Oh, I’m thinking about jumping into the waterfall from above.

And diving into her churning pool of heartache, called love.

Surging through the cascading rapids, of loves ups and downs.

And settling upon her icy lake, where lovers often drown.

Flowing down the valley river, to where all waterways meet.

And trickling across her plains of pain, under the dampened sheet.

Spreading amongst the delta swamp, both bitter and sweet.

And flooding onto her warm salt flats, discovering the open heat.

Then spilling the water-lilies of love, over the seas so deep.

And joining her ocean of lost love, swimming so replete.


Hi dear readers and followers. I’ve now been blogging here for a YEAR. Time flies, before my eyes. To celebrate the occasion, I’m reposting “Shrines”, the poem I posted here a year ago. Thank you to dear Colleen (Chatter Blog  https://bikecolleenbrown.wordpress.com/ ) and Ann (Years Of Living Non-Judgementally  https://annkoplow.wordpress.com/ ) , the two lovely friends who commented then on my poem, their unfailing encouragement and support, way back then and over the year, are one of the main the reasons I’m still writing here today.

Home is where the welcome mat is my word
Where my music can always be heard
Home is where my garden flowers blossom
Where the bower birds sing their anthem
Home is where you can call me anytime
Where my long highway ends at the stop sign
Home is where I want to hold your hand
Where I can draw a line in the sand
Home is where I need to lay in my bed
Where I can rest my weary head
Home is where my verandah shelters me and the dog
Where the walls keep out my oncoming fog
Home is where the moonshine shuffles into sunshine
Where my new days morph into shrines



Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Liquid Joy 


Tears of liquid joy.
Like rivers of fear.
The memories so clear.
And drinking plenty of 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 the broken porthole.
And wishing for a free parole.
Tears of liquid joy.
Like a flowing molten alloy.
Passing through a secret convoy.
And singing like the last choirboy.
Crying liquid joy.

Ivor Steven (c) 2017