A White Wall, Whiter Than White

 

I’m lying here in my white-walled bedroom

My body’s been feeling white-hot

The white ceiling fan is cooling me down

Laying under only white sheets

Covering my white skin

This is not the White House

I don’t lie that much

I’ve not white false hair

So my white halo stays on

Without looking like a silly clown

 

Outside, my great side wall is white

The back courtyard is safe and secure

No non-whites can’t get in or out

Unless they desperately needed to

The great backyard wall

May be easily scaled

With a sturdy white ladder

I’m trumped, here in Australia

Walls don’t even keep out the flies

 

I’ve been reading my history books

The white walls built in the past

They have never lasted

Over they climbed

Or under they crawled

The walls were eaten by dust mites

Resilient as a feather duster

And pulled down by liberators, in disdain and shame

 

Ivor Steve (c)  2019

Climbing A Rabbit Proof Fence

Today has been one of those days

I’ve been out walking my relay

Listening to the sound of my shuffling feet

Scraping on cobblestones, of the hot city street

A tiredness overcame my body

Searching for the famous Doctor Peabody

 

I think I collapsed under a wall

The Great Wall Of China

The Berlin Wall

Israel’s Palestinian barricade

The Iron Curtain

Trump’s Mexican wave

Australia’s Rabbit Proof Fence

And my next door neighbour’s big brick wall

 

I was bulldozed by them all

In a barrel, jumping off Niagara Falls

I’m an arctic sperm whale, beached at Bondi

And the angler at a dry Buckley’s Falls pond

I’m a spawning salmon with no rapids to swim

Today’s battle I lost, on a whim

 

I’ve been nailed to yesterday’s, burnt out cross

I need a day of rest, to shake off the moss

There’s always a new tomorrow waiting

Yorkie will be there, patient and obeying

Walking shoes ready, at the end of my bed

A good night’s sleep, nothing more need be said

 

 

I thoroughly recommend, that you watch this haunting and moving movie, ” Rabbit Proof Fence”

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

What’s The Song Called

I’m still going with my  theme of “Life As A Carer”, with old poems I’ve not posted, on WordPress, or anywhere else  before .  I hope as readers you don’t mind my indulgence with  these pieces.

 

What’s The Song Called

 

What’s it called, tending to one for so long

Eternally battling on, right or wrong

The advocate, always trying to be so strong

Giving his very being, through every song

 

What’s it called, yearning for one to belong

Living beside a finality, from here to beyond

The partner, always trying to sing along

Wrenching at his inner soul, with every sad song

 

What’s it called, suffering for one so long

Patience wearing away, life seems an eon

The soloist, always crying, not so strong

Fearing his lost heart, until the last song

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Intrusion

I didn’t realise I had written so many of these sort of “life as a carer” poems, these were written years ago, when I was struggling with the process of coping…… Please do not over react, many years have gone by, I’m Ok these days. Hopefully my words may help other carers that maybe in a similar situation, and realise that they are not alone out there, with their thought and doubts

 

Intrusion

 

The process of being alive

Such an intrusion on going awry

The engagement of caring in life

Such an intrusion on living to get bye

 

The labour of toiling for pay

Such an intrusion on flying away

The dishonour of begging for more

Such an intrusion on failing to score

 

The exhaustion of continuing to care

Such an intrusion on needing to dare

The silence of the evening moon

Such an intrusion on hearing too soon

 

The explosion of morning sunlight

Such an intrusion on pleading for quiet

The disharmony of singing this song

Such an intrusion in sighing, so long

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

 

Her Nightingales

Good morning readers( it’s morning somewhere), this is a piece I’ve not posted before, I wrote it 15 years ago, I’m leaving the poem in the original tense of when the words were written. the poem’s about Carole’s incredible nurses and carers who attended our house every day. I hope you enjoy the  rawness of this early poem of mine.

 

Her Nightingales

 

The nightingales enter, our house feels raided

Unnerving every-time, our personal privacy invaded

Nightingales come and go, to and fro

A shuffling flock, some we don’t know

 

Drifting throughout our house, her nursing home

Tending to her endless needs, she’s never to be alone

Nightingales come and go, to and fro

They’ve showered her and they’ve been, today and tomorrow

 

Occupying our precious space, angels fluttering around

From the front door, to the back door, from silence to sound

Nightingales come and go, to an fro

They’ve fed her and they’ve seen, today and tomorrow

 

Permeating the air with chatter, brushing her red plume

Bedding her down, and leaving her lonely room

Nightingales come and go, to and fro

Comforting her and they’re between, today and tomorrow

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Beyond Sunset

The day here is very hot again, hot enough to fry an egg on my front window sill, 107’F, at midday !! I found this poem that I posted last year on February 25th, it must’ve been hot back then too. I hope you enjoy the re-run.

 

Gradually the dying moonlight awakened my dawn

And the baptizing sunrise watered my eyes

Drowning the working hours of my shallow day

Dampening fiery thoughts of playing in the hay

 

Dusk hazily shrouds my cemetery lawn

And the rituals of sunset beckon my evening plight

Flailing and falling upon sleepless night

Finally laying prone under my weighted crown

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018