Write to Me

Write to me, please

All I can do is quietly listen,

Listen, to your sweet voice,

Soothing my throbbing soul.


Write to my swollen eyes.

My life is becoming blurry,

And my reading’s in over-freeze.

Like the Bibles first Eve.


Write to my fallen voice.

Your’s always sounds like an angel.

Gently baptizing my ears,

And caressing my absent mind.


Write to my broken heart.

Mine’s still here to share,

Always so true and soft.

Like a morning’s virgin kiss.


Please write to me.

And set me free.


Ivor Steven.




Smashed Pumpkin Brains

What’s it like to be an orange Pumpkin-head.

Only black sockets for eyes instead.

And a cut-out smile full of seeds.

Queer ears made of rings and beads.

Inside, your brain is scooped out for pigs feed.

Leaving a dark void that doesn’t bleed.

On top you’re like a crinkled dome.

And your sore neck’s being speared home.


What’s it like to have a retina thread,

As a throbbing nerve-end tread.

With your cell fibres smashed to a pulp.

Knifing across your tender scalp.

Ebbing towards your aching neck.

And crushing you like a busted shipwreck.

Then a wooden spike pierces your fragile brain.

Where the horrid harpoon spreads your pain.


Photo Source: Amazing Halloween Jack O’Lantern pumpkins, carved by Ray Villafane -pinterest.com

Ivor Steven.

Back Soon

Hi, to all my dear friends, sorry, but I’ve been unwell and not quite able to comment on all your wonderful posts that have appeared in my reader. Sadly l shall not be able to catch up with them all, but I will be starting afresh today and will be writing some comments.  Thanks to you all for your kind thoughts and words . Cheers. Ivor Steven. ♡♡

Mind Games

There’s a sharp pain

Inside my brain.

Harpooning my eye,

More than Ouch, I cry.

So hard to write,

Blurry is my sight.

All I do is peep,

And I must rest and sleep.

I’ve not lost the knack,

And I shall be back……….


Ivor Steven.

Basement Bar

I’m at this basement bar, and the so-called music’s as loud as thunder.

So loud, I can’t even hear, speak, or begin to wonder.

My inner and outer ear-drums are echoing with the continual pounding.

All around the incessant rapp music’s booming and thumping.

The annoying repetitive sounds, drumming away inside my head.

However, somehow my beating heart is remembering my girl instead.

And my attempted idle chats, are overwhelmed by the piercing howling.

But who’s listening anyhow, to my drunken words and lecturing.

It’s probably the extra ales tonight, and I’m slowly drowning away.

Leaning against the bar, elbows entrenched, as if I’m here to stay.

Suddenly my bar-stools vibrating, is it the noise, or am I bodily shaking.

From my old and new nerve-ends being frightfully awakened.

My soulful tears, with all their leftover fears, again quietly trickling.

But there’s no-one to actually notice, within this buzzing cocoon, so resounding.


Ivor Steven.


As Life Went By

You’re like an infant of mine, a distant cloud in the sky,

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like a teen of mine, who somehow learnt to fly.

Always gliding high, and passing her by.


You’re like a child of mine, forever asking me why, why, why.

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like an ex-girl of mine, her first words were a lie.

Always chasing the answer, by using her thighs.


You’re like a friend of mine, who left me high and dry.

Always ever present, not able to cry.

You’re like a Lady of mine, her only instinct was to try.

Always seeking final peace, as life went by.


Ivor Steven.

Artwork: Painted by self, using acrylics, 1967.