Tit Bits #15

I’ve not written one these for a while, and I’ve enough of my comments stored in my NoteBook file to fill War And Peace !! Thank you to all of my dear readers who comment on my writings, I am forever grateful, and you all continue to inspire me to write these short poetry pieces about your marvelous posts.

 

I used to say, mum was the one

Dad was always there, daddy number one

Carole came along, she was my only one

They’re gone, I was left with no-one

Myself has become an intimate one

To you all, I cannot do without everyone

I love sharing my life

I love talking about my wife

Even though I’ve seen so much strife

She wouldn’t have it any other way

She graciously fought on, every day

My story will never explain her everlasting smile

My future is about trying, for her every mile

I know those old photo album feelings

Old memories and dusty dreams

Your heart does miss a beat

They’ll be tears at your feet

You’ll need a comfy seat

Bathe in the images, so sweet

Life’s rotation process is endless

Watermill wheels keep on turning

I’m writing on recycled paper

Word’s of purpose are not useless

Morning birds sing, but do not see

By day, I’ll look like a tree

Like a lonely Tawny Frog-mouth Owl

By night, hear my wisdom howl

Beware, there’s more

You’ll be shown the door

By the bolt of Thor

 

I’ve been inspired by my tour of yesterdays street art in Geelong, and the magnificent mural of Chrissy Amphlett, so here she is, singing with the Divinyls

 

Ivor Steven (2)  2018

 

 

Tunnel Echos

I’m lying here on the floor, prone again

Pining in vain

Listening to Leonard’s ballads again

Flooding my soul in rain

There’s happy dreams

And shattered dreams

All flying by

Passing under yesterday’s indoor sky

Here today, where’s tomorrow

Drifting through clouds of sorrow

 

My tunnel visions are echoing

Like rusty train wheels, loudly resonating

I’m my old verandah door, swinging

Badly hinged, my feelings are hanging

Knowing I’m a lonely alien widower

Untouchable, like a Hindu follower

Caresses by wandering hands, shunned and cropped

Wondering why my foreign heart suddenly stopped.

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Don’t Ask Me Why

I read a glorious article by Gina of Singledust this morning, please do go over and have a read, Click >> HERE. Thanks to Gina, her lovely “Letter”, prompted me into remembering this old poem, that’s been hidden away in my archives, and that’s the reason “why” I’m posting these words today.

Unknowingly, I often dream of her serene ashen face

Years ago, I gently held her frailty in my tired arms

Softly whispering to her, last words of love and grace

Don’t ask me why, I count the days, since I’ve missed her charms

I cannot give you a sensible nor plausible answer

Don’t ask my why, I count the weeks, since I lost my way

I’m unable to fathom the depths of my inner cancer

Don’t ask me why, I count the months, since she died that day

Because I’m still gradually recovering

Remembering she’ll never ever go away

And somehow, I’m steadily rediscovering

Knowing someday, I’ll be allowed to stay

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

They Were Singing My Song

Weekly Prompt: This weeks Word Prompt; Germs

 

There’s festering germs in my brain

The hallucination seems real

Last night I went to a funeral

The funeral was mine

 

Attending the wake

In the forest beside the lake

I was a mental mess

Walking around, dressed in my finest

A plastic name-tag tied to my thong

They were singing my song

 

Alone, I trekked through botanical gardens

Heading towards the big game

Couldn’t remember who was playing

Does it even matter

I was too busy dictating

My last will and testament

To any-one who would listen

Telling the young ones, not to worry

“Uncle Ivor will look after you, we all belong”

They were singing my song

 

There wasn’t a church

More like the Football Club hall

Big enough to hold them all

Ample food and gallons to drink

Leonard was there all along

He was singing my song

 

There was no Hallelujah

Making it write, knew the words

A Tennessee man played the drums

Every foot was tapping to the beat

The beat goes on, and on

They were singing my song

 

The music resonated into my art gallery

Organised to humour the goddess

The local switchboard was frantic, like a chatter blog

Announcing a wake, under the stars

Celestial, stellar, and beyond

They were singing my song

 

Lemons adorned the tables

Soul gifts, smelling fresh as hell

Too fiery there, I wasn’t allowed to dwell

The crowd was giving me the cold shoulder

I was talking to myself in Antarctica

Overhearing the laughter, rejoicing in my coldness

They were singing my song

One of us cannot be wrong

 

I’d like to thank the following, fellow friends/bloggers, for attending my dream-time wake, as per my dream, in order of  appearance.

1. Mental Mess

2. DoesItEvenMatter

3. Making It Write

4. The Tennessee Poet

5. Humouring The Goddess

6. Chatter Blog

7. Stella

8. Lemon

9. Soul Gifts

10. Fresh Hell

11. Fiery

12. Talking To Myself

And of course, Leonard Cohen, for his glorious music and Lyrics.

 

And here is my poem, “It’s Just A Little Dream”

https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2017/12/18/its-just-a-little-dream-2/

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

Tullawalla And A Dragonfly

Weekly Prompt: Photo prompt for this week, Right Place Right Time

I’m presenting pictures here of “My Home”, and feeling incredibly fortunate, that I happened to be in the right place at the right time, two years ago, when I was lucky enough to find this little abode for sale. And on inspection I immediately feel in love with the place, knowing that this is where my soul could finally be at peace, and I came to engross myself in this writers haven that I had dreamt of, and knowing that it was now going to become a reality. Thank you to Linda, of Spiritual Dragonfly, for inspiring to do this post about “My Place”, and I hope all is well there for Linda over in Carolina, after coping with Hurricane Florence.

 

Above, my verandah area, my gallery, and where the old family home name, “Tullawalla” sign,  is now proudly on display.

 

Above, My fernery, my garden courtyard, and more of my verandah gallery.

 

Above. More of my gallery under the verandah, and my barbeque and my outdoor speakers, which are wired back to my computer sound system, I hope the neighbours appreciate my music choices

 

Above. My home, front view, window garden bed and my garage. The writers bedroom and studio/desk area, is where all the poems are written. And attached below a lovely song from Xavier Rudd… “Home”

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

 

 

 

 

Purple Tomatoe Ferns

I’ve visions of Vikings sailing in the cold

Plundering distant hearts and pilfering gold

 

I’m dreaming of the old farmer’s wife

Milking cows, cleaning and baking for life

 

I’ve feelings for the king, in his isolated castle

Looking forlornly upon his drawbridge, a foodless trestle

 

I’m wandering through an empty paddock

Kicking dew off the grass, searching for a lovers locket

 

I’ve plans for the planets desolate future

Growing purple tomatoe ferns until they’re mature

 

I’m following her brave journey’s every mile

Climbing over dying garden beds and rotting fence stiles

 

I’ve finished falling under broken skies

Claiming peace amongst tomorrows butterflies