Life – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Throwback Friday, “Man Overboard!”

Today’s Throwback Friday poem comes from this time last year, and during these days of feeling like an unwound clock, “Man Overboard!” feels like an appropriate choice.
Daylight Saving steals an hour, but where does it go? This poem asks, with a wink and a sigh, where time goes as it slips overboard. Paired with Tame Impala’s hypnotic groove, it becomes a meditation on time’s absurd disappearance.

“Man Overboard!”

Time vanished overboard,
and was last seen going forward.

Who will rescue the lost hour?
Who has the righteous power,
inside the clock’s stoic tower?

Somehow it doesn’t matter
that no one heard the clatter.

Time has no protective hands.
Time is not a rubber band,
nor a loose grain of sand.

I do not understand
how time’s forgotten hour was banned
and stored away in never-never land.

Sometimes events happen without explanation. While the poem wonders where the missing hour went, Tame Impala’s “Let It Happen” suggests we relax, let go, and drift with the mystery.

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

A Pigeon’s Lament (Micro-fiction)

Every now and then, a story slips quietly from the page and begins a journey of its own. A Pigeon’s Lament started as a brief piece of micro-fiction, yet it has since been accepted by Geelong Cereal and will soon be making its way onto community radio. Before this little pigeon heads out across the airwaves, here’s the tale that started it all.

Author’s Note: I’m delighted to share that Geelong Cereal has accepted A Pigeon’s Lament for publication. I’ll also be reading the piece live on Pulse Community Radio 94.7 FM on Friday evening.

A Pigeon’s Lament (Micro-fiction)

Sitting alone atop this broken wooden fence, I stare into the blinding sun that floods the great blue yonder, wondering if the horror has finally gone. Are we carrier pigeons free to ride the airwaves again, or has the world turned us into couriers of foreboding danger rather than bearers of faithful hope?

So the pigeon waits, watching the horizon and wondering whether the horror has finally gone. This beautiful song provided both a title and a mood for its solitary vigil.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

The Poet’s Confused Quill

After lunch, with the air heavy and my thoughts drifting in a fog, I still reached for the quill. Even in these muddled moments, the world offers small reminders — a magpie in the grass, another lifting into the grey sky — that creativity doesn’t disappear; it simply falters and finds its way again. Today’s poem grew from that gentle wobble, from the tiredness and the tenderness of still trying to write when the mind feels a little featherless.

The Poet’s Confused Quill

I’m a pushcart poet
without an axle for the wheels
(maybe all I need is a square meal)

The thick green grass
is soggy and tangled

I’m a muddling magpie
with his featherless quill
stuck in the muddy mire.

The heavy, becalmed air
Is smoggy and breathless

Is the gloomy sky falling down
or will the poet’s hallowed ground
rise up again, when his eyes hear sound

Sometimes clarity returns not in a rush, but in the stillness after confusion — where the long way around becomes the way back to ourselves.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

Quietly Sighing

Feature Image: I still find myself looking toward the bright side — from somewhere just beneath the flowering wishing tree on the moon.

This afternoon’s café quiet carried me back to the edges of last week’s stroke‑fatigue episode — not in fear, but in recognition. I sat with its soft ache, like a body sighing before it speaks, and let the moment settle around me.

Frankie watched on from his blue bench, patient as ever, while the wishing tree above reminded me that even on the slower days, hope still hangs from familiar branches.

Here’s the poem that found me there.

Quietly Sighing

Here in the cafe,
staying away
from yesterday.

Not hiding
nor crying —
just quietly sighing.

Another sand dune climbed;
that’ll do for now,
until next time.

My tired old wings
remain firmly attached
to my heartstrings —
an antique violin
miming today’s tunes.

And I’m still able to see
tomorrow’s wishing tree
flowering on the moon.

When the poem settles, I softly step from the wishing tree on the moon into Mendelssohn’s sighing wind.

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

The Orchid’s Story

I’ve been resting at home this week, easing through a spell of stroke fatigue while the rain keeps falling outside. This poem has come together slowly over three days — written in quiet moments when my energy allowed — sparked by the return of my orchids and the memories they carry.

Over at Weekly Prompts, the Colour Challenge for October is Orange. To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here

The Orchid’s Story

It’s been nearly a decade
since your smiling blooms
softly touched my memories.
You were my father’s beloved orchids,
a living keepsake I inherited
when I moved into my Shangri‑La —
he would be so proud to see you now.

While you’ve been quietly hibernating,
my river of life has ebbed and flowed.
beneath familiar bridges
and over jagged ridges

A fascinating tourist trip to China,
but sadly followed by two more strokes.
Phenomenally, I recovered in time
to board the plane to America
for a debut visit to see my Philadelphia cousins.

Luckily, you were still cosily asleep
during the worldwide COVID calamity.
After a couple of chaotic years,
the catastrophic disease dissipated.
However, not to be outgunned,
cataclysmically, wars of the world
repossessed the planet
like a prehistoric curse.

Fortuitously, during the spring of last year
I was able to visit my Canadian cousins
on Vancouver Island and Alberta —
showed me the scenic sights
and treated me like a poetic prince.

