Loaded Guns (a Tu-aiku*)
Sitting on the line,
observing daylight’s decline –
isn’t a hanging crime.
But innocent ones
are still being outgunned by
The world’s loaded guns.
*Tu-aiku – Ivor’s name for a Dual Haiku
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Time & Location (This coming Sunday)
11 Jan 2026, 9:00 am – 4:00 pm
Barwon Heads Community Hall, 77 Hitchcock Ave, Barwon Heads VIC 3227, Australia
Yes, I’ll be there, along with many other Geelong and Victorian Indie Authors. Over 30 local independent writers gathered under one roof- what better way to spend a Sunday morning in January than a trip out to the beautiful Barwon Heads
The Book Reality Experience presents the 3nd Annual Indie Author Summer Book Fair, which celebrates stories from children’s books through to horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and every genre in between. We can’t wait to welcome you to this one-day event filled with over 30 Author Exhibits, providing you with the opportunity to talk directly with independently published authors… some of whom will become your new favourites.
** FREE entry to all visitors.
https://ian5169.wixsite.com/indie-author-book-fa/meet-the-authors
Book Mouse (a Haiku)
A hall full of books
Indie Authors to greet you
The book mouse’s nest
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
It was a rare summer’s morning — the moon falling, the sun rising, both holding the same height in the sky. I stood between them for a moment longer than I meant to, feeling something shift, something settle. The poem began forming there and then, carried on a bridge of clouds. To complete the moment, I’ve paired it with Lisa O’Neill’s The Globe — a song that feels as earthy and genuine as the morning itself.
Between Here and the Edge
I’m no ancient mariner
with a sextant to chart the sky
The moon was falling into bed,
the sun rising ahead,
both at the same height,
as if I were the hinge between them.
Here I stand on their earthbound bridge
at the centre of my own universe,
unsure of my footing near the edge –
am I fading into the advancing ground,
or drifting back toward an old wedding pledge.
The Globe, Lisa O’Neill, Lyris
[Verse 1]
When I was small
Two feet tall
I thought that the world
Was a map on the wall
And that globe of a ball
We′d spin and explore
But that world showed no door to me
[Verse 2]
I grew more
In feet and in lore
I learned to read ’bout the globe
In through the windows of my eyes
I sang the blues and greens
I touched on things one only sings
When they’ve found the key
And still the world in all my awe
Showed no door to me
[Verse 3]
Not wholly old
I’ve paved some road
I’m taller than I’ll ever be
I’ve learnеd things I cannot sing
I spin relentlessly
I pluggеd out of self in doubt
In soul misplaced the key
And lo and behold
That cruel old globe
Went showed its door to me
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
A bell without a gong. A dove without a sky. A poem for uneasy times, paired with Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem.”
Ding Dong
Wondering –
Who’s right and what’s wrong?
Pondering –
Who’s weak and what’s strong?
Unearthing
Another Viet Cong,
Hearing the same old song.
Listening –
The peace bell has no gong.
Foreboding –
Where has the holy dove gone?
Wishing,
Hoping –
Forever too long.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
A saffron moon, a gliding pelican, and a wistful spoon — twilight over the bay, set to Lisa O’Neill’s “Silver Seed.”
The Moon and the Pelican
Twilight time,
the moon is on the climb.
The bay is misty and calm,
below the whispering palms.
Pelicans gracefully glide by
in the evening’s hessian sky.
There is a saffron moon
to fill my wistful spoon.
While I wait for the bird’s silhouette
To inscribe my words on the moon’s lunette.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
This poem began as a poetic comment I shared with Beth, in response to her moving article about a group of monks who set out from the Huong Dao Temple in Fort Worth, Texas. Their 2,300-mile pilgrimage to Washington, D.C. will span roughly 120 days and carry them through ten states — a quiet, powerful gesture of peace.
I’m grateful to Beth for allowing me to reproduce the photos from her post here on my poetry site.
Beth >> walking into the new year with peace. | I didn’t have my glasses on….
“Walk For Peace”
Silently, like daylight moves across a sundial,
The monks walk for peace in a humble style.
Within myself, I wistfully smile,
And hope that all the rank and file
Will also freely walk every single mile.
And add to the world’s peaceful stockpile.
Lisa O’Neill, If I Was A Painter, Lyrics
[Verse 1]
If I was a painter with colours no end
I’d paint the whole thing simply again
Where everything runs into everything
Where every colour is born without sin
[Verse 2]
Red be a roaring river in my veins
Green be the beat of the heart in the trees
Blue be the pull of the moon on the tide
Let brown be the base of some true love’s eyes
[Bridge]
Give us a chance at an earthly lifе
Then pull it from under us when wе arrive
Sending us orderly – what choice had I?
