Fruit Juice Processor And Frozen Dreams

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

Dreams

Peeled, sliced and diced

Thrown into the mixer

Puree

Filling a Tupperware container

Tagged and dated

Placed neatly into the freezer

Dreams

Like in a blue Tardis fridge

Duly forgotten, frozen in time

Until

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.

Dreams

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.

thLSINEONJ

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 !!

SlasherMonster

 

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.

 

 

Wanna…

View original post 23 more words

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)

Rain In May

The day is one of rain.

Washing streets of thoughts down the drain.

Cleansing the stains.

Flooding the silence again.

 

The day is dismal and grey.

Drowning the sun, it begun in May.

Many years full of dismay.

Pouring rains, here to stay.

 

Ivor Steven (c)

Thank you to Gina of, Singledust, and Linda of, Urban Poetry, for both suggesting that I write words about the rain here in Geelong today. Hope the poem meets your approval Ladies.