Tag: Philosophical

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

 

Feature Image Above: Frankie and I, mid-poem at our local café—where thoughts drift between nothing and something, and companionship keeps everything afloat.

Attached Images: Three of my bird photos from today: Wattlebird, Magpie, and Mudlark.

This poem grew from three spontaneous reflections I left on fellow bloggers’ posts—each a response to a moment that stirred something in me. Though written separately, the stanzas now speak to one another, forming a quiet meditation on uncertainty, resilience, and the weight of responsibility. Sometimes, everything lives in the spaces between.
The three bloggers in stanza order.
1st Stanza >> Okay, Socrates | Rethinking Life
2nd Stanza >> Tempted By A Demon – I Write Her
3rd Stanza >> Four in a row – Keep it alive

Thinking About Everything


In between nothing,
and something —
where is everything?

Hold onto a limb,
when the body forgets how to swim,
and the mind’s in a spin.

Holding onto self-discipline
can be hard to maintain —
especially for politicians,
who hold all the reins
in the hard rain.

This live rendition carries a breath of vulnerability and grace—perfect for reflecting on the spaces between nothing, something, and everything. It’s the kind of song that lingers, like a paw resting gently on your arm.



Ivor Steven (c) October 2025