Under The Snow

A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to hospital for the last time, on the day of her last birthday. I’ve slightly edited the wording overnight, and now a general birthday poem for all to enjoy, and posting here, on this “my day”.

Under The Snow.

 

We emanate to a birthday.

We deflate to a final day.

Birthdays, they all come, they all go.

Birthdays, in the sunshine, under the snow.

Birthdays, slow to mature, quickly an aeon.

Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone.

Birthdays, hanging on by a breath.

Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death.

What’s it all mean to be alive and cry.

What’s it all mean to live and to die.

 

Ivor Steven.

In My Room

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In My Room, and my nuts.

Top left, impressive long-stitch craft, by Carole.

Framed by my kind and gentle Dad.

Bottom right, CD’s to be ripped into my music library.

 

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My Bookcase, and my hats.

Made for my 18th birthday.

By my dear Grand-pa, the carpenter.

Recipe books, photo albums.

Fiction and non-fiction.

My Vaults, my nicknacks !

 

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My Girl, snuggled in her bed.

Lily, a special gift to Carole.

From one of her Angelic Carers.

My shoes, sorry girls, just 3 pair.

 

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My Desk, my computer set-up.

A scanner, and 2 printers.

Middle right, my record turntable.

Top left, my poetry folders.

 

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My bedhead, my go at cabinet making.

My speakers, a cherished gift from my brother.

My poetry reading, my needful dictionary.

My bedside lamp, my lifetime night-light.

My note-pad, my night-time essential.

My pillows, my dream-time catchers.

 

Ivor’s little tour, inside my little bedroom, where my dream-time, memories, visions, and thoughts, turn into my words. This presentation, inspired by,  derrickjknight, and his gorgeous photographic tours.

Let Her Be

It wasn’t that much of a task,

To be with me.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be that past lover.

What’s it like, to be a distant mother.

What’s it like, to have no real cover.

What’s it like, to have a body of another.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be about and free.

What’s it like, to be a fish in the sea.

What’s it like, to be a queen bee.

What’s it like, to smile with glee.

Please set her free,

And give her back to me.

Let her be,

And set her free.

 

Ivor Steven.

Smoldering

My internal flame for her, still flickering.

Burning like the old Olympic torch.

Eternally glowing, without a permanent home.

Charring the timbers of all her defenses.

The leftover ashes, blistering my soul.

The fire-front ruins, leaving me dark and hollow.

A flame, not to be easily extinguished.

A fire, always smouldering in my heart.

 

Ivor Steven.

There’s Room

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There’s Room.

“It’s A Small World”, they say.

My dog, she’s small.

The little courtyard is hers.

My house is small.

The lounge/dining, is enough.

My kitchen is like a galley.

The laundry/bathroom, is clean.

My bedroom is broad.

A double-bed, and studio desk.

My bookcase and humble vaults.

A display of history and wine.

My room, resonating Leonard’s ballads.

My room, my words and dreams.

My room, a song for you.

“Oh”, where are you.

 

Ivor Steven.

My Girl

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My Girl

She’s a constant joy,

Tiny like a toy.

She leaps and prance’s,

Does hind-leg dances.

She slips and slides,

Does tummy glides.

She lays on all laps,

Loves all-day pats.

She’s a mirror of love,

Knowingly, from above.