After days of emotional highs, in the hush of this morning’s light, even a desert flower feels like a gentle breath.
Dessert Flower (a Haiku)
I watch the day age
Even the red cactus wilts
As the sun arcs high
A soft melody to carry the moment forward — a desert flower blooming in sound.
Ivor Steven © July 2026
Some days arrive quietly and leave a lasting tremor in the heart. Today was one of them. This finale 75th birthday wasn’t just a celebration of another year — it became a gathering of the people who have walked beside me through the most profound chapters of my life.
This group of friends is woven into every part of Carole’s story. They were there when she and I first met, full of hope and laughter. They were there when MS entered our lives forty‑four years ago, offering care, strength, and the kind of support that can only come from people who love without hesitation. Through three decades of Carole’s battle, they stood with us — not as visitors, but as family.
And even after Carole passed fourteen years ago, the thread didn’t break. Every three or four months, we gather to honour her astonishing life — her compassion, her grace, and that infectious smile that could soften any room. Today, on my birthday, that ritual became something deeper. It felt like a circle closing gently around memory, friendship, and the enduring presence of a woman who shaped us all.
The Crew, and my birthday Barbeque Apron present; a handcrafted gift by Dot … “Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.”
Everlasting (a Tanka)
This circle of friends,
like a silver wedding ring,
bright and long-lasting,
lovingly loyal and strong —
yet time does not weary them.
A tune for the long road we’ve walked together — still singing, still smiling. A journey that continues to be brightened by loyal friends.
Ivor Steven © July 2026
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
“When doors close, and wars roar, let peace be the key we choose to turn.”
This piece gathers four small reflections I shared on my fellow writers’ posts.
In stanza order, they are:
Nancy: Extraordinary Lies – The Elephant’s Trunk
Sara: Levels of Water | purplepeninportland
Nancy: Gilded Quiet – The Elephant’s Trunk
David: While my key still turns, or: Old lock – The Skeptic’s Kaddish
Time Unlocks Closed Doors
Behind every resurfacing lie
there is a buried piece of truth
Life’s ebb tides
and rising waters
have no lateral sides
The ways of the rich
make life a bitch.
We’re better off
not being so aloft
If the key is not in the lock
You’ll find it under the welcome mat
A song for those moments when closed doors feel heavy — Renee’s voice reminds us that time still finds a way through.
Ivor Steven © July 2026
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
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
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:
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
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
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
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
