An Old Plumber, An Ex-Carer, An Amateur Poet, Words From The Heart
Author: ivor20
G'day, and welcome to my blog site. My name is Ivor Steven, I live in Geelong, Australia. I'm an ex-industrial chemist, and a retired plumber, and a former Carer of my wife(Carole), for 30 years, who suffered from severe MS. I Write poetry about those personal thoughts, throughout and beyond my life as a Carer.
I've been blogging for over 2 years, and writing poems for 19 years. Of course a lot of my poems are about my favourite subject Carole, but since I've been blogging my writings have become quite varied, humourous, mystical, observational, and even a few monster/horror poems.
This Tanka began with a small moment of irony. While sheltering from the cold and waiting for the weather to clear, I spotted a piece of street art near the café — the words “Sunsets in Zadar” painted across a brick wall. I noticed straight away that it carried a perfect five‑syllable rhythm, an ideal opening line for a Haiku or Tanka. From that simple spark, the poem grew into a quiet reflection spoken from the sun itself, reaching across horizons with its global glow.
Zadar Sunsets(a Tanka)
Sunsets in Zadar I’m nowhere near Croatia But here within view Above your hill’s horizon My global glow finds your land
A final touch of light to end the moment — a sunset song to accompany the sun’s own words, drifting across horizons just as the poem does.
In this solitary silhouette, I felt the sky fold back into its deeper self — a quiet reminder that infinity is not a distant realm but a shift in perception. Darkness becomes brightness when seen in reverse, and even the faintest glow can reveal the universe’s hidden architecture. These three captures from my afternoon walk opened that doorway, and as I sat with them at the café, the poem below arrived in a small explosion of insight — a moment where inverted light found its voice.
Into the Blue
I’m unravelling my way From out of the grey And back into the blue For an unobstructed view Of the unfettered universe Where I can observe light in reverse
I perceive the panorama of infinity’s darkness To be a cosmic aurora of brightness — Not a mere perception of blackness But a transparent glow of hopefulness
Two visions of blue — one rising from the depths, one bursting into joy — each reflecting a different facet of the journey from grey to light. Together they complete the sky the poem began.
The morning sky felt like an open canvas, and the birds rose into it as if painted there — framed by light, archived in motion, and forever just beyond our human reach.
Beyond Reach (a Haiku)
Shadows on the sky Bird silhouettes hover high Beyond human reach
This poem grew from two separate comments I left on Nancy’s site, written almost four weeks apart. Different days, different moods — yet when I revisited them, they seemed to lean toward one another and form a cohesive whole. Stanzas 1 and 2 came from La Casa Azzurra – The Elephant’s Trunk and stanzas 3, 4, and 5 from What’s Left Behind – The Elephant’s Trunk
Fresh shoes for familiar paths — proof enough that this man plans on walking a little further yet.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the weekend challenge is the word “Anxiety”. To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here
This Morning, or This Anxious Man
I woke up this morning, which is always a good thing — with blue surrounding my head, quietly filtering through the blinds from dawn’s levitating, bright blue sky.
I do not need to ask why the tranquil colour blue serendipitously keeps me flying high.
I am who I am. I’m an old man, and I do the best I can.
My dreamworld plan is out of my hands.
I remember how it all began, and here I am — between Cannes and scans, still walking this land.
For the fragments that find each other, the blue mornings, the old roads, and the man who keeps trusting the day ahead.
Down a quiet back lane near the café, this striking street art stopped me in my tracks — it felt like a quiet conversation waiting to happen, eye to eye with the unexpected.
Eye to Eye, or I to I
With one eye querying mankind and the other eye wondering about my state of mind — bewildered and always pondering what’s real beyond my Venetian blinds.
I am neither refined nor confined, and I have escaped being quarantined.
I question myself. Are my eyes behind the times, or have I misread my bookshelf’s poetry finds and the fairytale rhymes?
A final glance, and the moment drifted on — leaving its quiet echo behind, carried forward now in the music’s slow drift
Today’s Throwback goes back to August 2019, just months after my second and third strokes — a time when the days were dim, and every movement felt uncertain. Finding this poem again reminded me how far that long road has stretched. The wattlebirds I photographed today — wings lifted, rising into open sky — feel like symbols of that slow, determined recovery. This revised piece holds both the struggle and the light that followed.
Long, Long Way (Revised)
I’ve come a long, long way I remember the bad, bad days When yesterday’s were dark and grey On level seven, under heaven’s archway
Lying there immobile and prone Waiting for the etching of my gravestone Unable to hear my silent headphones Unknowingly, spinning inside a black cyclone
I awoke somewhere outside my world’s twilight zone Slowly realising I’d been saved, and finality was postponed
The soundtrack to those long, long days — and the light that followed.
This afternoon’s sky gifted me a flock of silhouettes — pigeons rising and circling through the light as if carrying the world’s weight on their wings. Their quiet resilience inspired the Tanka below, a small reflection on the lives caught beneath the shadows of conflict.
Pigeons of the World (a Tanka)
Here under the sun I am not the only one Being overrun By the world’s greedy hired guns Who’s minding our war torn sons?
And still the sky remembers what we forget — even the pigeons know the rise and fall of empires.
Hello, dear readers and followers. I contribute to Coffee House Writers magazine (USA) every second week, and I’m delighted to share that my latest poem,“A Global Suntan,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> A Global Suntan – Coffee House Writers
This afternoon I found myself at the calm centre of things — winter draped itself lightly over the café, letting the sunshine linger just long enough for a quiet moment to unfold.
Winter Sunshine
I’m on the axis of my universe, here in the middle of our cafe, at the centre of this old town — it’s our time to relax and calm down.
We’re midway beneath winter’s hemline; the wind is cold, but the day is fine. The larks are enjoying the sunshine, and I’m sipping a glass of red wine.
As the winter light faded and the sunshine slipped away, the music left its own warm shadow behind.
Hello, dear readers and followers. As you may know, I stopped producing my “Tullawalla Booklets” at #31 because that was the house number of our family’s Tullawalla Homestead. Yet the booklet format is a superb way for me to catalogue the vast number of poems I produce, and as the saying goes, “I Am Turning Another Page”. Here I have begun a new series of poem booklets, called “Shangri La”, the name of my little Villa, and it is my piece of “earthly paradise, a retreat from the pressures of modern civilization”. I now have “2407”poems gathered across these booklets (On my bookshelf, sits “The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, with 1775 poems — when I first began writing, I never imagined I would one day surpass that number.)
“Like all my booklets, this one is here to be read at your leisure — no rush, no expectation, just an open page waiting when you are.”
Click >>Here –for the link to your FREE: PDF Copy of“Shangri La, Volume 21, Beyond the Midday Moon.”
The midday moon is less than 10° above the horizon — low enough for my weary wings to fly over.
The morning clouds are dispersing, and up here, above the moon, my shadows are free to echo my dreams.
Between the sky and the moon, I gaze into their shared light — sometimes life is out of sight, other times everything is alright, either way, they welcome my unspoken words, whether day or night.
A song that drifts in the same strange daylight as the poem — a quiet companion to the light above us.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 