Tag: Life & Nature

Throwback Friday, Hotter Than Helios

Featured Image Above: From Bing Images, numrush.nl


Here in Geelong, we are going through a warm/hot spell, and this is a poem that I wrote in January 2019, so appropriately, the poem gets replayed today.


Hotter Than Helios

Today is hotter than hot
This town’s a living melting pot
You could fry an egg without a cooktop
I won’t be taking Yorkie for a trot
My body’s losing the plot
Waiting for my aorta’s mystery clots

My writing’s burnt out, on Helios hill
Leaving an arid inkwell, holding a dry quill
Despite the heat, I’ll do an exercise session. It’s my will
To continue with this daily drill
No excuses, to lose sight of spring’s daffodil
Working out, like I’m an old grinding flour mill

Even if I’m over-baked, like Sunday’s hot roast
For her, I’ll take life’s chances to the utmost










.


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 ©  January 2026

Between Here and the Edge

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.


It was a rare summer’s morning — the moon falling, the sun rising, both holding the same height in the sky. I stood between them for a moment longer than I meant to, feeling something shift, something settle. The poem began forming there and then, carried on a bridge of clouds. To complete the moment, I’ve paired it with Lisa O’Neill’s The Globe — a song that feels as earthy and genuine as the morning itself.




Between Here and the Edge


I’m no ancient mariner
with a sextant to chart the sky
The moon was falling into bed,
the sun rising ahead,
both at the same height,
as if I were the hinge between them.

Here I stand on their earthbound bridge
at the centre of my own universe,
unsure of my footing near the edge –
am I fading into the advancing ground,
or drifting back toward an old wedding pledge.





The Globe, Lisa O’Neill, Lyris

[Verse 1]
When I was small
Two feet tall
I thought that the world
Was a map on the wall
And that globe of a ball
We′d spin and explore
But that world showed no door to me

[Verse 2]
I grew more
In feet and in lore
I learned to read ’bout the globe
In through the windows of my eyes
I sang the blues and greens
I touched on things one only sings
When they’ve found the key
And still the world in all my awe
Showed no door to me

[Verse 3]
Not wholly old
I’ve paved some road
I’m taller than I’ll ever be
I’ve learnеd things I cannot sing
I spin relentlessly
I pluggеd out of self in doubt
In soul misplaced the key
And lo and behold
That cruel old globe
Went showed its door to me


Ivor Steven  ©  January 2026

Ding Dong

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.


A bell without a gong. A dove without a sky. A poem for uneasy times, paired with Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem.”



Ding Dong


Wondering –
Who’s right and what’s wrong?
Pondering –
Who’s weak and what’s strong?
Unearthing
Another Viet Cong,
Hearing the same old song.

Listening –
The peace bell has no gong.
Foreboding –
Where has the holy dove gone?

Wishing,
Hoping –
Forever too long.








Ivor Steven  ©  January 2026

The Moon and the Pelican

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.


A saffron moon, a gliding pelican, and a wistful spoon — twilight over the bay, set to Lisa O’Neill’s “Silver Seed.”




The Moon and the Pelican

Twilight time,
the moon is on the climb.

The bay is misty and calm,
below the whispering palms.

Pelicans gracefully glide by
in the evening’s hessian sky.

There is a saffron moon
to fill my wistful spoon.

While I wait for the bird’s silhouette
To inscribe my words on the moon’s lunette.







Ivor Steven  ©  January 2026

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



Ivor Steven  ©  January 2026

 

Throwback Friday, Pockets Full of Stone


Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2024) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the second poem in the Humour section of Chapter 9, Humour, Fantasy, and Fairyland: Timeless



Pockets Full of Stones

I would like to fly away
On this cold, wintry day
But my pockets are full of stones
And my old wings are fragile bones

My benevolent friend, the moon
Is hibernating in his orbital cocoon
So, I’m grounded with muddy toes
Stuck here on this frosty meadow







.


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 ©  January 2026

A Country Trail


The Ballarat – Skipton Rail Trail, sunburnt meadows, and tree-shadowed tunnels


Horse drawn cart, and Nimons trestle bridge


The Devils Kitchen is an impressive geological reserve in Piggoreet, 15 minutes from, Smythesdale. The Woady Yaloak River winds its way through a thickly vegetated valley, surrounded by cliffs of spectacular basalt columns. 




A Country Trail


How scenarios change over time-
The old unused rural railway line.

From Ballarat to Skipton and back
is now an unspoiled community track.

Gently meandering over sunburnt meadows,
Then dipping through tree-shadowed tunnels aglow.

Along the trails, valleys, and rocky ridges,
Travelers will see horse drawn carts and trestle bridges.

And on the way to Snake Valley and Linton,
Be wary of the gold miners “Devil’s Kitchen.”




A song to wander with along the trail…




Ivor Steven (c) December 2025

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