Annoying Mind Games (Again)

Hi dear readers , below is a poem from two years ago, one that I really didn’t want to post again, but sadly, here the story is, on repeat again…………

Here I am in bed now, with a sharp raging headache(again). I’m not well, my occipital neuralgia has flared up (again) . All I can do is rest, so I’ll be lying low for a few days (or more). I’m beginning my treatment on Tuesday, physiotherapy and acupuncture, which in the end gives me some manageable relief. The whole process can take up to 4 weeks,…. Yeah… I should be ok for Christmas……. Hope you all have a good weekend

 

Mind Games (Again)

 

There’s a sharp pain

Inside my brain

Harpooning my eye

More than Ouch, I cry

So hard to write

Blurry is my sight

All I do is peep

And I must rest and sleep

I’ve not lost the knack

And I shall be back……….

Hopefully soon

Before they play my tune

 

Occipital neuralgia is a distinct type of headache characterised by piercing, throbbing, or electric-shock-like chronic pain in the upper neck, back of the head, and behind the ears, usually on one side of the head. Typically, the pain of occipital neuralgia begins in the neck and then spreads upwards.

 

Ivor Steven (c)  Nov 2019

Dallas

 

The name Dallas

Hangs proudly under my verandah

The name of our old family house

There’s only us cousins, who are left

We’re unsure as to where Dallas first came from

We do know that Dallas

Was uncle John’s middle name

But where did the name originate

It’s a family mystery to us now

There’s no other mention, anywhere in our family history

And the name has not been used again

The name Dallas, shall now remain

Hanging under my verandah

As a silent memorial to uncle John

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

My Courtyard Fence

The Weekly Prompt, Photo prompt is : Fences..  Across the road from my home, there’s a large housing development, under construction with a high wire fence around the site. It’s in vast contrast to my private little yard here. I’m on my exercise bike, Yorkie, pedalling away and looking around at my courtyard fence. I’m wondering, how I got this far and how I arrived at this place, jumping all of life’s tall fences on my to journey  here. On my courtyard fence hangs so many memories, and it takes me back to when I wrote a poem, of when life was extraordinarily hard and I felt the end was near, it was just after  I had my first Stroke eighteen years ago, and I couldn’t jump “This Fence”<< Click to view the Weekly Prompt’s site

20190224_112353 (2)

This Fence

I am quickly nearing this fence.
An obstacle of a lifetime I see.
And from my side of this fence,
The hurdle is too high for me.
And on the other side of this fence,
There seems nowhere to land or flee.

I have arrived at this fence,
Above the pickets, just grey sky.
And on my side of this fence,
The grass is brown and dry.
On the other side of this fence,
The grass is green, but still I cry.
How am I to clear this fence,
There seems nowhere to go, or get by.

This fence, all built of stones,
Breaks my spirit, and all my bones.

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Hello Dad

Hello Dad, and happy birthday, you were the most honourable and kindest man of my life. I’ve got a lot live up to Dad, my dear friend.

**By one of my favourite writers, Colleen of, “The Chatter Blog”, a superb piece

Etched In Stone

“When your father’s name is etched in stone

It is never as indelible

As the etching in your heart”       —  Colleen Faherty Brown

 

**By one of my favourite musicians, Neil Young, and his song “Old Man”

“Old Man”
“Old man look at my life,
I’m a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I’m a lot like you were.

Old man look at my life,
Twenty four
and there’s so much more
Live alone in a paradise
That makes me think of two.

Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things
that don’t get lost.
Like a coin that won’t get tossed
Rolling home to you.

Old man take a look at my life
I’m a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that’s true.

Lullabies, look in your eyes,
Run around the same old town.
Doesn’t mean that much to me
To mean that much to you.

I’ve been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I’m all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.

Old man take a look at my life
I’m a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that’s true.

Old man look at my life,
I’m a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I’m a lot like you were.”        — Neil Young

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

My First Post Is Now My “500th Post”

Liquid Joy (Revised)

 

Tears of liquid joy

Like rivers of fear

The memories so clear

And a toast to cheer

Tears of liquid joy

Like waves from the heart

Two great oceans apart

And wishing for another restart

Tears of liquid joy

Like dredged canals of the soul

Leaking from a broken porthole

And wishing for a free parole

Tears of liquid joy

A flowing molten lava

Passing a secret convoy

And singing like the last choirboy

Crying liquid joy

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

My Collection

I’m laying here in my hospital bed, waiting for my next scan/test, I’ve been fasting for a while now. So I’m playing a YouTube collection here on my phone, through my headphones, and I thought I might as well share these personal selections with you, I hope you enjoy “My Collection” this morning, or whatever time it maybe wherever you are ❤️😆

Ivor Steven (c) 2018

Thank You, From Tullawalla

Hello dear readers and followers, as part of my Eighteenth Month, blogging celebrations, I’d like to sincerely thank you all who participated in my Tullawalla program to raise money for MS Society of Geelong, all donations have been gratifully received, and of course I’m open for more donations anytime. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

Sorry I’ve not been around to all my fellow bloggers on WP, with my usual diligence and zest. As most of you might know, I’ve had a 6 week stay in hospital, resting and recovering. However I’ve been keeping myself busy, in between nanna-naps, preparing my new booklet of poems. I’ve just finished the manuscript (Phew and yeah !!), and this one is called, “Tullawalla: “Waiting Time”, and of course along with the other 5 booklets, all money’s that I collect from the sale of these booklets goes to the Geelong MS Charity Shop. The list of my 6 booklets is below. These booklets are all printed here in my little writing studio/haven, put together by hand, and they’re a foolscap size folder of 21 pages and 40 poems in each booklet

Tullawalla, Poems, By Ivor Steven Tullawalla, A Sign Of The Times Tullawalla, The Waves Say Goodbye Tullawalla, Who’s Left To Row The Boat Tullawalla, Home Is The Air I Breathe

And, Tullawalla, Waiting Time

And I’m happy to say that I’ve now learnt how to print on both sides of the pages, thus halving my mailing costs for anyone interested in purchasing, for the price of postage and plus a donation for the MS shop. I have a PayPal account, to make payments easier.

