"ives" poems
Don't let this self-effacing exterior fool you
I am meglo-maniac in the making
Social media the perfect introvert's mask
Reinventing myself daily
Vanessa Ives, girl-about-town, quirky geek
An attention *****
******* in the digital wind
For a like, a follow, a retweet.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.
Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?
So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.
Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.
No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.
March, 2007
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
Champagne and cup cakes.
A Cornish beach with rippling swell.
Love be cultured as a precious pearl.
Where love be found with special girl.
Projects full of rich intention.
Health.
Wealth.
Happiness.
The air is filled with childhood squeals.
Summer flicks on the crown of her hair.
Children ride horses with the sea on their heels.
History steeped at the top of the hill.
Empty mines.
Cleared of tin.
In the county, where Poldark first made his mark.
Country delight?
Nah.
A county in England.
Better not tell the Cornish man.
Kernow man's birthright.
The sovereign state of Cornwall.
Not all of the Cornish men have seven wives.
Nor do they live in the land of St Ives.
One wife is enough for most.
Your spirit in Southampton, now merely a ghost.
(c) Livvi
Good luck.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
Let go
what does that truly mean?
are we to fall to our deaths
or go on with our lives
how does one truly,
let go
are you to forget everything
or simple pretend you no longer care
let go
two words
so simple
but the action is so hard
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
Don't you wish that Christmas
Was a Currier and Ives scene
Where the snow was falling softly
In the woods of evergreen
Where horses pulled the sleighs
Through the village and the fields
Where the children played at snowballs
With just scarves to act as shields
A time of innocence gone by
Where Christmas was serene
Where the world was fairly limited
And not shown on a screen
A time where people had some class
And Christmas was a day
For families to just spend some time
Not compare how much they paid
A painting showing everyone
Out skating on the lake
While carol singers sang their songs
To see the joy that they could make
I would love to have a Christmas
Like an old time Christmas card
But today, it would be difficult
It could be done, but would be hard
A Child's Christmas in Wales we'd read
And we'd follow it with more
We'd sing songs to our hearts delight
And we'd open up the door
for Christmas is for sharing
Not for self fulfilling greed
A Currier and Ives type Christmas
Might be just the thing we need
This year, I'll watch no movies
About Christmas elves and such
I'll make each treat we eat at home
And by the fire, stand a crutch
I'll volunteer and feed the poor
And I'll go to church as well
Wait....who am I kidding
Well, it was a nice thought....What The Hell!!
Merry Christmas
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
H aven for those who’s words are never read
E ven though they pour their souls and very
L ives and spirit through their pens or
L et their fingers nurture beautiful tomorrows
O n the keyboards of their creativity.
P oetry is the blood that pumps
O ut wondrous magic from those fertile minds that
E nds up on a glowing screen or printed page, in hopes
T hat it can give birth to a long awaited
R ennaissance in the thinking of the world, and create a
Y earning for a better way to live and love.
ljm
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
( for Virginia Woolf)
Light & dark collide
her life is a palimpsest
of butterfly memories
of twisted ills & happiness
viewed through a pin hole
captured in black & white
The Lighthouse still stands
in St Ives where it always was
where she used to go as a child
she writes “ Mrs Dalloway”
& eats conference pears
Occasionally she hears the birds
singing in Greek as they fly by
Death, which will claim her is always waiting.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Deep weather
Rough chopped rocks sunk in the sand
Of St.Ives.
Hostile invitations for a childhood party
Where Joshua so loved
then missed his grandad.
Rock and rain pools
December **** in August limpid.
An adolescent's stomping ground of
Skunk and cider
Where first Lucy kissed,
And felt age inside her.
And a Pensioners painting,
Anna remembered a figure
On those black rocks
All those years before,
That could help her across no more.
The town on the hill.
Bewitching, twitching, still,
Windows hammered on to cold homes -
Bridesmaids, Flings, exiles,
Remembered, loved in the married bed
back home.
And the girl that I love so much,
Sits across the beach
Sinked in to my sand like
The alba washing coal on the beach
After all these years.
And the girl I worry about so much.
Sits across the room sinked in sand,
Hammering love in my chest.
Rocks, coal and home.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
There’s a burning in her eyes,
High reaching lace like a poison choker,
Hands around a swan’s throat,
She’s the type who would ****** the world,
Then break its neck,
But even then, she still spits poetry every time she speaks,
Everyone has their curses,
She hides hers in the darkness.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
Giles Corey
What is there, really,
Left to say
When you cannot trust
The honest pay?
