The morning sky felt like an open canvas, and the birds rose into it as if painted there — framed by light, archived in motion, and forever just beyond our human reach.
Beyond Reach (a Haiku)
Shadows on the sky
Bird silhouettes hover high
Beyond human reach
A quiet echo of the sky’s fragile beauty
Ivor Steven © August 2026
This poem grew from two separate comments I left on Nancy’s site, written almost four weeks apart. Different days, different moods — yet when I revisited them, they seemed to lean toward one another and form a cohesive whole.
Stanzas 1 and 2 came from La Casa Azzurra – The Elephant’s Trunk
and stanzas 3, 4, and 5 from What’s Left Behind – The Elephant’s Trunk
Fresh shoes for familiar paths — proof enough that this man plans on walking a little further yet.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the weekend challenge is the word “Anxiety”. To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here
This Morning, or This Anxious Man
I woke up this morning,
which is always a good thing —
with blue surrounding my head,
quietly filtering through the blinds
from dawn’s levitating, bright blue sky.
I do not need to ask why
the tranquil colour blue
serendipitously keeps me flying high.
I am who I am.
I’m an old man,
and I do the best I can.
My dreamworld plan
is out of my hands.
I remember how it all began,
and here I am —
between Cannes and scans,
still walking this land.
For the fragments that find each other, the blue mornings, the old roads, and the man who keeps trusting the day ahead.
Ivor Steven © August 2026
Down a quiet back lane near the café, this striking street art stopped me in my tracks — it felt like a quiet conversation waiting to happen, eye to eye with the unexpected.
Eye to Eye, or I to I
With one eye querying mankind
and the other eye wondering
about my state of mind —
bewildered and always pondering
what’s real beyond my Venetian blinds.
I am neither refined nor confined,
and I have escaped being quarantined.
I question myself.
Are my eyes behind the times,
or have I misread my bookshelf’s
poetry finds and the fairytale rhymes?
A final glance, and the moment drifted on — leaving its quiet echo behind, carried forward now in the music’s slow drift
Ivor Steven © August 2026
Today’s Throwback goes back to August 2019, just months after my second and third strokes — a time when the days were dim, and every movement felt uncertain.
Finding this poem again reminded me how far that long road has stretched. The wattlebirds I photographed today — wings lifted, rising into open sky — feel like symbols of that slow, determined recovery.
This revised piece holds both the struggle and the light that followed.
Long, Long Way (Revised)
I’ve come a long, long way
I remember the bad, bad days
When yesterday’s were dark and grey
On level seven, under heaven’s archway
Lying there immobile and prone
Waiting for the etching of my gravestone
Unable to hear my silent headphones
Unknowingly, spinning inside a black cyclone
I awoke somewhere outside my world’s twilight zone
Slowly realising I’d been saved, and finality was postponed
The soundtrack to those long, long days — and the light that followed.
.
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 © July 2026
This afternoon’s sky gifted me a flock of silhouettes — pigeons rising and circling through the light as if carrying the world’s weight on their wings. Their quiet resilience inspired the Tanka below, a small reflection on the lives caught beneath the shadows of conflict.
Pigeons of the World (a Tanka)
Here under the sun
I am not the only one
Being overrun
By the world’s greedy hired guns
Who’s minding our war torn sons?
And still the sky remembers what we forget — even the pigeons know the rise and fall of empires.
Ivor Steven © August 2026
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, “A Global Suntan,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.
>> A Global Suntan – Coffee House Writers
.
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 © July 2026
Please note: All the images are mine and then sharpened and enhanced by Copilot.
Under the full moon’s watch, the Corellas turn the late afternoon sky into a jubilant parade.
The Full Moon and the Corellas (a Tanka)
I hear them squawking
As they fly through my blue sky
Those white Corellas
May look very elegant
But they sound like elephants
As a small tribute to Glen Hansard, whose music has long travelled beside me — a voice that rose and broke like birds in the late‑afternoon sky — here is his unforgettable performance of Bird of Sorrow.
Ivor Steven © August 2026
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
Ivor Steven © August 2026
Some days arrive quietly and leave a lasting tremor in the heart. Today was one of them. This finale 75th birthday wasn’t just a celebration of another year — it became a gathering of the people who have walked beside me through the most profound chapters of my life.
This group of friends is woven into every part of Carole’s story. They were there when she and I first met, full of hope and laughter. They were there when MS entered our lives forty‑four years ago, offering care, strength, and the kind of support that can only come from people who love without hesitation. Through three decades of Carole’s battle, they stood with us — not as visitors, but as family.
And even after Carole passed fourteen years ago, the thread didn’t break. Every three or four months, we gather to honour her astonishing life — her compassion, her grace, and that infectious smile that could soften any room. Today, on my birthday, that ritual became something deeper. It felt like a circle closing gently around memory, friendship, and the enduring presence of a woman who shaped us all.
The Crew, and my birthday Barbeque Apron present; a handcrafted gift by Dot … “Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.”
Everlasting (a Tanka)
This circle of friends,
like a silver wedding ring,
bright and long-lasting,
lovingly loyal and strong —
yet time does not weary them.
A tune for the long road we’ve walked together — still singing, still smiling. A journey that continues to be brightened by loyal friends.
Ivor Steven © July 2026
Twilight has a way of softening the edges of the day. In that fading light, time feels loose in the hands, slipping grain by grain. Dark Grains of Sand follows that quiet fall into evening.
Dark Grains of Sand
As the sun sinks
beyond the land,
the horizon’s sky swirls
like tanned quicksand.
As the night begins to melt
into tawny strands,
twilight unfurls across
the wandering bard’s grandstand.
As the grains of time
drift through his hands
the encroaching darkness
remains unmanned and unplanned.
Bob Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand” drifts through the same twilight hush — a perfect echo for this piece.
Ivor Steven © July 2026
