Life & Nature – Page 2 – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Throwback Friday, The Last Encore (a Micro Poem)

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me, A man stands at the edge of time, where the foreshore fades, and the door to the encore glows.

Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in January 2024) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the opening poem in the Micri Poem section of Chapter 10, Time’s Short Poems: Haiku, Tanka, etc.

The Last Encore

I am standing on
the diminishing foreshore
Staring at that
missing ground floor
“Like there was a door”
Between here
and the last encore

And so we stand, between here and the last encore — listening for time’s quiet applause.

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 © February 2026

Summer Rainclouds

A heavy sky lingering above a thirsty summer, offering a brief, warm whisper of rain.

Summer Rainclouds

The sombre summer clouds
are languishing low overhead.
I can almost touch the greyness –
unfortunately, it’s not raining.

The aura of stillness is unsettling,
and the silence is deafening

But wait – from behind the gloom
I hear Thor’s thunderous roar,
and simultaneously, I see fat drops
warmly splattering on the ground

Ivor Steven © February 2026

The Ravens Warning (a Tanka)

Feature Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.

“Ravens fly through the iron‑gate sky, carrying warnings only the attentive will hear.”

The Ravens Warning (a Tanka)

Stealthily they fly,
below the iron‑gate sky—
loud and steely‑eyed.
Ravens warn all passersby:
beware of that sly bad guy.

Under an iron‑gate sky, her voice rises like a warning carried on dark wings

Ivor Steven © February 2026

Leftover Heirlooms

Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me

Shaped during my quiet breaks at Market Day, inspired by yesterday’s twilight and today’s steady rhythm behind the stall.

Leftover Heirlooms

I’m roaming around
the inner zone of Shadowland,
the heart of twilight’s middle ground.

Inquiringly peering down
upon the sun’s retiring nightgown.

Above her hessian costume,
the fading crescent moon
is also descending into the world’s bedroom.

Again, I am an abandoned groom
from life’s fragmented honeymoon,
here clutching nostalgia’s leftover heirlooms.

After drafting this poem during my quiet breaks at Market Day, Lisa Hannigan’s ‘Oh Undone’ felt like the perfect soundtrack to its twilight reflections.

Ivor Steven © February 2026

We’re a Noisy Bunch (a Tanka)

While the café murmured below, the Corellas held their own rowdy morning meeting in the trees above me.

We’re a Noisy Bunch (a Tanka)

I’m one of many
In a flock of two twenty
I’m a Corella
And when we’re all together
We’re a loud bunch of critters

“A chorus of Corellas above the morning hum.”

Ivor Steven © February 2026

Peewee on the Fence Wire

At twilight this evening, a lone peewee settled on the fence line, unexpected company above a paddock split open by summer. The moment felt like a small report from the dry season — so I let the bird speak for itself.

Peewee on the Fence Wire

Here on a weathered fence wire,
in my honorary black-and-white attire,
I am a peewee of a scarecrow
monitoring this broad and dry meadow.

The long, hot summer has created havoc
and left the parched paddock
covered in a maze of deep, dark cracks,
inscribed by the droughts, dusty, black chalk;
and the dirty chasms are as wide as my back.

Their song carries softly across the dry ground — a fitting echo for this moment.

Ivor Steven © February 2026

This week’s Coffee House Writers Magazine features my new poem, “Beyond My Outpost.”

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, “Beyond My Outpost,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.
>> https://coffeehousewriters.com/beyond-my-outpost/

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.

LatinosUSA, Poetry Bookshelf, Featuring «Until Eyes Hear Sounds» by Ivor Steven

Featured Image Above: Cover art by Kerri Costello — a guitar hidden in the island’s reflection, just as Barbara describes.

Featuring «Until Eyes Hear Sounds» by Ivor Steven

Over the weekend, I received a lovely surprise: LatinosUSA’s Poetry Bookshelf, curated by editor Meelosmom (Barbara), has featured my book Until Eyes Hear Sounds. I’m honoured by the care she took in presenting the poems, the themes, and the story behind the book. It’s always humbling to see my work through someone else’s eyes, and I’m grateful for the thoughtful attention this feature brings.

LatinosUSA’s Poetry Bookshelf, curated by editor Meelosmom (Barbara), has published a full feature on Until Eyes Hear Sounds. The article highlights the book’s imaginative structure, its thematic breadth, and the creative collaboration behind it.

The feature explores the symbolism of the cover design by Kerri Costello, noting how the island’s reflection forms the shape of a guitar with a little imagination. The book is presented as a journey through ten diverse chapters, each paired with one of Kerri’s drawings.

Barbara also reflects on the meaning of the title, suggesting it can be read as a metaphor, a poetic expression, or a state of deep inner focus. She writes that my poems do not claim to have the answers, but instead invite readers to think about the environment, existence, and our place in the universe.

The article includes three poems from the book — Bird on a Ladder, Time Strolls, and Flying Bricks of War — and closes with a short biography of my writing life and creative background.

To read the article at LatinosUSA, please click >> Here

My sincere thanks to Barbara for this beautifully presented feature. Your thoughtful reading of the poems and themes means a great deal to me, and I’m grateful for the care you’ve taken in sharing my work with your readers.

Tonight’s accompanying song is Enya’s “The Humming” — a gentle meditation on the rhythms beneath our everyday world.

Wading in Dry Ice

Featured Image Above: A quiet stretch of the Moorabool, holding its breath in the summer heat.”

Nancy >> RDP Thursday: river – The Elephant’s Trunk
Nancy’s haiku about winter’s thin ice stirred something in me this morning. Her quiet image of a fragile river set my thoughts drifting back home, where our waterways are thinning for a very different reason. Her words nudged me toward the dry, sunburnt world I’ve been watching all summer, and this poem arrived as my response

Wading in Dry Ice

Hardly a drop of rain
Has fallen on our sunburnt plains
Rivers are slimy drains
No fields of grain
Nor wading cranes
Only dusty stains
On the windowpanes

And again
Dry ice runs through my veins
While the windmill vanes
Rotate in vain

“I’ve always felt this song holds the heartbeat of a parched Australian summer. It seemed the right companion for these words.”

Yet to be Found

A fallen flowering bush caught my eye on the way back from our morning walk — knocked flat by last night’s storm, yet still holding colour. The sight struck a familiar chord, and the words came quickly, shaped by that quiet recognition of what it means to be brought down and still not done.

Yet to be Found

I’m lying on the ground.
The overnight storm knocked me down.
I’m feeling flat and unsound;
my flowers are turning brown.
When will I be found?

Do they know, I need to be reset?
I’m still bound to this mound –
and I’m not dead yet!