Category Archives: Poetry

Day by Day

Day #206: I saw a bug on the wall of my cell today. I named it Mercury, because it ran so fast. Can’t say I blame it. Haven’t seen it since.

Day #211: The moss is coming along nicely. I’ve broken it up and tried to get it growing in other parts of the room. The door-facing wall gets more light, really? I can’t tell, but the moss knows the difference. I’m becoming a moss master gardener. I could grow moss in any dank location. 

Lichens are harder to empathize with. 

Day #224: Scraped my fingers on the wall. I already knew that sharp rock was there. I’ve memorized every inch of this cell, and should have known better. I lost my focus because I got angry, having just dropped my bread on the floor. Must be more careful with my bread. Also need to be more cautious of sharp edges.

Day #225: Finger scrape might be infected. Washed wound, did the best I could with what I had. Spent all day not touching anything with it.

Day #226: Finger wound seems to have dried up. Swelling is down. Good, good.

Day #227: Scab peeled. I am fascinated. Can’t stop watching it heal.

Day #251: Moss has produced a single delicate white flower! Enamored. I sit by it all evening, until it closes up for the night. I watch it sleep. It’s like a friend.

Day #252: Flower fell off.

Day #301: Although I haven’t seen any more flowers, the moss is prolific. It’s cozy in here. 

Day #343: I’ve started to get a feel for the lichens, successfully transferred bits of it here and there for decoration. They’re not so hard to understand. Strong, strong, but brittle. They can endure the most brutal environments, living off of virtually nothing. Grow age rings, like a clam. They don’t seem to be doing much, but after you’ve been in here long enough you get a feel for their rate of growth. They live too, but in slow motion. Slower than trees. They prefer stone because they have more in common with it. 

Day #407: Been looking hard for flowers all this time, to no avail. 

Day #389: The mosses have been shriveling up, except for the few strongest patches. I think it caught some kind of disease?

Day #478: All the moss is dead. Watching the lichens grow. Funny, how I used to think they were slow. They’re downright entertaining.

















My Very First Poem – How to Find a Wife

 

Let’s go back, back into the misty reaches of my parents’ basement, to rediscover the very first poem to spring from the mind of a five-year-old. An epic adventure about the search for love.

Do I detect hints of greatness, even then? Or was it just sexism? Whichever it was, you can blame the classics.

 


 

How to Find a Wife
by Sarah Silvey

There was once a man who had no life,
He didn’t have as much as a wife!
So he sailed, night and day,
And would always hear his mother say,

“If you shant have a wife,
A soul shall kill you with a knife.”
His mother told him such strange things,
Like giant toads with devils wings.
She liked to give him such a fright,
And somehow convinced him his father was a knight.

He tried to show her he outgrew that now,
She still even called him her little cow,
But his real name was David, David Bough.

David found women miles around,
But none sank his heart down to the ground.
So he sailed on, and how many he found? None.

David heard from a crazy man,
That on the beaches there was sand
And on the sand there were pretty girls,
With goldielocks and golden curls.

So he went there and found it true
With pretty eyes, the darkest blue.

Then he found one,
And love was true,
With pretty eyes, the darkest blue.

Her name was Rose
Which fit her so
And her hair was made of gold
You know.

But all her beauty ruined her fate,
For all women she knew were full of hate.

She married David
Which improved both lives,
for other women knew men couldn’t get Rose
And David, of course, had a wife.

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Grandma’s Hands

Another good one from Ivor.

Ivor.Plumber/Poet

I wonder what mum and grandma are thinking

Mum was born after the First World War

A child of the roaring twenties

Then she became a poor teenager, of the great depression

And a young nurse, during the horror’s of a second World War

A time when everyone’s supplies were rationed

Everyone helped each other, when things run out

Everyone knew a son, that been killed in the war

Everyone gave you a soft shoulder to lean on

Everyone shared each others pain

Our parents and grandparents survived

And taught us compassion, and the value of every single life

Ivor Steven (c)  March 2020

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