Above the treeline, the day began with wings drifting toward the light.
Brighter Than White (a Tanka)
Quickly, follow me
Through the silhouetted clouds
I hear the wise crow
Has found a hole in the sky
Where the light’s brighter than white
The sky keeps its openings, and somewhere beyond the clouds, the light still waits, brighter than white.
Ivor Steven © July 2026
Twilight lifts its veil, a little pothole in the sky beginning to glow — and below it, this old July Birthday magpie rises, still not done with the day, or the many more days waiting beyond the horizon.
Goodnight, But Not Goodbye
The twilight clouds are alight,
Mother Nature’s waving goodnight.
Levitating above the linen horizon’s misty eye,
I see my pothole flickering in the sky.
But I know daytime is still my ally,
and this old July magpie
isn’t done yet — so loosen your black ties.
I’m cruising around on standby,
and my celestial star will send me a lullaby
when the moment is right to say goodbye.
And as the magpie rises — somehow above it all, that little pothole in the sky keeps glowing.
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
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
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
“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
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
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
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
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
