A Combined Poem – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

I Am Not Here Nor There

Today’s poem is one of my verses made up of Anecdote fragments, reshaped from comments I posted on some of my fellow WordPress writers’ articles over the last couple of months.
In stanza order, they are:
Mark – THE AGE – Havoc and Consequence
David – W3 Prompt #224: Wea’ve Written Weekly – The Skeptic’s Kaddish
Bree – Ribbon – Secret Thoughts Within
Nancy – Untold Story: A Quatrain – The Elephant’s Trunk
Nancy – Tell Me, Wind – The Elephant’s Trunk

I Am Not Here Nor There

When I was young and still alive
It was the Age of Aquarius,
there were no artificial hard drives
and worshiping the sun wasn’t temerarious

I am not aware
that the age is now, here nor there
I cannot find the fare
I’ve no one to tell me where

Loose bows and ribbons
Empty gloves and mittens
And youthfully smitten

Twilight time, the spring bugs are buzzing
As I sit under the verandah light
And gaze at my courtyard’s little garden
Frankie’s lying on the back door mat
I reach down and give him a pat
He gives me that quizzical doggie look,
And I reassuringly say to him
“Yep, it’s time to plant the sunflower seeds.”

The heavy lazy wind sighs and howls
then gently awakens the wise old owls
while blowing open the books of souls.

From a collection of thoughts, this “Ageless” classic tune seemed a fitting companion for today’s journey.

Ivor Steven © November 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

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.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Words Fall Through the Window

This poem grew from three small conversations across the WordPress community — first with David, then with Nancy, and then with David once more. Each reply carried its own quiet image, and when I gathered them together, they seemed to form a single drift of thought, as if the words had slipped through the same window and landed in one place.
In stanza order, they are.
1. David: Sketches, poems, scraps, or: Dreams – The Skeptic’s Kaddish
2. Nancy: Unread Message – The Elephant’s Trunk
3. David: Intellectual or Public introspectual – The Skeptic’s Kaddish

Between light and shadow, these moments gather — small echoes leading toward the words that follow.

Written in response to Sadje’s ‘What Do You See? #345’ prompt
>> What do you see # 345- 15, June- 2026 – Keep it alive

A quiet moment at the window that opened into the poem below

Words Fall Through the Window

Looking through a window
Searching for tomorrow
There is only an afterglow
As life lingers in limbo

Petals softly fall
Knowing the sound of silence
“Do not wait for me”

Sailing alone in my rescue craft
I sense a spirited updraught
rising through the stairwell’s shaft

Where the view softens, and the silence deepens, somewhere beyond the glass, the music carries what the words leave behind

Ivor Steven © June 2026

Before the Morning Moon Sets (a Combined Poem)

In the hush before daylight kisses everything, the setting moon and a lone flyer share the sky’s peaceful journey.

This morning’s moon lingered above Geelong’s blue sky — a quiet witness to words exchanged between kindred writers. Today’s poem gathers those fragments, reshaped from comments left on their pages, into one flowing verse before the morning moon sets.
In stanza order, they are:

Stanza #1, David >> Enemies, or: A rengay – The Skeptic’s Kaddish 🇮🇱
Stanza #2, Sara >> mountain rising | purplepeninportland
Stanza #3, David >> One leg stand , or: A rengay – The Skeptic’s Kaddish
Stanza #4, Kelley >> Listening to Johnny Cash – Piano Girl

Before the Morning Moon Sets

Beware
– of crossing gravel paths.
They say
– ants wearing army boots
Are on the move,
– crushing breadcrumbs
– and breaking straws.
Micro power —
– the mighty insects have their own claws and laws.
– and know how to gnaw and undermine desert wars

Blackness hears our lies.
Mountains pierce the sky.
Sunlight kisses our eyes.

The seam becomes a stream.
The stream trickles into the river.
All rivers journey to the sea,
where all hearts rest peacefully.

Memories do not fade;
they are sparkling pieces of jade.

Let the music widen the horizon a little further, where light, peace, and memory become the quiet journey beyond the world’s grandeur.

