Poems – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

This week’s Coffee House Writers Magazine features my new poem, “Beyond My Outpost.”

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, “Beyond My Outpost,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.
>> https://coffeehousewriters.com/beyond-my-outpost/

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 © February 2026

Wading in Dry Ice

Featured Image Above: A quiet stretch of the Moorabool, holding its breath in the summer heat.”

Nancy >> RDP Thursday: river – The Elephant’s Trunk
Nancy’s haiku about winter’s thin ice stirred something in me this morning. Her quiet image of a fragile river set my thoughts drifting back home, where our waterways are thinning for a very different reason. Her words nudged me toward the dry, sunburnt world I’ve been watching all summer, and this poem arrived as my response

Wading in Dry Ice

Hardly a drop of rain
Has fallen on our sunburnt plains
Rivers are slimy drains
No fields of grain
Nor wading cranes
Only dusty stains
On the windowpanes

And again
Dry ice runs through my veins
While the windmill vanes
Rotate in vain

“I’ve always felt this song holds the heartbeat of a parched Australian summer. It seemed the right companion for these words.”

Ivor Steven © February 2026

Yet to be Found

A fallen flowering bush caught my eye on the way back from our morning walk — knocked flat by last night’s storm, yet still holding colour. The sight struck a familiar chord, and the words came quickly, shaped by that quiet recognition of what it means to be brought down and still not done.

Yet to be Found

I’m lying on the ground.
The overnight storm knocked me down.
I’m feeling flat and unsound;
my flowers are turning brown.
When will I be found?

Do they know, I need to be reset?
I’m still bound to this mound –
and I’m not dead yet!

Ivor Steven © February 2026

Above and Beyond the Horizon

Where the cloud‑horizon meets the fading sun, twilight balances its colours on the edge of evening

Above and Beyond the Horizon

Here, beneath the twilight zone’s archway,
I see a phenomenal golden causeway.

There, above the horizon’s sentinal treeline
and below the cloudbank’s grigio plateau –
like another parallel pseudo-horizon –

mysteriously, the yellow band of light
momentarily emerges,
despite the fading sun folding into night.

Ivor Steven © February 2026

A Blackbird’s Night

Featured Image Above: Was created by Copilot and me.

A Blackbird’s Night

Not everything said
understands the light
within our heads.

On a Wolf Moon night,
what I write,
in black and white,
is not always right –
slumber darkens my sight.

I am no white knight,
nor a feathery kite.
And despite
my comfy campsite,

the world’s warring blight
incites me to always fight
for what is right
in black and white.

Footnote: I’m pleased to report that last week’s plumbing job was completed today. Even though I was tired and it was nearly dark, we still managed to go for our walkie …

Ivor Steven © January 2026

The Earth and the Sky

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me. Where light breaks through, and wings find their path.

The Earth and the Sky

“Good morning, Earth,”
Said the solar sky
To my little piece of the universe,
Where I see our illustrious Sun
Illuminating the waning Half-moon.

And there, below the umbrella of cosmic light,
the birds are embracing their empyrean life.

A moment that stunned me into stillness — sky, bird, and song all speaking the same truth.

Ivor Steven © February 2026

Time Doesn’t Go Tick-Tock

Feature Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
“Time doesn’t tick—it unlocks. Not with rhythm, but with riddles.”

And thank you to Beth( https://ididnthavemyglasseson.com/) whose comment on my post, “Time, My Muse,” inspired me to create this poem.
“love it! time makes its own rules for sure”

Time Doesn’t Go Tick-Tock

Time is neither tick nor tock;
Time cannot be deadlocked.
It takes no notice of the weather sock.

Time never throws rocks
At either the Eastern Bloc
Or the future’s aftershocks.

A glimpse into the strange places time wanders when it looks back.

What’s the Difference

Feature Image Above: was created by Copilot and me. The trials and tribulations of the aging process — where questions deepen, and the hills keep rising.

After flooding my kitchen last night (again), I found myself wondering where simple mistakes end, and something more unsettling begins. This poem grew out of that quiet, uneasy space — the place where aging, memory, and meaning start to blur at the edges.

What’s the Difference

What’s the gap
Between insanity and humanity
Is there a difference
Between oblivion and infinity

What’s the gap
Between failure and fruition
Is there a difference
Between carelessness and forgetfulness

What’s the gap
Between here and there
Is there a difference
Between thoughtlessness and memory loss

What’s the gap
Between now and then
Is there a difference
Between Alzheimer’s and Dementia

Some days, the questions echo louder than the answers.

Who’s Watching Whom

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.

With two sharp‑eyed magpies and a pale daytime moon looking on, this little poem takes flight as a whimsical protest — a light‑feathered reminder that even the quiet watchers on the fence have something to say about the state of our cluttered world.

Who’s Watching Whom

I’m perched on the fence,
wondering about the world’s
lack of common sense,
and I ask the moon,
“Is there no end to this gloom?”

“Do not worry, my feathered friend –
this is not the end.”

“Soon there will be enough elbowroom
for everyone’s nom de plume
in the planet’s master bedroom,
after Mother Nature has donned
her cleaning costume,
and swept all of the needless showrooms,
backrooms, ballrooms, and boardrooms.”

“And the people should all help groom
their own untidy playrooms
with those unused yardbrooms.”

And here’s a song that hums along with the magpies’ quiet protest…

A Weary Old Plumber, I’m Thinking of You (Happy Birthday, Dad)

Alex Steven (Dad), February 5th 1924 – July 3rd 2015

A Weary Old Plumber, I’m Thinking of You
(Happy Birthday, Dad)

One hundred and two years ago
When dark became day
And the sun shone on you
Did the gods of the world know
How lucky they were
That your sphere of love
Was all-encompassing