Do you, really
Hear the sounds,
Of the clocktowers
coming down?
I do not, really,
Know the time.
We're just acquainted..
No friend of mine.
No friends at all
Are mine, per say.
Just folks to call,
From day to day.
From day to day,
And dusk to dusk.
There's nothing left
But empty husks.
I'd gouge my eyes
With forks and knives,
If that would bring me
To Saint Ives.
Gouge my eyes
At sight of her
Hopes I despise:
empty aquifer.
That saturate the souls
Of bedazzled bums
And homeless ******
Sent to pick the crumbs.
Great fallen father
Oh, dying mother
What way is water?
Who hid the shelter?
Your sons and daughters
Are frightened now.
They cannot win
They don't know how.
We all have fears
Of how we'll fare
When you say,
"We need more engineers.
To build the cities
And the gutters
And the gluttons
And the guillotines
And the gilded glaves that gorey Giles brings.
To pile the stones
On our frail young frames
As we're forced to cry
To **** our names,
"More weight."
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
How many were going to St Ives?
Were the cats in sacks alive?
Who cares if every one arrived?
For the greatest riddle I derive
Is how on earth, do you surmise,
that poor man coped with seven wives?
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:27 PM UTC
America the Beautiful is broken
into variations, reassembled
at fifteen, while your friends played ball, tumbled
after grounders. Met her, vows were spoken,
children came, a job to feed and shelter.
Insurance, managed risk made up your days
while music filled your nights and underlaid
a counterpoint of art and home. She felt your
dualistic muse; the age-old tale
of starving artist held no taste for you.
Forty years of working every breath
until the night your muse's heart would fail.
You lived for years with your worst fear come true,
for you had starved your artist to his death.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
Two Ones two O's
two infinity symbols/
beyond that
never is forever
a perpetual discontinue/
a critical crescendo
Can it be that it was
all so simple/
A difficult indefinite
A decadent individual/
More to lessen
when the lessons
Goes spherical/
What comes must go
Disregard the scenario/
In spite of facing the
Ever so unbearable/
Imperial
Regardless/
I un expected the unexpected/
I was endowed with/
this meticulous weapon/
the correspondent/
It came in a different direction
Not Money
Diamonds, jewelry and necklaces/
As you would expect it/
Rather verbs, nouns,
adverbs and ad-ject-ives/
My ob-jectives are selective
For I now know what my quest is/
I'm just the messenger
Please don't **** the message/
To your respective
Much time invested/
If I just reach one
That's a considered successes.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
Silver alert, silver alert
the gold Ford is gone
we hope she's not hurt
Silver alert, silver alert
Grandmas run off
with her new boyfriend Burt
Silver alert, silver alert
Burt's a gold digger
a real piece of dirt
Yes silver alert, yes silver alert
we hope the cops find her
with her monies unhurt
Oh my, silver alert, silver alert
don't spend our inheritance
on Burt, the pervert
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Twinkle, star, you are
So high, up in the sky.
And Little Muffett Miss
Has gotten so ******
Very upset that from
Someone else’s thumb
That was stuck in a pie.
She didn’t know why.
So she cut off tails
Enjoying the wails
Of sightless mice
Though not nice
Not fooling around
She’d blow the house down
Then give a harsh drub
To three men in a tub.
She swiped all the ciggies
Of three little piggies
But she could not see
Why everything was threes.
Narcissistically proud
She was laughing out loud
Then she started to croon
About a cow on the moon.
She looked for a fiddle
She could hey ****** ******
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare
So, she left the dog home
And began to roam.
On the way past Saint Ives
A man beating his wives
Muffet did begin
Beating with rolling pin
And the guy ran away
Not seen since that day.
Miss Muffett turned old
Folk tales into gold.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Lives forever
Open to everyone
Valued honestly
Everyone can!
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
Over the river
And through Grant Woods
Through Hallmark scenes we go.
Through colors of white
That are not quite right
Not even for pissed-on snow.
If Currier and Ives
Tends to give you the hives
You really might not want to go.
By now we have cars
And thank your stars
No shoes for the horse to throw.
Old men in jeans
In bucolic scenes
From a hundred years ago.
Don’t be in a rush
As driving through slush
Can cause accidents, you know.
Turkey and dressing
And Parker rolls
May suit the day just fine,
But a warning here
I’ll make it clear
You might not like mulled wine.
When you have eaten
While women work
The men can go off and drink.
The men getting *********
A seasonal disgrace,
The gals keep their minds on the sink.
Later while driving back ,
The men passed out,
The women behind the wheel.
