Humour – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Throwback Friday, A Snowman Falls

Please Note: The featured image above was created by Copilot and me.

I wrote this satirical poem in November 2020. Given the political fallout following last week’s election results, it seemed an appropriate time to dust it off and give it another airing.

A Snowman Falls (revised)

The writing is on the wall
Did you see the words fall?
Twittered in red, white, and blue scrawl
The letters fell ridiculous and tall
Weird, like a frozen Niagara Falls
Announcing the new overhaul
Choirs sang within tenement halls
Medicine-men debuted at the White House ball
And did you hear the snowman fall?
Liquefied by his own fiery cannonballs.

Some memories melt with the seasons, while others remain warm long after the snow has gone. This beautiful live performance feels like a fitting soundtrack to those enduring memories.

Ivor Steven © November 2026

My One Sock Theory

Some theories attempt to explain the mysteries of the universe. Others focus on more pressing questions, such as where all the missing socks have gone.

This light-hearted poetic response was inspired by a post by Khadija Shabbir on August 14th.
Khadija Shabbir >>
I consider myself a very logical person. – She Knows All

And at Weekly Prompts, since it’s the last weekend of the month, the challenge is to include the words ‘One Day’ in your Post. To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here.

“My One Sock Theory”

All the single missing socks
are being siphoned off by AI
There is only one “I” in AI
and there are trillions
of AI guys zooming around;
so all the single “I” guys,
in that infinite AI world,
need a sock to wear,
for every stressed-out single Black “I”—
especially when stepping into
the cold, deep theories
about the mysterious Black-holes.

For now, the lone sock keeps its secrets. The evidence has been found. The mystery remains.

Ivor Steven © November 2026

Throwback Friday: The Reincarnation of a Pumpkin

Halloween prompts often encourage us to look at transformation in unexpected ways. I wrote this poem in response to a Halloween challenge hosted by Ingrid at Experiments in Fiction in October 2020. If you’d like to visit the original prompt, you’ll find the link below.
>> https://experimentsinfiction.com/2020/10/24/eif-poetry-challenge-8-halloween-special/

The Reincarnation of a Pumpkin

My locked bubble is about to go boom,
A year I’ve been a stranger in my own tomb,
Under a pumpkin lid, hiding my gloom,
Where my world was a rotting cave of doom.

Now these orange walls are my life-giving womb,
Being reborn like a smiling old groom,
I’m breaking away from the master’s dead blooms,
Escaping on the green witch’s magical broom.

Flying over the full moon of autumn,
Where I’ll be able to wear my mask and costume,
Hidden under my orange Kaftan from Khartoum,
Then I’ll invade the newsrooms,
and all the children’s bedrooms.

Some poems emerge from unexpected prompts and take on a life of their own. Looking back, this song still seems a fitting companion for a pumpkin determined to escape its fate.

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 invoice
for the Book, plus Postage.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

Ponds and Puddles

Feature Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.

Three days of steady rain have kept me home, resting and recovering at an easy pace. Between showers, I found myself watching puddles form and rivers rise — and somewhere in that rhythm, this whimsical piece appeared.
Ravishing rabbits waiting to board the Ark seemed the perfect companions for a rainy Sunday poem.

Ponds and Puddles

Splish, splash, splosh —
puddles and ponds,
but no soulful swans.

Sharp, hard hail rocks,
heavy, fat raindrops,
but no wistful wattlebirds.

Rivers are rising,
mudlarks are still flying —
but look,
there are two white rabbits
waiting to board the Ark.

While the rabbits wait for the Ark, I’ll rest here with this gentle song.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

Old Goat Blues (a Limerick)

Nancy’s “Feeding Time” post from last week sparked this limerick. A stray comment of mine turned into a tiny blues riff about Billy, the old goat who can’t keep out of trouble.
Nancy >> Feeding Time – The Elephant’s Trunk

Old Goat Blues (a Limerick)

Billy the silly old goat
Instead of his wild oats
He ate the old leathery shoes
Now he needs a glass of booze
To clear his sole full throat

And because Nancy’s goat set this whole thing in motion, here’s a porch‑blues groove with just enough swagger to keep his hooves tapping.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

Steve the Snail’s Bookcase

Feature Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.