And now you stand, clandestine after all this time,
on your piece of pristine and palatial residence
colourfully and nonchalantly smiling at me today,
as if everything were back to normal,

While the rain softly taps at the windows, the orchids silently bloom again — a quiet reminder of resilience, as the flowers tell their story once more.

Ivor Steven © October 2026

Shangri La, Volume 22, The Blue Fescue

Note: Sorry for my lack of blogging over the past couple of days — time has been running a bit too fast for this old poet. Between radio rehearsals, CHW submissions, and tending to my own poetry website, I’ve been stretched thin. Even so, I’ve managed to bring together Shangri La, Volume 22. After a breather tomorrow, hopefully things will be back to normal.

FREE PDF COPY >>> Links Below

Hello, dear readers and followers. As you may know, I stopped producing my “Tullawalla Booklets” at #31 because that was our family’s Tullawalla Homestead house number.
Yet the booklet format is a superb way for me to catalogue the vast number of poems I produce, and as the saying goes, “I Am Turning Another Page”. Here I have begun a new series of poem booklets, called “Shangri La”, the name of my little Villa, and it is my piece of “earthly paradise, a retreat from the pressures of modern civilization”.
I now have “2458” poems gathered across these booklets
(On my bookshelf sits “The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, with 1775 poems — when I first began writing, I never imagined I would one day surpass that number.)

“Like all my booklets, this one is here to be read at your leisure — no rush, no expectation, just an open page waiting when you are.”

Click >> Here – for the link to your FREE: PDF Copy of “Shangri La, Volume 22, The Blue Fescue.”

OR … Shangri La, Volume 22, The Blue Fescue.pdf

The Blue Fescue

Above Earth’s governing clouds,
beyond the atmosphere’s
atomic shrouds,
I hear the sun’s white veneer
pulsating from inside
the sky’s diminishing blue.

There hiding — teary-eyed —
waiting for an overdue
enlightening breakthrough
to cure the world’s
stewed blue fescue.

A song for the shifting sky — a reminder that even in the blur between heroes and villains, we’re still searching for the light that carries us forward.

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.

Throwback Friday, Dragons and Faeries

Earlier today, my dragon returned to the page in Part 1 of My Dragon, The Tetralogy — a story of flight, memory, and the quiet ache of what might have been. For this week’s Throwback Friday poem, I’m revisiting a poem from May 2019 that carries the same creature into a different sky. It’s a dream‑journey through New York’s mythic corners, where dragons brush past torches, faeries linger in the trees, and hope rises from the ashes.
Below is the poem as I first wrote it — now gently punctuated, but still holding its original fire

Scenes from my 2019 wander through New York — the places where dragons, dreams, and Lennon’s whisper still linger.

This poem first appeared in my debut book Tullawalla, Chapter 3 — “Dragons, Wizards, Faeries, and a Spacecraft”, page 55.

Dragons and Faeries

My dragon flew me to New York,
His scaly tail was singed
by the stoic statue’s torch
as we were landing upon Central Park.

And in the city’s mystical forest I stood
among strawberry fields and woods.
Atop the plaque of my dreams,
I imagined how life should’ve been –
my naked soul, a vision unseen.

I have a dream, like John’s world:
Togetherness, love pristine,
the apple uneaten
and the snake shyly beaten.

I see peace, within evil’s tiredness,
burnt-out flames of the devil’s nakedness
leaving us life’s leftover ashes.
Then the peace dove shall arise from the ruins,
and the lost faeries will return as humans.

And as these memories rise through mist and music, the old dream leans in once more… imagine.

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.

My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon

Yesterday, Geelong Cereal published the first part of my dragon series — My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon. Geelong Cereal is a free online magazine showcasing local writing and creative arts, with a special love for serial fiction and stories from the Geelong region. It’s a welcoming space for writers at every stage of their creative journey, and I’m delighted that my dragon has found a home there.
A heartfelt thank‑you to Mel, Geelong Cereal’s editor, whose care and encouragement helped bring this first chapter to life.
>> My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon

Below is the image of the poem as it appeared in the magazine.

Before Part 1 settles into the dark, and as my dragon drifts back into shadow, here’s a song of solitude and wonder to close the first chapter.

The Full-moon’s Jealous Sigh

With the full moon brooding over my backyard and Cohen’s noir residue still shadowing the edges of my thoughts, this poem arrived like a quiet confession from the twilight.

The Full-moon’s Jealous Sigh

Phantasmagorically,
beyond the real world’s dirty paws,
I’ve been flying everywhere —
over to a mythical concert
on the other side of my horizon,
above the full moon’s jealous sigh —
where this old mystical poet
was seen zooming across the sky.

Then sadly, my Itmims spacecraft
began running low on stardust fuel
and had to return to my backyard.

Suddenly, my feet were back home,
again stuck on the ground,
and I was dreamily stumbling around,
listening to my muse’s
sonorous music sound,
weeping down from twilight’s white dome.

So I leave this moonlit wander here — I’ll let Cave’s “Weeping Song” carry the last of this twilight ache.