Photos – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Throwback Friday, My Song Plays Through the Night

A bird doing somersaults in the afternoon sky is enough to set my thoughts spinning, too — though that might have something to do with my 75th birthday sneaking up on Monday. So for this Throwback Friday, I’ve dusted off and revised a poem from July 2019, a little night‑music piece full of twists, turns, and rolling dreams. Today’s bird photos feel like they’re joining in, tumbling through the page with me.

My Song Plays Through the Night (Revised)

I twist and roll over.
A musical world whirls inside my head;
my somersault of dreams
rotates under my mattress.
Upside down,
rhythmical tiredness
falls out of the seams.
Words tumble around —
nameless titles
and endless tunes abound.

A bad moon’s returning,
singing the blues over my empty town.
I twist and roll over again;
I’m back where I started.
I hear my angel humming Hallelujah —
you’re another year older.

Let my angel’s humming of Hallelujah carry us into another year.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Creative Geelong Market Day, This Saturday, July 18th

It’s Market Day this Saturday from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.
* Our popular monthly markets are all undercover at Centrepoint Arcade on the third Saturday of every month.
* They feature art, unique goods from local makers, second-hand goods, plants, books, and more.
* There are also open art studios, Yesterday Vintage, Untether Gallery, and the May’d Shop.

All at, Centrepoint Arcade
132 Little Malop St, Geelong
From 10 am to 3 pm

And I’ll be there with ‘Frankie’ and my “New Bookstall Set-up“

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Time Unlocks Closed Doors

“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 Solar Empyrean Halo

A Solar Empyrean Halo

Midmorning’s Rising Sun
Gazing above the usual field of view,
high into the cloudy stratosphere,
I catch sight of a
jetstream’s snowdrops
falling from beyond the rising sun’s
solar empyrean halo.

Twilight’s Setting Sun
Gazing toward the hessian horizon,
below the low misty atmosphere,
I catch sight of an
evanescent cashmere twilight
which had serendipitously caught the setting sun’s
solar empyrean halo.

Let the final light’s echo carry you from morning’s rise to twilight’s hush, and here’s the song that keeps the halo glowing a little longer.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Tiredness Sets In

Last night’s twilight felt a little weary, the sun dimming behind the clouds as if it shared my winter tiredness. That small moment became this poem.

Tiredness Sets In

Why is the setting sun
looking so tired and underpowered,
there behind the wistful cloud’s
long caramel bun?

Is it the darkness
of the tree’s silhouettes on the horizon
or the sogginess
of the meadow’s lush green ocean?

Perhaps it’s the foreground’s prickly shrubs
that are holding your eyelids up
before you are allowed to clutch
twilight’s welcoming goodnight hugs.

A quiet, dusk‑lit piece to echo the sun’s underpowered drift — a gentle soundtrack for winter tiredness.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Twilight’s Chromatic Storm (a Tanka)

Last night’s twilight carried a strange chromatic weight — colours deepening, clouds gathering, the horizon holding its breath. And on this cold winter evening, that same wintry mood returned and shaped the Tanka below

Twilight’s Chromatic Storm
(a Tanka)

Dark Ominous clouds
Growl along the horizon
Then suddenly howl
Over trees and open fields
Dumping sharp, icy black pearls

And in the fading light, as twilight settles, the storm’s voice drifts into song.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Flying Through the Sun-veiled Clouds

While capturing the sun‑veiled clouds yesterday, a passing group of pigeons slipped into my frame — a quiet, serendipitous moment that inspired the poem taking flight below.

Flying Through the Sun-veiled Clouds

My weary wings are cold and old,
yet despite my life’s controlled leasehold —
I have a sense of being almost paroled and sold.

I’m boldly journeying
above the rolling cloud-deck,
toward the transcendental edge
of that unfolding hole in the sky
where the golden seam of light
will once again resurrect
my silhouette’s pluckiness
to continue flying
through the great beyond.

And so I rise, though frayed and worn,
my fading shadow, albeit weather‑torn,
still seeks the glow where new skies are born.

As the cold day folds away, I’ll let the music carry the final light of the day.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Sandcastles

This poem grew out of three small conversations across the WordPress community — first with Mark, then with Violet, and finally with Susi. Each reply carried its own quiet image, and when I gathered them together, they seemed to drift toward the same shoreline, as if the words had swum through the ocean and landed on one beach.
In stanza order, they are.
1. Mark: WHAT WE BECAME – Havoc and Consequence
2. Violet: Freedom – Revisited | Thru Violet’s Lentz
3. Susi: The Gate To Hell – I Write Her

Sandcastles

Sandcastles built during low tide
are not supplied with an upside,
nor a legible exit guide.

Freedom never comes
in garbage bags full of crumbs.
Freedom calls and goes,
wearing the same old clothes.

Through the cracks’ depths,
the light’s resurfacing stealth
gives us reassuring strength.

Funny how a few quick replies can turn into a whole poem. These little moments across WordPress drift together, and before I know it, they’ve built something on the shore. Sandcastles is just today’s example.

Throwback Friday, A Finite in the Infinite

This whimsical, philosophical poem was written in November 2020.
“This universe is the wreckage of the infinite on the shore of the finite”
… Swami Vivekananda

A Finite in the Infinite

Curiosity opens my eyes at first light,
I venture beyond my cocoon of fright,
And begin to see the world’s perceived fears —
Wingless, I crawl away from the sea of tears.

Tired of romancing the stone,
I threw a rock into the ocean,
Hit the great white ghost in the head,
And fed the hungry seagulls more bread.

This is no time to throw the towel in;
I just heard the bell for round two ring.
The power of the universe glows at night,
And I am but a finite in the infinite.

And in the quiet drift between the finite and the infinite, a song reminds us what it means to be alive.