As twilight settles across the shelves, Steve pauses for thought atop his old bookcase…

Steve the Snail’s Bookcase

I’m sitting in a secret place
on top of this old bookcase —
I’m not a nutcase,
but wistfully wondering about that space
between the sun’s twilight zone
and the world’s traversing horizon.

Is that the mysterious place
beyond third base,
the dark coalface,
that I’m yet to embrace —
my final footrace?

But wait — before I vanish into space
without a trace,
I need to don my carapace
and tighten these slivery bootlaces.

Steve’s gentle reminder drifts in: put your hat and shoes on, and enjoy life while you’re able.

As Steve settles into the hush of twilight, this song drifts in beside him…

Ivor Steven © September 2026

How Deep Is My Well

In the hush before dawn, the poet’s desk waits — ink, paper, and silence mingling with the faint hum of a song. “Last Rites” plays softly, and the night’s spell lingers just long enough to ask: how deep is my well?

How Deep Is My Well

Inside my pastel grey cell,
where the poet’s pencils dwell,
I stumbled over the inkwell
and felt a dank, dark swell
run down my silk lapel.

“Help!” I yell.
My cocoon’s inner shell
has become as black as hell.

“Please! Ring the hotel bell
Perhaps the night-shift personnel
will know how to quell
this bewitching writer’s spell.”

From here, the ink settles… and this song becomes the last whisper of the night.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

A Fantail’s Flighty Tale, or a Tricky Tail

Sometimes the morning gifts me a little magic.
Yesterday’s wander with Frankie brought a flurry of feathered moments — a Fantail on a rail, a Magpie mid‑grumble, a Mudlark caught in a swirl of tiny bravado. These images arrived with such charm and mischief that the words followed instantly, light as a breeze. What began as a simple set of photos quickly turned into a playful tale of one tiny bird bossing the bigger ones about, all in good humour and whimsy.

The cheeky Fantail and the grumpy Magpie

The twirling Fantail and the brave Mudlark

A Fantail’s Flighty Tale, or a Tricky Tail

I’m not a fiendish tax collector,
nor a fat company director.
I’m not a bossy dictator,
nor a busy Choir conductor.

I’m just a flighty tiny fella
who flits around like a flirty ballerina —
a cheeky little Fantail who unfurls
on the breeze, commander of curls;
Magpie stumbles, Mudlark sighs —
yet all obey my mischievous eyes.

A burst of bright, buoyant energy to match my cheeky Fantail’s playful world — Nick Cave’s “Joy” feels like the perfect musical wink to close this whimsical tale.

The Icings on the Cake, or a Sweet Full Moon

When the full moon rises, Frankie and I can’t help but chase its glow. What begins as a playful lift‑off soon becomes a delicious journey through clouds that taste like desserts and skies that shimmer with childhood magic.

“Itmims”
Ivor’s Time Machine In Micro Space

The Icings on the Cake, or a Sweet Full Moon

I’ve time enough to finish my mushy mango.
The full moon is about to put on a show.
Both Frankie and my spacecraft, Itmims,
are howling and revving to go.

I pour the leftover banana juice
into the awaiting craft’s fuel compartment,
then untether the impatient machine,
and Frankie and I quickly jump aboard.
Up, up and away we go,
high above the mist and creamy snow.

We fly toward the cherry pie clouds
and twilight’s strawberry jelly sky,
where, to our consummate delight,
we spy the full moon’s white Knight
glowing brighter than grandma’s
world-famous passionfruit pavlova

No Connection, or Seven Rhyming Couplets

Still offline, still smiling. While the internet takes its sweet time returning, I’ve tapped out a whimsical little poem on my tiny iPhone screen — a lighthearted look at my ongoing battle with the great digital void. Hope it brings a grin.

And fittingly, as this article goes live, I’m pleased to announce that my internet connection has finally returned.

No Connection, or Seven Rhyming Couplets

I’m in isolation;
I have no internet connection.

Now falling beyond day five,
without my writer’s bee hive.

ISP could not solve the problem –
oh, what a sad conundrum

There’s a frog and toad
on the outside pole’s naughty node.

Linesmen, trucks, and ladders are required;
I’m frustrated, tired, and uninspired.

Might be fixed in another 48 hours …
plenty of time to pluck more moonflowers.

Now climbing into day seven,
I’m sailing up the internet’s stairway to heaven.

And now, with the moon back in view and the wires behaving, here’s the song that carried me through.