Beyond Imagination

Next year, after Easter

I’m flying north

Across a vast ocean

Towards a place called America

From the west to the east coast

Landing at the big apple

Taking a small bite, five days

Then a train from Grand Central Station

For a debut meeting with my cousins in Philadelphia

My Dad’s far away relatives

I shall rejoice in the reunion our family’s spirits

Oh yes, the dream of my lifetime

A fortuity beyond the realms of my imagination

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Shichahai Area

Whilst in Beijing we visited the Hutong and Shichahai historic scenic area. Hutong has a double meaning. Originally, a hutong is a type of narrow-alley. In Beijing, hutong alleys are formed by lines of Siheyuan, old Beijing residences, called courtyard or quad houses in English. Thus, hutong also refers to the neighbourhood formed by lines of Siheyuan houses. So Hutong was the place we experienced the old authentic Beijing culture, and the Shichahai Scenic Area is where the old Chinese culture was most featured. It is located in the west of old Beijing and used to be part of the old Grand Canal of the Yuan Dynasty 600 years ago. Willows line the river bank, like a misty green curtain. The lake shore line is packed with people chatting, drinking, shopping and generally relaxing. From here we had a rickshaw ride through the narrow alleys of the old area. We dismounted our rickshaws and walked down even narrower alleys to eventually enter a single doorway that lead into a small private courtyard. This was a typical family home of the area, where the home family entertained us, with the lady of the house playing a 400 year-old Guzheng Chinese Zither. After which we all sat inside to enjoy an excellent traditional home-style Chinese meal(and a few Chinese beers). For me, this being allowed to share an evening in the home of a Chinese family, was one of the highlights of the tour. The house itself was over 500 years old, and I felt very privileged and honoured to be one of the family’s guests.

Above: The scenic Shichahai area of old west Beijing

Above: Part of our rickshaw ride, from the lake past gardens and former ministers residences.

Above: Ivor and Barb, (my travel companion), in a rickshaw, and then in the private courtyard of the Chinese family home, where we were entertained and had a home-cooked Chinese meal.

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Let Us Climb

Climb Aboard, (Introduction by, Jane Basil)
all who wish an end to war are welcome;
we beg you to share our message of peace,
that it may reach across the wildest desert,
weave through cities, travel with the waves of the seas
that stroke our shores and soak into our sands.
Let it grow to encompass our nurturing planet;
let every peacemaker of every nation join hands,
and be embraced with love in return.
Let peace become a pandemic
the like of which we have never known.

This was written for our peace campaign which was dreamed up by my amazing friend Paul Sunstone. Yep – remember the name; that man has greatness in him. We want the campaign to go viral. Share his post (see link below) and/or write a post of your own.

Click <<<<<<<HERE>>>>>> to find out more

and find even <<<<<<<MORE>>>>>>>   <——— there

The above introduction is copied directly from Jane Basil’s blog site and her post  “Climb Aboard”  

https://janebasilblog.wordpress.com/2018/08/16/climb-aboard/

Below an older poem of mine from over 10 years ago, and I’m afraid nothing has changed, and Click onto “Return The Bullets” title to view Paul Sunstone’s latest post.

Return The Bullets

The mind awakens to secret cannons shattering my bed.

All the violence of the worlds pounding inside my head.

The killing and the maiming of all the innocents who fled.

What happens when all the little lambs are slaughtered.

When the people’s of all religions and creed are dead.

And we can’t return the murdering bullets back into the barrel.

I’m afraid.

The backyard stairway is far too steep to climb.

The hand rails are way out of reach to find.

And the public change-room windows are covered with bars.

Now encircling the city hall, the security backdoor is ajar.

Entering the marble aisle, the White-room appears vacant.

And guileful leaders have run, leaving a chasm of gloomy dark.

I’m wondering.

Where to go, the healing house is full of ugly holes.

The citizens cowering in shadows behind splintered lighting poles.

And the crumbling streets are awash with rivers of leftover blood.

Now the warring bosses have to fight amongst themselves.

Throwing poison pens and paper darts at each other.

Never bruised nor battered, using ivory towers as cover.

I’m terrified.

The dusty mushroom cloud, slowly settles on the barren ground.

With sands of distant lands, shifting into every nook and cranny.

We need the good Doctor, to help us cure these alien scourges.

And foreigners arriving upon waves of our neighbouring seas.

The deathly TV images, wrongly implanted for all to see.

As the press only gossip and drivel with selfish glee.

I’m stupefied.

The guns of freedom lands, haven’t even stopped the cull.

Death to friends or foe, no matter, to the rulers from above.

Their only rules, the poor and weak to be kept totally down trodden.

One day the surviving meek shall inherit their radioactive dirt.

And the rich will feast upon their own contaminated bread.

And we’ll never return the murdering bullets back into the barrel.

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018