Life – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

When I Am Old

A small conversation with age itself — seventy‑five years in my bones now, and Frankie turning ten beside me, both of us learning how to age with a bit of grace and a bit of mischief, reminding us that growing old is just another way of staying present.

When I Am Old

If,
I was young
back in nineteen-sixty-one –
no,
when I am young again,
without these strokes of pain
down the other side of my brain

I will remember
that day in November
when Mum said,
(with a cheeky grin),
“Never marry a redhead.”
Then Dad (who was a redhead)
smiled and wisely told me
“There’s always more fish in the sea,
but be careful what you wish for
beyond your front door.”

As I became a young man,
I asked for a redhead’s hand.
Alas, beyond the garden’s flowers,
life is both sweet and sour.

Thereupon, my dear parents
elected to be our loving warrants
and held our hands
above
life’s deepening quicksand.

A piece of music for the quieter hours — for the moments when age speaks softly and reminds us how to stay present.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Memory Lane

A quiet moment in the grass this morning — just me, my camera, and a lone mushroom in the light to guide me down memory lane — a soft umbrella for tired legs and fading recollections. This poem is the path I followed beneath its shelter.

I don’t often do this, but before the poem, I’ve added a song that’s always offered me a quiet kind of shelter. Dylan’s Shelter from the Storm feels like the right companion for this morning’s walk and the memories that followed.

Memory Lane

I’m slowly drifting back
along a familiar winding track.

My old legs feel like used lard —
I can’t travel another yard;
the climb has been long and hard.

Please, can you give me shelter
here, under your mushroom’s umbrella?

Let my weariness rest for a few moments
while my memory lane’s missing residents
struggle to recall who’s the President.

And as the day drifts on, this song carries my missing dreams down along memory lane.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Below the Coconut Palms

In the cool, silvery hush between daytime calm and midnight cloud‑glow, tonight’s full moon drifts above, coinciding with the poem’s own shifting rhythms below.

Below the Coconut Palms

The world’s a sphere of disparity,
like the incongruity
between the becalmed daytime moon
and the shiny orb’s cloudy midnight party —
savouring dark-side ice cream with a silver spoon
and sipping on milky star-dust until noon.

While down here on planet Earth,
between Perth and Fort Worth,
I perceive nothing is calm
below the empty coconut palms.

Where wanderlust meets wonder — let this song carry you to the far places your heart remembers.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Truth Hurts (a lai poem)

Nancy’s, Lai “Singed” challenged me to try the form myself. I’d never written a Lai before, but her poem inspired this first attempt — a small reply shaped from her spark.
Nancy: Singed – The Elephant’s Trunk

A traditional lai is a short French poetic form built on a pattern of nine lines, arranged in three stanzas. Each stanza follows this structure:

Lines 1–2: 5 syllables, same end rhyme
Line 3: 2 syllables, repeated refrain
Lines 4–5: 5 syllables, same end rhyme
Line 6: 2 syllables, repeated refrain
Lines 7–8: 5 syllables, same end rhyme
Line 9: 2 syllables, repeated refrain

The rhyme scheme is: a a b / a a b / a a b

The refrain (“truth hurts”) repeats at the end of each stanza, giving the lai its heartbeat.

And for Sadje’s WDYS >> What do you see # 347- 29 June, 2026 – Keep it alive

Truth Hurts (a lai poem)

I’m an awkward dill
with a broken quill —
truth hurts.

I don’t swallow krill,
nor kill for the thrill —
truth hurts.

I can’t light the grill,
my flame has no will —
truth hurts.

From fog to fire – a quiet truth above, a wild awakening below

Ivor Steven © June 2026

Behold

Feature Image Above: A pale, gold sun, a held breath, a path unfolding —and a quiet truth still finds its way through.

Early yesterday morning, I read Gigi’s fierce and tender poem, and something in her words stirred an old ache of my own. What began as a quick response grew into this small reckoning — a quiet look at age, longing, and the goals that slip beyond our grasp.

Gigi >> FYI… | Rethinking Life

Behold

As I grow old
the heart goes cold,
so I am told.

I’ve never been bold,
nor has life been gold.
Dreams remain deep in my soul —
and now, as the mind unfolds,
they’re my only stronghold.

I’m yet to be paroled,
and the resolve of my goal
has been lost and sold.

And so I leave these lines here, drifting toward Cohen’s voice, where the narrowing of life becomes its own kind of truth.

Ivor Steven © June 2026

No Connection, or Seven Rhyming Couplets

Still offline, still smiling. While the internet takes its sweet time returning, I’ve tapped out a whimsical little poem on my tiny iPhone screen — a lighthearted look at my ongoing battle with the great digital void. Hope it brings a grin.