They women all try
To figure out why
They go through this yearly ordeal.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
February 28th, 1968 marked the date
Boyce Brandon Harris
(my octogenarian widower father)
purchased a small tract of land
constituting shadowed sliver
once hailing, hallmarking, harkening,
glorious vast "Glen Elm" estate,
which circa 1910 encompassed
a hundred plus acres of woodland
Pooh would Winnie
(including a pond frequented
by migrating Canadian Geese)
eventually zoned for commercial,
industrial, and residential development
(all in the name of productive land use)
particularly put into motion
courtesy Donald J. Neilson,
who transformed expansive woodland
rivaling shutterfly
sprouting like mushrooms towed stools
booming explosively
after ample precipitation
little houses on the hillside
little houses made of ticky tacky...
popped up overnight
transforming landscape
displacing flora and fauna with vinyl city
(minus spit of property papa bought)
manicured bumped uglies with wild wisp
reduced pristine niche leftover jot haven
squawking disoriented geese instincts
thwarted, where drained wetlands
a Arcadian past suburbanization
overlaying (palimpsest like) rural setting
trademark bucolic print Currier And Ives
stock in trade signature prints
landscape sparse human population
country aire sprinkled with family farms
fresh dairy, produce, vegetables
butchered animals free ranging
without synthetic injections
nostalgia faintly recreated here
Highland Manor Apartments
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
a slip of country revered
against a Paul Ling urbanization
nothing appears familiar
retracing roadways now major highways
frequent moments breeds alienation
familiar ground confusing, frightening, and perplexing.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
Eva Ives
Dark sunk eyes
She loves a pretty face
Which dream are you
Sweet lady blue
Her heavy heart
Beats gay...
Eva Ives
Hidden in lies
The creatures
That she keeps
All shall be told
In the grim tales of old
The nightmares she let seep...
Into my room
Under a quaint T.V. moon
Her passion pulls me in
Oh Sweet Eva Ives
In the distance of night
Evil shall rise again ...
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Have you ever looked into the sky and thought your not the only one.
Utterly impossible for you to be alone in the universe right?
Maybe something is out there, but we can't see it.
Another life. Another thing
Nothings impossible right?
Something so different from us but yet exactly the same?
And what if we find out there is something out there.
Really. Something that would astonish us to our last breath.
Everything would change. Right?
Absolute shock would take this planet and crush it.
Lives would go on with fear of invasion.
Is it fair for us to do the same? To go and change the way things are.
Eventually we would have to be ok. We would just forget.
Notorious known, we would be unfavorable, we would be aliens.
Step out of the blindness you're in, and see them around you.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
Falling asleep to the piano’s sweet sound,
Then suddenly fooled with legerdemain.
“HIT, BANG, SMACK, WHACK,”
Scream the white and the black.
Soul doth move Finger,
Who intensifies Timbre.
The tune it doth echo
In mocking falsetto.
Mind has been shattered
By the torture he patterned.
Shake with the fear—
It’s a comfort, my dear.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
Seven Crap Hours Of Our Lives,
But we need to show them that our intelligence thrives.
Where we get bad grades and low self of steam,
Put on a fake smile so your faces beam.
It ***** being here,
To always be leer,
Wether you fail a test,
Or just need more rest,
Just be a bit mere.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
Come on
how often does that happen
how often have you known it
you can tell me if you like
but I think you never will
My toe hurts like hell
as if you care
think it split the nail
Some bleeding come out
now I will have to wash my socks
do you know
how hard for me
things just like, that is
**** me just stubbed my mind
on my big toenail
hope there is no bleeding in my head
things like this
make me feel red
never know
what EXP lease Ives come out.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
I never travelled to St. Ives,
I met no man,
no seven wives and as
for pieman it's all lies man.
I saw no crooked man
no crooked mile,
no
Red Riding Hood,
no
Hansel,
no Gretel
no gingerbread house and no
sign of the wood,
no big bad wolf
no fat little pigs,
no Pooh Bear either
no bridge
no twigs.
It was as it was because that's how it is.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
you cloaked yourself
in pitch black darkness
and planted barriers
to thwart everyone out
your only means for love
is to drown in your own mess
and the words you feed
and leave me stout
you release your demons
so beautifully
that even sweet little angels
cry at your feet
i'm outside the fences every time
you write, waiting patiently
the thought of your words
make both of our ends meet
you are a true Spoken Genius
of your time
with every word dropped,
comes thousands of people in sight
to flip on the light switch
above you is what they cry and pine
so the darkness is no more,
but a room bathed in light
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC