there seemed to be standing still.

And silently we wait for blood results to return.

Eerily the Doctor begun to speak and explain.

A strange aura of hush fell upon us.

As we listened to his authoritative voice.

“It’s my diagnosis, that you’ve the Neurological disorder, Multiple Sclerosis”.


The long hour’s drive home was stunned quiet.

Except for the many rolling tears.

Trickling from my wife’s pleading olive eyes.

And on the road the cars tyres felt flatter.

The next day, I pumped the tyres up.

On her borrowed wheelchair, and on the car.

That signalled the beginning of our long journey.

Another thirty years of her gracious and everlasting smile.

Wheeling over the lumpy roads, until the last bend.

Looking at me no more, with her pleading olive eyes.


Ivor Steven (c)  2018.


Singing A Song For You

My old record turntable’s on

The band’s playing our song

Music’s quietly echoing our beat

Ballads of love, humming so sweet

Cannot remember the last time I sang for you

Sat down together and talked life through

Soft and sad words, like hymns in tune

Strumming on an angels harp under a half-moon

Singing our lyrics of our eternal love, so true

It’s so long since celestial sounds covered you

With lyrics of our eternal love, so true

Years ago when our love was new

Laying upon fresh grass, bodies entwined upon morning dew.


Ivor Steven (c)


Looking At The Mirror

This Week, Calen again invites us to revisit her sandbox. She asks:

“You find yourself in a quiet room looking at your reflection in this beautiful old mirror. What do you see? Is there anything in particular you like about yourself? Is there anything you don’t like? Tell us about it.”

I see an oldish bloke, who likes to write poetry

Attention seeking, or even some notoriety

Why don’t I try to write a bigger story

Flash fiction, and there’s enough for a book

Am I too afraid to really look

All my poems are quite shortish

Like last years birthday cake wish

Maybe I’ll say, “I’m far too lazy”

I can’t tell them, I’m a bit crazy !!

Nor that I’m a cute Lord of wizardry


I better start on another view

They want to know about me and you

I see a bald headed man, like my dad

And that’s not at all bad

I always said, if I grew up

To be half as good as my dad

I’d be very happy and proud

And well ahead of the crowd

He was a kind and thoughtful man

I suppose I’m honest and lend a hand

I see I’m now showing my age

My journey has torn many a page

And it’s not that I’m overly sad

It’s my veneer that show’s everyone I’m glad

I’ve lived my promise, for better and for worse

I did my job, a carer during her curse


Ivor Steven (c)