Ivor Steven © May 2026

The Pot’s Still Simmering

Featured Image Above: wae created by Copilot and me.

Over at Sadje’s WDYS #325, I think my poem is appropriate for both of her prompt images. To visit her fabulous site please click >> Here.

This poem grew out of three short pieces I wrote in response to posts by fellow WordPress writers—Beth, Mark, and Dwight. Each anecdote carried its own spark, but together they formed a thread I couldn’t ignore. I’ve woven them here into one poem, a reflection on nature, emotion, and the creative fire that keeps us writing.
In stanza order, they are:
Beth – https://ididnthavemyglasseson.com/2026/01/24/the-magic
Mark – https://havocandconsequence.wordpress.com/2026/01/24/smashed-like-a-deity
Dwight – In Pursuit of Passion | Roth Poetry

The Pot’s Still Simmering

Once upon a time, while the moon was sweeping
Just after the ice age had ceased creeping
And when the world’s sky had finished wistfully weeping
Mother Nature always had time for her housekeeping
And would never leave “love” under the snow, sleeping

I’ve always found it difficult
to simply wash away the salty tears
The residual droplets seemed
to have crystallized upon my soul’s fears

While the pot
remains simmering
and the irons are still hot,
a passion for writing
is this poet’s lot

Ivor Steven © January 2026

A Pantomime, or, A Playwright

Feature Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.

This poem grew from four comment‑poems I left on two fellow poets’ pages — David’s words sparking the first and third stanzas, Nancy’s the second and fourth. When I brought those fragments together, they unfolded into a small theatrical wandering: a pantomime of thresholds, ascents, and the strange choreography of time.
In Stanza Order:
1. David; The line moves, or: By inertia – The Skeptic’s Kaddish 
2. Nancy; Thresholds – The Elephant’s Trunk
3. David; My years slowly, or: I walk – The Skeptic’s Kaddish 
4. Nancy; Ascension – The Elephant’s Trunk

A Pantomime, or, A Playwright

Sublime is time;
heeds no rhyme,
beyond our imaginary climb.
Somewhere we await a final line –
or is life just a pantomime?

Oh, I see doorways,
stairways,
and causeways
These days
I’m living in a hazy daze –
or am I wandering in a maze
of poetic cliches
and unfinished essays?

Do we climb the incline
to our ordained shrine?
Or is the causeway a surreal design,
a decline into a magnetic mine?

Under a dome of flawless white,
being elevated toward the uncorrupted light –
the beginning of a poet’s last moonlit playwright

From Lisa O’Neill’s Black Sheep — “Do you want a story before you sleep?” A fitting echo for this small pantomime of doorways and moonlit climbs.

If you wish to read Lisa O’Neill’s outstanding “Black Sheep” lyrics, click on this Link >> https://genius.com/Lisa-oneill-black-sheep-lyrics

An Albatross and the Saboteurs

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

A New Year’s Day Conversation, with Brian

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

The Weather Report

This poem grew from poetic anecdotes I first shared as comments on fellow bloggers’ posts. In stanza order, they are:

Stanza 1. Derrick, >> Not Going Out Much – derrickjknight
Stanza 2. Nancy, >> Novembre – The Elephant’s Trunk
Stanza 3. David, >> This, too, shall pass, or: A rengay – The Skeptic’s Kaddish 🇮🇱
Stanza 4. Beth, >> darkness just begun. | I didn’t have my glasses on….

The Weather Report

The weather report comes and goes,
whether we feel like it or not.
Nature’s unchained window frames
shall always remain,
unclaimed and untamed.

I miss your November sunshine,
Just before Christmas time.
I miss your gorgeous November style –
all year round, your everlasting smile.

With the season’s colourful changes,
Nature’s crayons pepper the ranges.
Her tablecloth’s scattered mess
Becomes her ancient doll’s festive dress.

A spectacular sunset,
and they are all stellar,
in their own special way –
by single-handedly
signifying the end
of another successful day.

Ivor Steven (c) December 2025