Nature – Page 7 – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Resting (Revised, with lines from Robert Okaji’s book, “From Every Moment A Second”)

Resting was originally written in July 2024, and the photos that follow are little scenes from my world — the moments that helped me understand what resting truly means.

For this month’s Dome Poets assignment, we were each handed a Robert Okaji chapbook to spark a new poem. Mine was From Every Moment A Second, a book of luminous fragments that has long kept me company on the shelf.
To visit Robert’s wonderful poetry site, click on this link
>> O at the Edges | Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.

Resting (Revised, with lines from Robert Okaji’s book, “From Every Moment A Second”)

Stanza Map
1 — Robert’s Take Away, p.3
2 — Ivor’s Resting
3 — Robert’s Bottom Falling, p.5
4 — Ivor’s Resting (with Okaji’s line)
5 — Robert’s Privilege, p.13
6 — Ivor’s Resting
7 — Robert’s Flame, p.15

Take away the blackness,
what does night become?

Why rest?
Dawn is here again,
another new day
for my persistent pen.

Through the window
I see another bird
rising, unlabelled, unwanted, yet noticed.

Why Rest?
From every moment,
a second emerges.**
Time has no opponent.

Every hour becomes another.
Surrendering minutes, accepting
gain, which gravities restrain us?
But we open the door
and step out, unhindered.

Why rest?
The Age of Aquarius
has been and gone
and the end of beyond
is no longer precarious.

Drifting, she passes through the frame.
Reshapes borders, edges.
Picture a man lighting a candle
where a home once stood.

To close, here’s a song that carries the same quiet breath as the poem — a final touch of calm before you wander on.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Coffee House Writers Magazine features my new poem, “Uluru, Kakadu, Kathmandu, and Xanadu”

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, “Uluru, Kakadu, Kathmandu, and Xanadu,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.
>> Uluru, Kakadu, Kathmandu, and Xanadu – Coffee House Writers

The journey begins — a lone bird rising through the misty avenue.

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

Brighter Than White (a Tanka)

Above the treeline, the day began with wings drifting toward the light.

Brighter Than White (a Tanka)

Quickly, follow me
Through the silhouetted clouds
I hear the wise crow
Has found a hole in the sky
Where the light’s brighter than white

The sky keeps its openings, and somewhere beyond the clouds, the light still waits, brighter than white.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Goodnight, But Not Goodbye

Twilight lifts its veil, a little pothole in the sky beginning to glow — and below it, this old July Birthday magpie rises, still not done with the day, or the many more days waiting beyond the horizon.

Goodnight, But Not Goodbye

The twilight clouds are alight,
Mother Nature’s waving goodnight.

Levitating above the linen horizon’s misty eye,
I see my pothole flickering in the sky.

But I know daytime is still my ally,
and this old July magpie
isn’t done yet — so loosen your black ties.

I’m cruising around on standby,
and my celestial star will send me a lullaby
when the moment is right to say goodbye.

And as the magpie rises — somehow above it all, that little pothole in the sky keeps glowing.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

Throwback Friday, My Song Plays Through the Night

A bird doing somersaults in the afternoon sky is enough to set my thoughts spinning, too — though that might have something to do with my 75th birthday sneaking up on Monday. So for this Throwback Friday, I’ve dusted off and revised a poem from July 2019, a little night‑music piece full of twists, turns, and rolling dreams. Today’s bird photos feel like they’re joining in, tumbling through the page with me.

My Song Plays Through the Night (Revised)

I twist and roll over.
A musical world whirls inside my head;
my somersault of dreams
rotates under my mattress.
Upside down,
rhythmical tiredness
falls out of the seams.
Words tumble around —
nameless titles
and endless tunes abound.

A bad moon’s returning,
singing the blues over my empty town.
I twist and roll over again;
I’m back where I started.
I hear my angel humming Hallelujah —
you’re another year older.

Let my angel’s humming of Hallelujah carry us into another year.

Ivor Steven © July 2026

A Solar Empyrean Halo

A Solar Empyrean Halo

Midmorning’s Rising Sun
Gazing above the usual field of view,
high into the cloudy stratosphere,
I catch sight of a
jetstream’s snowdrops
falling from beyond the rising sun’s
solar empyrean halo.

Twilight’s Setting Sun
Gazing toward the hessian horizon,
below the low misty atmosphere,
I catch sight of an
evanescent cashmere twilight
which had serendipitously caught the setting sun’s
solar empyrean halo.

Let the final light’s echo carry you from morning’s rise to twilight’s hush, and here’s the song that keeps the halo glowing a little longer.

Tiredness Sets In

Last night’s twilight felt a little weary, the sun dimming behind the clouds as if it shared my winter tiredness. That small moment became this poem.

Tiredness Sets In

Why is the setting sun
looking so tired and underpowered,
there behind the wistful cloud’s
long caramel bun?

Is it the darkness
of the tree’s silhouettes on the horizon
or the sogginess
of the meadow’s lush green ocean?

Perhaps it’s the foreground’s prickly shrubs
that are holding your eyelids up
before you are allowed to clutch
twilight’s welcoming goodnight hugs.

A quiet, dusk‑lit piece to echo the sun’s underpowered drift — a gentle soundtrack for winter tiredness.

Twilight’s Chromatic Storm (a Tanka)

Last night’s twilight carried a strange chromatic weight — colours deepening, clouds gathering, the horizon holding its breath. And on this cold winter evening, that same wintry mood returned and shaped the Tanka below

Twilight’s Chromatic Storm
(a Tanka)

Dark Ominous clouds
Growl along the horizon
Then suddenly howl
Over trees and open fields
Dumping sharp, icy black pearls

And in the fading light, as twilight settles, the storm’s voice drifts into song.

Flying Through the Sun-veiled Clouds

While capturing the sun‑veiled clouds yesterday, a passing group of pigeons slipped into my frame — a quiet, serendipitous moment that inspired the poem taking flight below.

Flying Through the Sun-veiled Clouds

My weary wings are cold and old,
yet despite my life’s controlled leasehold —
I have a sense of being almost paroled and sold.

I’m boldly journeying
above the rolling cloud-deck,
toward the transcendental edge
of that unfolding hole in the sky
where the golden seam of light
will once again resurrect
my silhouette’s pluckiness
to continue flying
through the great beyond.

And so I rise, though frayed and worn,
my fading shadow, albeit weather‑torn,
still seeks the glow where new skies are born.

As the cold day folds away, I’ll let the music carry the final light of the day.

Sandcastles

This poem grew out of three small conversations across the WordPress community — first with Mark, then with Violet, and finally with Susi. Each reply carried its own quiet image, and when I gathered them together, they seemed to drift toward the same shoreline, as if the words had swum through the ocean and landed on one beach.
In stanza order, they are.
1. Mark: WHAT WE BECAME – Havoc and Consequence
2. Violet: Freedom – Revisited | Thru Violet’s Lentz
3. Susi: The Gate To Hell – I Write Her

Sandcastles

Sandcastles built during low tide
are not supplied with an upside,
nor a legible exit guide.

Freedom never comes
in garbage bags full of crumbs.
Freedom calls and goes,
wearing the same old clothes.

Through the cracks’ depths,
the light’s resurfacing stealth
gives us reassuring strength.

Funny how a few quick replies can turn into a whole poem. These little moments across WordPress drift together, and before I know it, they’ve built something on the shore. Sandcastles is just today’s example.