As Life Went By

You’re like an infant of mine, a distant cloud in the sky,

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like a teen of mine, who somehow learnt to fly.

Always gliding high, and passing her by.

 

You’re like a child of mine, forever asking me why, why, why.

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like an ex-girl of mine, her first words were a lie.

Always chasing the answer, by using her thighs.

 

You’re like a friend of mine, who left me high and dry.

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like a Lady of mine, her only instinct was to try.

Always seeking final peace, as life went by.

 

Ivor Steven.

Artwork: Painted by self, using acrylics, 1967.

Loneliness

Loneliness, is watering your garden vegetables

And having no-one by your side to watch them grow

Loneliness, is playing your favourite sad song

And having no-one listening to you singing out of tune

Loneliness, is viewing your family photo album

And having no-one to share your private memories with

Loneliness, is being home sick, oh so very sick

And having no-one to tend to your aches and selfish moans

Loneliness, is awakening to the crisp morning dew

And having no-one to feel the warmth of your heart at sunrise

Loneliness, is walking a sandy beach until the tide comes in

And having no-one to hold when the ocean finally covers you

Loneliness, is lying upon your empty bed

And having no-one, having no-one here at all

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2017

Featured Photo: Courtesy of Neil Robinson, Geelong, 2017.

 

An Opera Calls

I’m travelling to the City by train.

Going to see a BK Opera performance again.

My niece, a leading singer in the show.

And these carriages are gently swaying to-and-fro.

I’m arriving an hour early.

Doing so, quite deliberately.

As the venue’s a classic olden Hotel.

A bar to relax in, and have a spell.

Drink a boutique ale or two.

And some friendly chatter too.

A young lady, Julia, I meet.

She’s polite and sweet.

We shake hands and talk warmly.

Happily saying to me, she loves poetry.

And I offer her an Opera ticket free.

But alas, she’s about to take her leave.

 

Upstairs I go, soon the show’s to begin.

I’m eager to hear the young Soprano’s sing.

The Opera’s an unusual Production.

A lover’s tragic telephone conversation.

The four separate settings are of a Lady’s Boudoir.

Our singers attire, glossy gowns and silky nightwear.

There’s soft lighting, satin cushions and screens.

And the Opera is divided into four scenes.

In four Hotel rooms, with a Soprano Artiste’.

Our audience standing during each piece.

I’m transfixed, as the soloist sings.

And we applaud from the small room’s wings.

A most intriguing and wondrous show I’ve seen.

An Opera called, La Voix Humaine.

 

Ivor Steven.

Many thanks to Colleen of “chatter master”, for her helpful advice and encouragement. I found this piece difficult to explain and write the words. And attached here, the link to the details of BK Opera’s production of La Voix Humaine.  https://www.bkopera.com.au/la-voix-humaine-2017

 

Is There A Light

The cold morning frost, accompanies a winter’s dawn.

I’m snuggling warm in bed, wondering about the day ahead.

It’s Sunday, my home’s empty, a great void instead.

The cool quiet and the loneliness, are unbearable.

 

The passageway to my light is dark, and hard to feel.

If only I knew, the light at the end of the tunnel was real.

In this grotto of fading night, lying low, out of sight.

Where my dreams are false, waiting for another right.

 

Ivor Steven.

A Distant Ship

Am I afraid, or am I being slowly discouraged.

Dismayed by the emptiness of my beating heart.

Am I consumed, or am I being bodily starved.

Eaten by the cells of my inner sentiments.

Am I infatuated, or have I been possessed.

Devoured by the recess of my lonely soul.

Am I swimming after the impossible loveboat.

Drowning in the wake of a passing icebreaker.

 

Ivor Steven

Music Video: Provided to YouTube by Universal Music Group North America.

 

Left Over Dew

I know I’m far from perfect.

I make awful mistakes.

I know I’m overly loud.

I dominate and crowd.

 

I do have a big heart.

A soul so soft.

I do love to hold and to kiss.

To cuddle and caress.

 

I feel your reluctance.

Your barrier fence.

I feel like a fog over you.

Like the morning dew.

 

Will you ever need another.

Or love another.

Will you ever let me remain.

Or look for me again.

 

Ivor Steven.

My Dragon, Can He Fly.

My wounded Dragon, stands so proud.

Neck arching up, looking to the clouds.

Seeing graceful birds flying apart.

He feels a huge scar close to his heart.

My Dragon bows, and shakes his beastly head

But his enormous tail feels like lead.

Flapping one wing, then the other.

Dejected he looks, not even a hover.

Nostrils snorting, no sign of fire.

To fly again, his deepest desire.

From within I hear, gut-rumblings soar.

My Dragon angrily spews  an almighty roar.

And his gigantic jaws open wide.

A bloodied tongue swishes his fangs side to side.

He swallows and belches another gruesome howl.

A flame bursts forth from his boughs.

My Dragon frantically begins to respire.

Again and again his exhales are afire.

And gyrating his heavy green tail.

He spreads his wings like full sails.

Frightened at first, fluttering end to end.

My jumbo sized reptile gradually ascends.

Twenty, then fifty, a hundred leagues above.

Suddenly flying, like a flock of beautiful doves.

Magically rolling and frolicking he flies.

Happily he shrieks and swoosh, rapidly down he dives.

Majestically gliding he arrives.

My Dragon, again King of the skies.

lizard-213680_1280

 

Ivor Steven.

My Dragon, The Revival

My harpooned Dragon’s, fallen and out of breath.

Gazing around, pleading, near death.

The slayers spear, protrudes from his scaly vest.

And I quietly hear his soulful pounding chest.

Quickly, I plunge my sword, cutting shard.

Removing the spears horrid barb.

My Dragon exhales a fearsome howl.

Eyes bulging, tears flowing down his jowl.

In agony, thrashing his spiky green tail.

Then slowly abating, like a windless sail.

Is he dying, lying there loudly groaning.

Nostrils snorting, neither afire nor smoking.

Suddenly, his left wing begins flapping.

And my Dragon’s head rises, stretching, arching.

Green horns twitching, like a mythical serpentine.

Yellow eyes glowing, like magical sunshine.

My Dragon’s revived.

And ready to skydive.

 

Ivor Steven.

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.