And fittingly, as this article goes live, I’m pleased to announce that my internet connection has finally returned.

No Connection, or Seven Rhyming Couplets

I’m in isolation;
I have no internet connection.

Now falling beyond day five,
without my writer’s bee hive.

ISP could not solve the problem –
oh, what a sad conundrum

There’s a frog and toad
on the outside pole’s naughty node.

Linesmen, trucks, and ladders are required;
I’m frustrated, tired, and uninspired.

Might be fixed in another 48 hours …
plenty of time to pluck more moonflowers.

Now climbing into day seven,
I’m sailing up the internet’s stairway to heaven.

And now, with the moon back in view and the wires behaving, here’s the song that carried me through.

Ivor Steven © June 2026

Throwback Friday, The Universe Beyond My Wardrobe’s Doors

This poem was penned in May 2024 and quietly tucked away. Rediscovering it today felt like stepping back into the room where it began, so I’ve gently revised it for my Throwback Friday reflection.

The Universe Beyond My Wardrobe’s Doors (Revised)

I live in a small, compact villa.
My abode is comfortable and cozy.
The bedroom doubles up
as my writer’s studio and library.

The wardrobe’s doors are near the end of my bed.
On the doors, I hang a calendar
and a special photo of me and Carole
taken for our 25th anniversary

I gaze at the calendar and ponder.
The appointments are in black,
important dates are marked in red,
and my poetry events are scribbled in blue.

The calendar has many blank squares —
the days I spend writing.
I write to her about love and coping.
I write for myself, about life and nature.

I write for everyone who reads my poems.
I write my thoughts about humanity’s existence
within the universe and the great beyond.
I write words, “Until Eyes Hear Sound.”

As the room opens into the universe once more, here’s a song to travel with — much like Melanie’s lovely old “Look What They’ve Done to My Song, Ma,” carrying my memories back into the light.

Until Eyes Hear Sound

Amazon >> Amazon.com : Until Eyes Hear Sound

Lulu Books >> Until Eyes Hear Sound (lulu.com)

Perceptions:

Amazon >> Perceptions : Steven, Ivor, Knight, Derrick: Amazon.com.au: Books
Lulu Books >> Perceptions (lulu.com)

Tullawalla:

Amazon >> Tullawalla A Meeting Place Where My Empty Hands are Full of Memories and Rhymes : Steven, Ivor: Amazon.com.au: Books

OR: >> You may email me directly for a signed copy at
ivorrs20@gmail.com … and I can send you a PayPal account,
for the Book, plus Postage.

Ivor Steven © June 2026

Shangri La, Volume 20, Life’s Missing Teacher

FREE PDF COPY >>> Links Below

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 “2354” 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 20, Life’s Missing Teacher.”

OR … Shangri La, Volume 20, Life’s Missing Teacher.pdf

Life’s Missing Teacher

I never found a teacher,
who taught me how to grieve.

The unforeseen creature
was difficult to perceive.

After unplugging her extension cord,
time was always near.

While wandering toward
the edge of life’s weathered pier.

In the spaces grief never taught me to navigate, Cohen’s song becomes a guide.

Until Eyes Hear Sound

Amazon >> Amazon.com : Until Eyes Hear Sound

Lulu Books >> Until Eyes Hear Sound (lulu.com)

Perceptions:

Amazon >> Perceptions : Steven, Ivor, Knight, Derrick: Amazon.com.au: Books
Lulu Books >> Perceptions (lulu.com)

Tullawalla:

Amazon >> Tullawalla A Meeting Place Where My Empty Hands are Full of Memories and Rhymes : Steven, Ivor: Amazon.com.au: Books

OR: >> You may email me directly for a signed copy at
ivorrs20@gmail.com … and I can send you a PayPal account,
for the Book, plus Postage.

Stamped and Dispatched

Gigi, wrote these words

“all of those things
divide us
separate us
they are labels
and we are not merchandise”

Below, is my poetic reply

Gigi >> This is what is done to all of us… | Rethinking Life

Stamped and Dispatched

once upon a time
a poet without rhyme
looked up from the waiting line —
the sky whispered its warning:
you were never meant to wear a label,
nor born to be one‑of‑a‑kind

Magazine features my new poem, “An Interview With Time.”

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, “An Interview With Time,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.
>> An Interview With Time – Coffee House Writers

I’ve written about Time in many poems before, and a few of those familiar lines resurfaced as I shaped this one. It felt natural to bring them together here — especially on a day when Time was willing to cooperate and stand still for a moment.

In the stillness where Time stands present, let the music hold the vow that words can only touch.