My imperfections
Are perfectly camouflaged
Underneath the trees
Where moon shadows protect me
From the world’s imperfectness
Tullawalla is Available From
Jaymah Press:https://www.jaymahpress.com.au/
Ivor Steven: email, ivorrs20@gmail.com
Amazon: search via, ‘Tullawalla by Ivor Steven’
AND
Perceptions is Now Available via:
Jaymah Press: https://www.jaymahpress.com.au/
OR: email me directly for a signed copy – ivorrs20@gmail.com
Ivor Steven (c). December 2022
A cold morning dew
The Sun filters through torn blinds
My alarm’s on snooze
Ivor Steven April 2022
Running Out Of Time (a Tanka)
Time is eternal
We live and die over time
Unfinished business
Is left hanging on the line
No more time, our only crime
Ivor Steven (c) April 2022
Walking in the rain
Wearing water-logged boots
I am dodging millipedes
And hopping over puddles
With the footpath crickets
I see a universe above the sky
As the liquid clouds
Drop their weight
Upon my empty hands
Filling them with verses
Of memories and rhymes
Ivor Steven (c) April 2022
Originally posted on my site, 27th November 2017.
Yeah .. my concete void has finally been filled ..
Concrete Void
I’m becoming impatient,
Here waiting,
Waiting for a concrete lid.
Too many stop signs,
And lifetime bans.
I’m a good man,
So I’ve been told.
But there’s a chasm,
And the concrete’s,
Yet to fill the void.
……..To my readers that knew about my new verandah, “now nine months old”, and sadly it has been without the patio/floor area being concreted for all that time.. Yippee, today the mission has been accomplished. Thanks to my newly appointed concreter “Damian Maloney”, Yep, he’s on my recommended list. And Lizzy The Lizard Of Wizardry, was curiously looking on…..
Ivor Steven (c) April 2022
A few days ago(29th Nov 2017), I had started writing a poem about Penny Farthing Bicycles, prompted by an article in the Geelong Advertiser newspaper, the arrival in Geelong of eight members of the Melbourne Bicycle Club in March 1880, as per featured picture above, courtesy of the Geelong Heritage Centre Collection. Then I was chatting with my friend Jane of Janebasilblog, she had just sent me the song and lyrics of the Mary Hopkin hit, “Those Were The Days”, from 1968, and I mentioned The Kinks were one of my fav’s from that era, and of course their song “Lola”. After our chat, I starting thinking [which is dangerous for me] about writing a crazy, combined, mixed up poem… The piece below is the result of those thoughts, and to my older readers, you’ll notice all the phrases written in Italic, are song titles taken from The Kinks album “The Kinks Collection”. So apologies to Ray Davies for using his song titles in such a manner.
“Where Have All The Good Times Gone”
I remember the olden times
Of pennies and farthings
Pounds and pence
When money made no sense
Mary Hopkins sang
“Those Were The Days”
And the Kinks song “Lola”
Was the best number one ever
Many a lazy Sunny Afternoon
Spent down near Waterloo Sunset
Where we would all dance
All Of The Day And All Of The Night
My Friends would all dress-up
Like Dedicated Followers Of Fashion
Unlike that lonely Plastic Man
Who faked the Death Of A Clown
Way back then, You Really Got Me
You fired me up, here in Victoria
Thousands of Days forgotten in the burn-out
Charred in a cloud of Big Black Smoke
But now, I’m Tired Of Waiting For You
Wondering, Where Have All The Good Times Gone
Ivor Steven (c)
Originally Posted, 29th November 2017. 4.00pm
My Pacific cruise was coming to an end in April 2018 and this was the last poem that I wrote during my cruise, as I recalled photographing the “Eleven Sunrises” of the cruise.
Eleven Shades of Ocean Sunrises
the ocean’s sunrise
my daily prize
evoked my gaze
like a glitzy floor-dance
Mother natures
star performer
her razzle and dazzle
upon morning sea drizzle
reflections of colour
her horizon of vigour
purity defined
a royal skyline
endless over time
eleven days she was mine
Originally posted by Ivor Steven (c) April 2018
Hello dear readers and followers, as you may know, I now write for “Coffee House Writers” magazine on a fortnightly basis, and my poem “A Seventy-Year-Old Mind”, is in this weeks edition of Coffee House Writers Magazine. … please click on the link below and visit my poem, at Coffee House Writers >> https://coffeehousewriters.com/a-seventy-year-old-mind/
A Seventy-Year-Old Mind
I cry like a newborn baby
I have the naive curiosity of a child
Over the years I have learnt to listen
And the wisdom gained
Lives on
Inside my seventy-year-old mind
I would like to think
I am honest and kind like my dad
And his calm gentle guidance
Lives on
Inside my seventy-year-old mind
I Know I have inherited the strengths
Of resilience and persistence
From my orderly and energetic mum
And her smiling persuasive ways
Live on
Inside my seventy-year-old mind
Compassion was gifted to me
By my gracious and courageous wife
She gave her halo of love to everyone
Who were fortunate enough to meet her
And she lives on
Inside my seventy-year-old mind
I do not know you, Mister Putin
But I heard today
You will be seventy soon
But our world will live on and on
Have you the courage to change your ways?
Inside your seventy-year-old mind
Ivor Steven (c) April 2022
Today’s poem is from August 2018, and the words reflect how I’m feeling this week
Tiredness Leaves Me Wordless
I’m wordless at the moment
My thoughts are in postponement
I hear Leonard’s songs
All night long
Lyrics full of love
Day lilies and doves
Today I hold her empty glove
My one truelove
Ivor Steven (c) August 2018
Hello dear readers, here is another repost of an older poem, this one is from December 2017
Big Black Oil Cap
Not the town’s greatest car lover
An automobile, an object like any other
Petrol guzzlers
Noisy muzzlers
Inanimate metal and plastic, costing plenty of dough
Pity, they do need some care though
Spoilt and fed like a hungry teenager
Cooling water in the radiator
Screw the shiny brass cap back on
Fresh air in the tyres
Screw the little rubber caps back on
Dear-as-poison petrol in the tank
Screw the safety fuel cap back on
Lubricating oil in the engine-head
This is where absent-mindedness overtook instead
Forgot to screw the Big Black Oil Cap back on
Drove to the Big City the next day
Not realizing I’d gone badly awry
Travelled home in a steamy-hot car
Back onto the driveway tar
Oil dripping over the front bumper-bar
Opened the bonnet. Aaaahhh!
The engine is like a whale’s spout
Spurting boiling, slimy oil all about
And there’s that Big Black Oil Cap
Alone on the garage bench
Like a magician’s gleaming black hat
Ivor Steven (c) March 2022
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 