Time’s Awry

Last night I awoke in a pool of blood

Surviving Noah’s great flood

There was no bleeding horse head

It wasn’t a dream, I wasn’t dead

The nightlight died instead

A dark shadow engulfed my bed

Sheets of oozy dripping threads

A deep flowing red

From where, I do dread

Petrified, motionless I’m spread

 

The hole in my heart is dry

Fearful tears of crystal white I cry

My bloodshot eyes are weeping, time’s awry

Puddles of gore descend from the Boar’s sty

Visions of devils and angels pass my eyes

I’m not ready to say my goodbyes

Am I suddenly being nailed to the cross to die

Or is it, that cupids’ arrow in my thigh

 

Featured Image: The “You Yang” hills/mountains, just north of Geelong, for my dear friend Colleen of “Chatter Blog”

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

The Other Side Of Red White And Blue

Happy “Independence Day” to my American friends, I suppose this is an appropriate day/time to repost this previous poem of mine, and beware as your party’s are moving into full swing

 

It was the fourth of July

The party seems to be finished

Wondering how long I dozed off for

Most of my friends have gone

A few bodies left, laying on the floor

Best I have a piss before I go

Now where’s that bathroom

Whoops, there’s a girl in here

Dressed all in blue, and she’s on the floor

Slouched in the corner, not moving

Her skins “a whiter shade of pale” *

Red lip-stick all askew

Then I see myself in the mirror

Agape, my white shirt’s moist and filthy

Splattered, deep dark red

Oh no ! It’s human blood

I turn the crumpled girl over

Her pretty blue dress, covered in blood too

What’s happened, I can’t remember

Only blurry images of red white and blue

My mind goes numb

And my legs start running

Out of here in a hurry

“Thump”, I trip over

I thought that bloke was asleep

I didn’t notice at first

His red shirt’s also oozing out blood

Holy hell, he’s dead too

I’m stumbling through the front door

Grappling, panicking, now where

Where do I flee to.

Think ! Yes, a nearby Church

Has an early dawn service

A sanctuary for my burning fears

And bumbling into the Church I go

Settling upon the nearest pew

I’m white as a ghost and turn to see who’s beside me

An eerily stunning red-haired girl

Wearing a dress of red white and blue

Memory flashes back, it’s Her, from the party

She’s staring at me now, with livid red and white eyes

I see fangs protruding over her blue lips

Dribbling fresh blood, hissing at me

She gurgles, “Did I miss one”

The Filia Sanguine suddenly grabs my arm

And her dark-blue fingernails dig deep

I’m seized, I’m gone, I know

There’s no safe haven here

“Where do you go to my lovely”**

Screaming tears of red white and blue

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

* A Whiter Shade Of Pale, Procol Hurum song Title 1967.

**Where Do You Go To My Lovely, Peter Sarstedt song Title 1969

We Are Not Worthy, Nor Grand

The Sandbox Writing Challenge 2018 — Exercise 23

 

maya writing.1

`
What message just for you
is hidden in this ancient writing?

We Are Not Worthy Nor Grand

 

The Time-travelers have been and gone

Transcending the stars and beyond

Leaving us the message carved in stone

Obvious warnings, pointing the bone

“You are not worthy, nor grand

to care for Mother Earth’s beautiful land”

Decrying our humankinds faults

Locking our world’s children in vaults

Poisoning our plants, rivers, and seas

Contaminating the air we breathe

Burning our forests

Vehicle fumes

Nuclear bombs

Rulers greed

Before we even feed

Our fellow-man

Slaughter upon slaughter

Like we’re lambs

Guns and bullets

Millions for every bloody stand

Like seeds in our hands

Not giving life, only death and sand

We are not worthy, nor grand

It’s time, to make a stand

Who’s going to lead our band

 

“It’s Time”,  https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2017/07/25/its-time/

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

Rabbit Stew And Broken Plates

Last week I attended my Fortnightly writers group, called the “Belmont Page”, and I recited a recent poem of mine, “Broken Plates And Rabbit Stew”. The poem was openly discussed by the group, and they basically thought I’d written a good piece. Then there were a few suggestions about how I might improve my poem. Here is my rewritten poem, with the older edition attached below. I would appreciate some feedback in relation to my alterations, so I can take them back to the writers group.

Rabbit Stew And Broken Plates

Have you ever had that weird dream

Where you can’t see beyond the screen

Greyness is black and red is green

Straight lines are wavering beams

Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams

Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen

Blueness in blood and plasma in streams

Chunky bittersweet rhubarb pie

Injected directly into your open veins

Hallucinating a vortex of fun and games

Spiralling under cool moonlight

A bleak bedroom coldness reigns

Over mountains made of rabbit stew

Slowly eaten with a wooden spike

Digested, your tummy gurgles and ejects buckets of spew

While a hairless dog chases the postie’s bike

Dawn, a kettle whistle screams

Above the ice-covered broken plates

Shattered upon creek-bed rocks

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After reading the excellent comments I’ve received from my faithful readers, below is another rewrite of my interesting Nightmare poem.

Rabbit Stew And Broken Plates

Have you ever had that weird dream

Where you can’t see beyond the silver-screen

Greyness is black and red is green

Straight lines are slivery beams

Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams

Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen

Blueness in blood and plasma in streams

Chunky bittersweet rhubarb pie

Injected directly into your open veins

Hallucinating a vortex of fun and games

Spiralling outside in moonshine

A bleak bedroom coldness reigns

Over mountains made of rabbit stew

Slowly eaten with a wooden teaspoon

Digested, your tummy gurgles and ejects buckets of spew

While a hairless dog chases the postie’s bike

Dawn, a kettle whistle screams

Above the ice-covered broken plates

Shattered upon creek-bed rocks

Nightmares begun in April, ending dismayed

 

Ivor Steven (c) 2018

Featured Image: Featured image courtesy of Slasher Monster Magazine,  https://slashermonster.com/

 

Burning The Fears

I’m frightened, and I’m too scared to wait. And knowingly, I’m arriving late. The ghouls are spying from the hill. And lower fools are poisoning her will. Underneath her, a wicker complete. Above, she’s suspended from a stake. The bonfire’s started, against the rules. And the crowd’s rejoicing, as the fire drools. […]

via SMM 2017 Halloween Writing Contest: Burning Fears — SlasherMonster

Burning The Fears

I’m frightened, and I’m too scared to wait.

And knowingly, I’m arriving late.

The ghouls are spying from the hill.

And lower fools are poisoning her will.

Underneath her, a wicker complete.

Above, she’s suspended from a stake.

The bonfires started, against the rules.

And the crowds rejoicing, as the fire drools.

Waiting agog, for her garments to ignite.

The flames are sparking for her, on this night.

And the mob’s listening for her ungodly screams.

But there’s not a whimper, within she beams.

And secretly, I see her black cats drowning tears,

Are extinguishing all her burning fears.

 

Ivor Steven.

Featured Image: Artwork, by Kerri Costello, Graphic Design Artist, my amazing niece/second cousin, who lives in Philadelphia, she’s so very talented, and a very special person in my life, thank you Kerri.