Born under the only sky
[Pre-Chorus]
Vast, vast, vast
Silver, gold and brass
The moon′s milk, the sun’s silk
All move among the stars
[Chorus]
I found out when I listened
Love is received from love
Up in the steely night
Stars span the Galway shawl
I was scared of the underground in London
At the speed of my generation
Are the old people getting forgotten
In this fuss of the world we spin?
[Verse 1]
If I was a painter with colours no end
I’d paint the whole thing simply again
Where everything runs into everything
Where every colour is born without sin
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
This poem grew from a series of poetic anecdotes I first shared as comments on fellow bloggers’ posts. In stanza order, they were inspired by:
David >> Back to the soil, or: Stretching forth – The Skeptic’s Kaddish
Eugi >> Wordless Wednesday – Poesy Perspectives
Susi >> Erred – I Write Her
VJ >> Turning (tanka) – One Woman’s Quest
An Albatross and the Saboteurs
Underneath all the mounds,
we are all bound together
by the same ground,
whether we are lost or found.
The packaging is losing its gloss,
but the contents are not lost –
still spirited like an albatross.
Bluffers and shovers
Swoop like overprotective plovers,
act like “Big Brother,”
ring the buzzer,
usher out the duffers,
and snuffer the crushers.
Oh, so many detours
and hidden contours.
Who are these saboteurs?
Lisa O’Neill’s music has a way of grounding us in what matters. This song, in particular, feels like a quiet reckoning—an honest look at the world and the winds that shape it.
Lisa O’Neill, The Wind Doesn’t Blow This Far Right, Lyrics
[Verse 1]
I’ve lately been thinking of an old friend
Who I haven’t seen in a while
Last night I dreamed that the same friend
Passed without sayin’ goodbye
[Verse 2]
Oh, to be wild like the roses
Oh, to be red with delight
My blood is red out of fury
The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 3]
Some terrors are born out of nature
Some terrors are born overnight
Some terrors are born out of leaders
With their eye on a different prize
[Verse 4]
The thing is, some leaders are players
And players sometimes can be clowns
And clowns then sometimes can be dangerous
When they’re there and yet they can’t be found
[Verse 5]
The Big Mac, the big man, the big bomb
The power of money and lies
The power of fear in the people
The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 6]
Some terrors are born out of nature
Some terrors are born overnight
Some terrors are born out of leaders
With their eye on a different prize
[Verse 7]
Oh, to be wild like the roses
Oh, to be red with delight
My blood is red out of fury
The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 8]
Drill, baby, drill
Don’t, baby, don’t
Don’t you hear the winds, feel the fires as they burn?
Beautiful planet, beautiful home
Drill, baby, drill
Don’t, baby, don’t
[Verse 9]
Kill, baby, kill
Don’t, baby, don’t
Don’t you hear the kids as you blindly bulldoze on?
Beautiful children, starved to the bone
Kill, baby, kill
Don’t, baby, don’t
Kill, baby, kill
Don’t, baby, don’t
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2024) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the second poem in the Humour section of Chapter 9, Humour, Fantasy, and Fairyland: Timeless
Pockets Full of Stones
I would like to fly away
On this cold, wintry day
But my pockets are full of stones
And my old wings are fragile bones
My benevolent friend, the moon
Is hibernating in his orbital cocoon
So, I’m grounded with muddy toes
Stuck here on this frosty meadow
.
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 © January 2026
This morning, Brian and I had an interesting conversation related to my poem, “A Rocketeer’s Poetry Career.” You may visit Brian’s fabulous Photographic site by clicking on this link >> https://bushboy.blog/
A New Year’s Day Conversation, with Brian
“There is a time
to put away your sword,
and pick up a pen,
Isn’t there, Ivor?”
“My old quill
is still full of ink, Brian”
“and blood on your sword?”
“There is always blood
After the thud
Of a muddy flood”
Ah, this swords a dud,
So dull, draws no blood
Only, this bloody mud
Ivor Steven © January 2026
The Ballarat – Skipton Rail Trail, sunburnt meadows, and tree-shadowed tunnels
Horse drawn cart, and Nimons trestle bridge
The Devils Kitchen is an impressive geological reserve in Piggoreet, 15 minutes from, Smythesdale. The Woady Yaloak River winds its way through a thickly vegetated valley, surrounded by cliffs of spectacular basalt columns.
A Country Trail
How scenarios change over time-
The old unused rural railway line.
From Ballarat to Skipton and back
is now an unspoiled community track.
Gently meandering over sunburnt meadows,
Then dipping through tree-shadowed tunnels aglow.
Along the trails, valleys, and rocky ridges,
Travelers will see horse drawn carts and trestle bridges.
And on the way to Snake Valley and Linton,
Be wary of the gold miners “Devil’s Kitchen.”
A song to wander with along the trail…
Ivor Steven (c) December 2025
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 