Tired Little Sparrow

How do you feel, my tired little sparrow

About removing more of your back marrow

They’re waving a pointy knife

What do they know, about your resurrected life

 

Hovering high above, Devastation Hill

Perched upon Noah’s lonely window sill

Your tiny wing looks broken, It’ll have to be reset

You’ll have to wait, to see who’s going to be your vet

 

How will you become stronger

Enabling you to, land and fly longer

The wall’s rose thorns, now appear deeper and sharper

Fragile and torn apart, your roaming, will now be harder

 

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

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

Odds And Ends, The Ancient Tree

Time

Oh, time and time again

we wish for time to slow down

preserve our time’s in the sun and rain

and under stars, where lover’s caresses are crowned

Tree

The ancient tree of life, scatter your peace

Please sow and share every growing piece

Why

“Don’t Ask Me Why”

‘Cause I don’t know why,

there’s red and blue sky

How,

Do bats fly

Pigs eat in a sty

And politicians lie

Dark

We all have a dark side

Like the moon’s other-side

There to be explored

Or left behind on the blackboard

Vultures

Alive or half dead, we’re the prey of vultures

Poised like loaded guns in a holster

Waiting to strike the poor and innocent

And even the unwilling ignorant

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Day Lily And Love

Hello readers, I’m posting a poem I wrote last year, about my lovely Day Lily, which is actually a former plant of my father’s, so really I’ve lovingly inherited the flower, and I’m always pleased to see it bloom. I’m not sure why, but it’s flowering 4 weeks earlier than last year.

Upon my pillow I sleep

Good morning, I do peek

From the cushion of my dreams

A pads radiating beams

Blushing red hues, oh so bright

You bloom during the night

After cuddling the dew

You open up your scenic view.

Flowering, standing proud and steep

Perfection at my feet

A glorious Lily, like wings of a dove

And by Day you air your love

Ivor Steven (c) 2018.

Yorkie, Against The Undertow

I’m pedalling my silver bike, called Yorkie

Pedalling slow and steady, out near my bar-bie

I’m not actually moving

But I am dreaming

Thinking of places I could be

Visualising what I might see

If I can keep pushing

I’ll end up with a Qantas cushion

I know the year is new and early

But I’m feeling unfit and unworldly

There’s a long way, for my body to go

There’s no turning back, despite the undertow

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

A Bike To New York

Come rain hail or shine

I’ll be ready for that Qantas Airline

Now I’ll always have time

To appear like I’m in my prime

I’ve a second-hand new toy

That’ll bring me pain and joy

Donated by a kind friend

Helping me get back on the mend

I’m fortunate and high as a purple kite

Under my verandah, I’ve a new silver bike

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019