Inside Out

Artwork:  By, TheFlyTrapMan, artist for the Slasher Monster Magazine, and drawn specifically for my poem, Inside Out, for which I’m truly grateful.

The poem “Inside Out”, is more just a rhyme and a play on a few featured words. Over the road from were I once lived, there was a furniture shop, and the advertising hoarding was, “Inside Out, Exotic Furniture”, well I was sitting there waiting for the bus, and in my minds imagination, I changed the the words to “Inside-out, Upside-down, Erotic Furniture”, and hence my little anecdote was laid….

Inside Out

 

The view of my love seems upside down.

When I’m at the bottom of her flowing gown.

And my erotic picture appears inside out.

What’s this scenic love all about.

 

The ways of my love seem upside down.

When she’s on top, covering me ’til I drown.

And I’m underneath, neither in, nor out.

What’s this crazy love all about.

 

The river of my love seems upside down.

When I’m sitting inside her smiling frown.

And her foreign body hits me in and out.

What’s this exotic love all about.

 

The world of my love seems upside down.

When I’m laying below her pounding mound.

And her endless thrusts, feel inside out.

What’s this frenzied love all about.

 

Ivor Steven

Photo below, I’m sitting at my bedroom computer desk, on this very cold morning, and starting to type out this humourous piece, about nobody and meaning nothing.

Walking Home

Photo: Courtesy of Peter Styring, Australian Parrots And Birds, you can find his beautiful photos on Peter’s Facebook site.

 

Tis early, very early, presumably a foggy weekend morn.

So early, all the front bedroom lights are out ’til dawn.

And the groaning of lustful lovers, have all been timed out.

Even the yapping old canines, are unusually burnt-out.

 

I’ve been wandering these darkly streets, groping on trust.

Looking for her, a little piece of wonderous stardust.

All I found was a discarded mug of leftover moonshine.

Oh yeah, just like the decadent old days, still I pine.

 

Intoxication setting in again, I’m dreaming unsound.

A girl so mysterious, out here, where to be found.

I stumble, forgetting how to walk, and I hit the ground.

And it’s the end, another fallen night, out on the town.

 

Ivor Steven.

A Single Atom

I see a shooting star, traverse the full-moon.

Like a jungle bushfire, raging out of sight.

I feel the heat of midday, smoothering the night.

Like a warm body, inside her tomb.

I see the dawn, without the golden sun.

Like a Lyrebird, singing all out of tune.

I hear the morning rain, without a cloud in the sky.

Like yesterdays floods, leaving her high and dry.

I see a sandy beach, awash by a tidal wave.

Like a burning desert, water is her grave.

I fill lonely sheets, with empty dreams.

Like a dark chasms’ irrelevant beams.

I see a summer leaf, wilted by a frosty Autumn.

Like an unwatered orchid, opening to an old anthem.

I feel like a splintered heart, inside a single atom.

Like a snakes dead skin, her rejected emblem.

 

Ivor Steven.

 

Now Bestowed.

Another poem by request for “Poet Rummager”, I suppose a poem of new found love, but oh so gushy, for a man who was 62 years old at the time, when a cupids arrow sent me into a whirl, like a child’s  spinning top. I now find the words a little embarrassing, displaying how vulnerable I was then, and probably, I am still now.

 

You gave me your mountain of love.

You showed me the valley of passion.

You gave me your river of happiness.

You showed me your ocean of kindness.

Who am I to deny you.

How can I resist you.

Now, yearning all of you.

Now, time is you.

You gave me your sunshine for living.

You showed me the moonshines warmth.

You gave me your world of devotion.

You showed me your universe within.

Now, has come again.

Now, I love again.

Now, I’ve arisen.

Now, bestowed.

 

Ivor Steven.

It’s Time

We’ll miss you,

Mother Earth,

Your splendour

And imposing style.

From forest canopy’s

To the desert Nile.

New creations,

Beauty, gone.

 

We’ll lose you,

Father Time,

Your rhythm

And stoic guile.

From ancient history,

To the future files.

New millennia,

Awaiting, gone.

 

Special thanks to,  diaryofasoulwriter,  inspiring me with her wonderful writings about love and nature, view her poem, ”Unexpected Sight”. Photo, taken at Hollybank Nature Park, Tasmania.

Ivor Steven

 

Two Dogs, Ten Days.

 

I’m happily in possession of two little dogs for the next ten days. My girl Lily, and my brother’s dog, Tina, also a little cute white fluffy girl. Tina had trouble settling in, after my brother left to go on his holiday to Fraser Island, Queensland. At bedtime, Tina was fretting and scratching at the bedroom door, obviously wanting to leave the house and find her beloved master. After several tries at placing her in “her bed”, oh what to do, to settle her down…… then I came up with the idea(brilliant) of  placing Lily and her bed in front of Tina’s igloo style bed…… well, the little trick worked, Tina slept like a log(snoring) for the rest of the night until 9.30 in the morning, haha, feeling like I’m the “Dog Whisperer”…

Below, Lily and Tina, on their 3km walk with Ivor this afternoon, both girls getting on well, and Tina thinks I’m ok now.

Ivor Steven.

Wreckage.

A poem by request, for the “Poet Rummager”. From a more recent era of my life. The photos, taken by I.Steven, part of the Shipwreck Coast, South-West Victoria, along the renowned, Great Ocean Road

 

Wreckage

 

We’re a shipwreck of the night.

The lighthouse was out of sight.

After the storm of wild passion.

Feeling wearied, a wreckage of fusion.

 

We’re a sperm whale on the beach.

The giant of the sea, without a speech.

After the turmoil of an endless wish.

Feeling totally lost, a wreckage amiss.

 

We’re a burnt-out forest of the dawn.

The ashen mountain smoulder ’til morn.

After the raging nights fire.

Feeling humbled, a wreckage of desire.

 

We’re a paradox of the unfolding day.

The bedsheets awry, here to stay.

After the fatigue of a forever promise.

Feeling complete, a wreckage of braveness.

 

Ivor Steven.

Missing You.

As you the readers, might be aware, I’m hugely influenced by the works of Leonard Cohen. This poem bares format similarities to Leonard’s poems/songs,  “Love Calls You By Name”  and, “Bird On A Wire”. I’m Forever grateful for Leonard Cohen’s profound impact on my writings and my life’s attitudes.  This old poem was written when my Lady’s deteriorating medical condition and medical equipment and care needs, left me no alternative but to relocate myself to the other bedroom of our home, where upon, the music played and my words flowed.

Missing You.

Missing you, like a bee and her distant hive.

Like the sun with no sky.

Missing you, like the moon of last night.

Like my eyes with no sight.

Between the rain and my pain.

Between the calm and the storm.

Between the waterfall and the pond.

Between my heart and the beyond.

Missing you, like a swallow with no breeze.

Like a whale in the sea.

Missing you, Like the universe with no dark.

Like the strings in a harp.

Between the rage and your cage.

Between the winds and the waves.

Between the ground and your flowers.

Between the castle of your towers.

Missing you, like the beach with no sand.

Like the dove from above.

Missing you, like a mother and her newborn child.

Like a lonely stag in the wild.

Between the river and the broken levee.

Between the kiss of your hips.

I know you can hear me,

I know you can see me,

I know you’re near,

Yet you’re far away from here.

 

Ivor Steven.

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

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.

 

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 !

 

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.

 

My Desk, my computer set-up.

A scanner, and 2 printers.

Middle right, my record turntable.

Top left, my poetry folders.

 

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.