Category: Philosophical

The Little Cloud Studio window display at the Creative Geelong Makers Hub stirred a memory of Emily Dickinson’s quiet devotion to nature — this piece is my own small letter back to the world, written from a forest of imagination.

“This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me —
The simple News that Nature told —
With tender Majesty, Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see —
For love of Her — Sweet — countrymen —
Judge tenderly — of Me.”

Emily Dickinson

The Forest, a Fantasy Land



Come join me in the forest’s fantasy land;
I know of a picture-perfect place
where the dappled sunlight
silently filters through the trees.

There’s a picnic table built for two.
I’ll bring a food hamper
and Emily Dickerson’s
magical book of poems.

Within the bower’s peace and quiet,
if you listen closely, nature’s gentle breeze
softly rustles through the ferns and leaves;
and then you’ll hear the green toadstools
from the forest floor’s mossy logs
humming a familiar tune.





Today’s music drifts from the heart of the forest — Enya’s “The Memory of the Trees.”

Ivor Steven  ©  June 2026

Twilight gathered around me, the moon above and the land below — and this mural, a reminder of the ancient, living connection our First Nations people hold with Country.

Between the Moon
and Clouds

They say the world is changing,
but the moon cannot stop frowning,
while nature is unerringly hurting,
beneath our fettered feet.

Between the worried moon
and the settling clouds,
I perceive a loud rumbling sigh
from beyond the deep blue sky.

In one ferocious breath, Thor decries,
“Beware of the ground’s ringleader’s lies
about the Earth’s visible demise,
and hear the crust’s cries
with your own eyes.”

In the silence between day and night, the sky held its breath, and I paused on earth’s shimmering crust, letting the music rise where words could not.

Ivor Steven  ©  June 2026

What began as two simple responses — one to the city’s hard truths, one to the fading light — has merged into a single reflection on how we move through darkness and bridge life’s rolling undertow.

The first stanza is Nancy’s, and the second is David’s.
Nancy … Asphalt Jungle – The Elephant’s Trunk 
David … We stand, or: Our bodies tilt – The Skeptic’s Kaddish 🇮🇱 

It’s Sad

It’s sad how some people can sink so low. 
It’s sad how the onlookers come and go.
It’s sad how Skid Row groans and crows. 
It’s sad how urban rainbows lose their glow, 
and drown in life’s rolling undertow 

Nearing the looming edge of night,
is there a hidden bridge
between life’s fading light
and that last, unbroken ridge?

 
And somewhere in the half‑light, we keep searching for the bridge to span life’s rolling undertow.

Ivor Steven  ©  May 2026