Beyond The Trapdoor

Hi dear readers, I’m home !! Below is the 2nd poem that I had published  in the Geelong Writers General Anthology, 2018.

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Beyond The Trapdoor

 

I’ve been there so often

I’ve lost my fear, gone, forgotten

The darkest abyss

Under a cobblestone crest

Opening into a gloomy manhole

Trapdoor to the soul

 

Below the floor

My elbows do score

Over dried out soil

Beneath sticky cobweb curtains

Fingernails claw my way

Toes pushing against crumbled clay

 

No space, dusty tears

No air, dirt I chew

Shouldering under bearers

Squeezing, I burst through

I’m here, there’s a job to do

I begin searching for you

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Down Along The River Bed

The Geelong Writers Anthology book launch is on tonight, and this is one of my poems that I was fortunate enough to have published in the Anthology. I suppose the words seem to be quite appropriate, considering my continual long stay here in hospital. I’m supposed to be going home in the afternoon, however, sadly my old body parts will not be strong enough to go to the book launch this evening.

I arose from the dead

Uncovering pieces of me, I dread

Old body parts I must shread

Blobs of fatty tissue to shed

Sinkers of lead inside my head

Drag me down along the river bed

A stainless steel ankle plate

More than an arthritic ache

Pins and needles spike my heel

Soon I’ll need pump-up wheels

My unrepaired tear ducts

Flowing cascades

Pour over etched eye facets

Like flooded Everglades

Black-metal lays upon my soul

Eclipsing my deepest goals

Darkened shrapnel shards

Deal me unforeseen tarot cards

There’s a hole in my heart

Where a silver coated bullet

Fired from an empty pulpit

Ripped my senses apart

If I throw out the truth

What remains of myself

I might as well be dead

Only words left inside my head

Ivor Steven (c) 2018

Out of Solitary

I’m out of isolation

Home tomorrow afternoon

I’m as weak as a kitten

That’s been chased and bitten

I’m as tired as Leonard after his last song

My recovery shall be slow and long

I’m sure to need lots more rest

And there’s more examinations and tests

Over the next six weeks

But I’ll keep writing and giving cheek

Ivor Steven (c) 2018

Crow

Relaxing here in solitary

Looking out towards my left

I see the old Geelong Cement silo’s

At the top end of Autumn street

Three kilometres away

As the crow flies

The crow, flies outside my window

Below he hovers, above Autumn street

Ironically the street where we lived

For our entire thirty-eight years together

I’m nostalgic about every year

Reminiscing, and yes, I’m full of tears

Tears of liquid joy

Joy of togetherness, for so many years

And our old crow was always there

Perched in our lemon tree

Every morning the crow would sing tō us

Sing his ancient tunes

His tunes of memories and rhymes

Ivor Steven (c) 2018

Pillow And Willow

“Hello dear pillow”

“You’re so kind and soft to my head”

I said to my fluffy white pillow

I recall, similar words being said

Years ago, when I was young

Talking to my backyard willow-tree

Hugging the grand old trunk

And saying to the tree

“Hello dear willow”

“You’re so kind, to let me climb you”

Ivor Steven (c) 2018

Mystic Man

I’m digging a tunnel

With my ball and chain

Underneath the great wall

Towards the east side of the moon

Away from these wasted days

Beyond the drain of pain

My eyes search for a light

Through my grotto’s ceiling crack

Resolutely my heart yells at me

“There’s no turning back”

Fingers are bloodied

Toes are blistered

My throat is parched

Lips are sweat covered with dirt

I’m desperate for the evening rain

And a cooling breeze

Fresh upon my old crusty skin

I’m to meet a mystic Arab

Cloaked in cloth of indigo blue

He’s been sent by Muhammad to save me

Burst me free, and find my lost kin