Anti-war – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Coffee House Writers Magazine features my new poem, “Living in the Shade.”

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, “Living in the Shade,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.

>> https://coffeehousewriters.com/living-in-the-shade/

This week’s piece was shaped quietly at my café table, with late‑day light drifting across the floor and Portugal. The Man’s live performance of “Shade” echoing through my headphones — a fitting companion for a poem about those left waiting in the dimmer corners of our world.

Let this song cast its own soft light across the shadows we carry.

Until Eyes Hear Sound

Amazon >> Amazon.com : 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 © June 2026

Throwback Friday, Eating Chocolates and Watching Wars

Chocolates are delightfully delicious … wars are deadly and destructive …
Above the valley, a white-feathered messenger rises — reminding us how fragile peace can be

Yesterday we visited the Moorabool Valley Chocolate Café for coffee and cake, and the moment brought this poem back to me — a piece I wrote in August 2018, when a simple liquor chocolate stirred memories, questions, and the ache of a world still at war.

Eating Chocolates And Watching Wars (Revised)

Hungrily, I’m eating a liquor chocolate —
a selfish heavenly delight,
arousing my old mind’s senses.

I wonder
what she would be thinking,
looking down from the stars
through her sensitive olive eyes —
her everlasting smile,
her gracious courage,
her generous heart,
her forgiving soul,
her love for me and you.

I wonder
what she would be thinking,
seeing these futile, bloody wars
through her compassionate olive eyes —
the dead and maimed,
the millions of shuffling homeless,
the distraught, broken families,
the crying children locked in sheds,
the desperate refugees with no beds.

I wonder
what she would be thinking
while she preciously
holds the last white dove,
observing these senseless wars
that never ever ends.

And for the song that holds the cracks and the light, here is Leonard Cohen’s Anthem — offered to a world where the last white dove may never fly free again.

Until Eyes Hear Sound

Amazon >> Amazon.com : 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 © June 2026

“Spirit Bird”

There are moments when a song gathers everyone in the room into one breath. Watching “Spirit Bird” live in Brussels, I felt that pull — a reminder that we’ve walked this path before, laughed and cried before, stood on this same wounded ground before. And still, the spirit rises.

Morning’s silent wings keep tracing the same old stories.

“Spirit Bird”

Yes, we’ve seen it all before
“Give it time, and we wonder why,
do what we can, laugh, and we cry
And we sleep in your dust
because we’ve seen this all before.”
… The finale lyrics from Xavier Rudd’s emotional song “Spirit Bird.”

Ivor Steven © April 2026

The World’s Cold Old Fire

Here in the quiet between sun and trees, I steady myself before the day’s cold fire.

The World’s Cold Old Fire

Beyond the trees,
I see our warm old sun.
We do not have another one.

Above the trees,
I see our bold old moon.
We do not have another one.

Among the trees,
here I stand
on earth’s wartime cremated land.
We do not have another one.

Here I sway,
with hand on my heart —
I do not have another one.

I’m being immorally overwhelmed
by the world’s cold old fire.
We do not need another one.

A song to walk with through the world’s cold old fire.

Ivor Steven © April 2026

Handless Watchbands, or Who’s Counting

As the weekend’s protest thread continues, this poem looks at what we count — and what we choose not to.

VJ’s article on holding to a deeper “why” nudged me toward this poem — a poignant protest shaped by questions of time, land, and what we risk by looking away.
Her story is below—the spark behind this poem.
>> Having a Why – One Woman’s Quest

Also, over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word Invasive. To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here

Handless Watchbands, or Who’s Counting

How many grains of sand
are left in the ancient hourglass?
Why are the Holy grasslands
a desert full of misguided missiles
and handless watch bands?

How many missiles
do the leaders in Versailles
have to count
before the amount
is called genocide?

For what we cannot look away from, let the song bear witness.

Ivor Steven © April 2026

Silence as The Bombs Fall Down

This morning’s feather, and Matt Rai’s raw protest song, stirred the same truth in me — silence has its limits when the bombs fall down.

Silence as The Bombs Fall Down

Today I distil
My silent words
With an ancient quill
That’s never been a blunt sword,
Nor written in soft pastel.

The scribe’s feather is light,
But still heavy enough to fight
For what I believe is right.

Protest letters from a poetic knight
About humanity’s warring blight,
Which has quickly become the world’s
Blundering bombsight.

Ivor Steven © April 2026

Solar Isosceles and More Debris

Sometimes poems arrive in clusters, even when we don’t plan them. After posting A Fistful of Sand (CHW), another anti‑war piece surfaced, and Beyond the Debris continued that same uneasy thread …
It seems I’ve unintentionally written a small trilogy — each poem looking at conflict from a different angle, each one carrying its own weight. Tonight’s piece steps further into the aftermath, where the smoke settles, and the world tries to breathe again.

Solar Isosceles and More Debris

From behind the bushes and trees,
crows crash through the branches and leaves.

And flee toward our solar Isosceles,
like blind bats that can now see
beyond the world’s charred canopy –

a toxic cloud of wartime debris
and the smouldering embers
of expendable draftees.

No Kings

Feature Image Above: Created by my Canva App.
When the tent starts sagging, the whole performance shows its seams

After reading Mirroring the World’s blistering take on Trump’s latest political tantrum, I felt a poem forming almost instantly — a small, sarcastic echo of the chaos described, and a reminder that no self‑crowned king is above a little poetic scrutiny.
taurusingemini >> Trump is Now, Out of Plays in the War with Iran He Started | Mirroring the World

No Kings!

There is a clown,
with an apricot crown
under his dressing gown,
who’s swinging upside down
on the outskirts of town

The false king is insane,
with a selfish brain.
He’s inhumane,
and greed is his game.

Without shame
his aim is to blame
anyone whose name
is not on his “gravy-train.”

And to close, here’s a song that carries the same simmering energy — a little theatrical, a little exasperated, and perfectly tuned to the mood of this piece.