Of eleven children he was the first
and from an early age
for research had a thirst
his love of dogs was no surprise
highly regarded
he received the Nobel Prize
altho' no longer around
of all those that ever were
I clearly like the sound
as with food it goes so well
and if nothing else
the name 'Pavlov' rings a bell
ingrained inbred ignorance ignited Ivan
infuriating infatuated Inez, Iowa’s individualist
indulging Ivan’s inebriated indolent mother
who initiated Ivan’s inexorable, inflexible ideas.
Irritating Ivan liked to irk and vex
Especially irritating our Great Aunt Hex
Ignore him said her husband, laid-back uncle Dex
Not knowing that Ivan was Aunt Hex’s ex
There is a game we play
but played by no one else
The same game you can play
If you play it by yourself.
I had long ago wondered
of what had me pondered
for at home is an enigma
and we named it -- PAPA.
*Young Ivan Ivanovich was murdered by his father, Ivan the Terrible
I
You have a vivid mind, heart, vocabulary
A lover of God, I make excuses (true, right)
Yes, South Africa fails us in electricity
Still, Shakespeare worked by candlelight
II
I admire my sisters who do romance
Sometimes sultry, often beauty in loyalty
You mix French idioms, native Americanism
I am awed, humbled, in the land of Steinbeck, Poe, Emily Dickinson
Note:
1. Dear PS writers and visitors, keep working on your craft. The Earth needs it.
2. RiP Mom, passed in 2005, aged 64, but today is my unschooled mom's birthday. I respect all women, my wife, daughters ... Because of my mom's unschooled wisdom, love for family, & creativity
Art of Ivan Albright
I hear a death rattle
feel gloom
despise grayscale-ness
flat black paint kind of background
lecherous guy
creepy skeletal hands
craggy face
shirt looks dingy, dirty, smudged
tablecloth is dank, dour, dusty,
grays and blacks, morose, macabre
I run from his art, screaming pink and orange.
There will be day I disappear
All be the same in empty room
A table and, of course, a chair
And simple icon I resume.
And butterfly in coloured silk
will fly under the ceiling blue
to flit to rustle and to blink
to soar to flutter there anew.
The same be bottom of the sky
to look in open window of mine,
The azure sea be still and smooth
with all its deep attracting views.
P.s. This is my translation of poem by Ivan Bunin
Ivan Milat is dead
There is nothing to be sad about or to dread
He killed seven backpackers in the Belanglo State Forest
Finally dying from the cancer that gave him no rest
A serial killer who showed no mercy
Leaving families grieving for lives lost you see
Probably he has the title of Australia’s worst
As when he died there is such joy - to him the cursed
Do you wonder if there is judgement waiting
In his final days thinking and anticipating
And after all is said and done
We are rid of a demon undone.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Above my head there is grey sky,
The wood that's bare without its cover,
Below in glade lemon leaves lie
in darkening dirt in lonely hour.
Cold noise is spreading out above,
Below is silence of the fading...
My youth's a roaming, it is rough,
And lonely thoughts in useless waiting!
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Ivan Bunin, 1889
There's wind and there's rain and there's mist
above desert waters of cold,
Here life's dead to spring, it's not pleased,
to spring, wealth of gardens is sold.
I'm alone in my bower, it's dark,
I've got easel, wind blows from the park.
Last night you were here at my place,
But you pine, because of my even life
And the end didn't gift smile for face,
Nonetheless you were seemed to me wife.
So, farewell, I will live to my spring
without wife and without wedding ring.
Today clouds do not know some rest,
They go wave by wave one by one,
Your trace near porch got wet fast,
It says that you're gone, yes, you're gone.
And it's hurt to see dark when you're lone
in that nightfall and wait for the dawn.
And I wanted to shout after you,
Please, come back, you were close for me so,
There's no past for a woman, it's true,
There's no love and you're a stranger. You know.
I'll engage fireplace having drink,
Would be good to buy dog as I think.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Ivan Bunin
CAT 5 HURRICANE - IVAN THE TERRIBLE
Your world of illusion is not of my choosing,
but here we are stuck in a Hurricane's eye.
The sea is so pleasing, but I know you're teasing,
and our Hurricane is a different high.
I feel you surround me as you stop to feed,
consuming my soul in your greed;
I'd follow your teardrops to get where they lead,
your love is the ending I need.
If I'm not mistaking this migraine is making
me think that this Hurricane might lose it's eye;
your love is a blessing, I guess that's confessing
I need you to show how all Hurricanes die.
I'd walk through the valley of death in your eyes
for more of your little white lies.
I'd soar through the heavens with love if it flies,
to stay in your beautiful eyes.
I'm feeling no mercy from all the dispersing,
that Ivan'a Cat 5 will fade through the night,
but find it alarming that you and your charming
have wrecked my life much more in delight.
I'd crawl through the valley of death for your lies,
'tis here I find love, in your eyes.
I'd follow your teardrops to get where ever they lead,
your love is the ending I need.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestowon Poet aka Ron Wilson
Let’s dream and wonder
How societies would live their diurnal,
Wondrous and productive lives
If every member of that fraternity
Of brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children
Would have shame and higher conscience
And let it be the guiding light in their beings;
And also, would think only of others
Because whole civilization in its multitude
Would think of them before themselves;
Putting Innate Responsibility and Outermost Kindness
To the foreground;
By making them the cornerstones
Of it’s societal and unbreakable Unity.
What would it be? A total horror,
True Communism in making, I would think
Without doubt;
That how it was evinced to all who want to know
In Ivan Efremov’s treatise ‘The Bull’s Hour’
In all its humble conscientiousness and much forethought;
Would it ever happen? I think – not.
Just a quick look
First chapter of a book
First verse of a song
Can’t stay overlong
A 50-yard dash
Gone in a flash
Not right, not wrong
Can’t stay overlong
A heat seeking missile
God blows the whistle
God strikes the gong
Can’t stay overlong...
*Dedicated to my brother Ivan who lost his life on an airline training flight in 1984. 'Hunter' was his middle name...
she gave me a call
Seconds after she pulled u outta her womb,
Ur mum is the greatest woman alive
So we named u ivan,our gift
From the Great Spirit,GOD that is.
she gave me a call
Seconds after she pulled u outta her womb,
Ur mum is the greatest woman alive
So we named u ivan,our gift
From the Great Spirit,GOD that is.
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