The Moon and the Tycoon
Late afternoon
The crows are in tune
Even without the moon
Nature’s towering, white dunes
Are the birds, cushioned saloon
There
Beyond the tycoon’s
Loud trumpets and bassoons
Where
The unknighted buffoon
Uses his innate silver spoon
To lampoon the tribunals
“Devon Church’s Fall Like Lightning — a soundtrack for protest and reflection.”
Ivor Steven (c) December 2025
This poem grew from poetic anecdotes I first shared as comments on fellow bloggers’ posts. In stanza order, they are:
1. Sara >> Random Numbers | purplepeninportland
2. Dwight >> https://rothpoetry.wordpress.com/2025/11/25/aging-without-numbers
3. Ivor >> a personal reflection.
Time Hears No Numbers
There is a number attached to everything,
Tracking them down is overwhelming;
Tallying the total is mind-boggling.
I perceive, with a twinkle
in my blurry eye,
an extra wrinkle
on my milky thigh.
But I do not cry
at the number of crinkles
that falsely belie
the sounds of my
life’s happy jingles.
The number of memories shall not diminish
until time decrees, “you’re finished.”
Accompanied by Sleeping At Last’s “Saturn” performed live with the Symphony Orchestra, this poem listens for the echoes beyond numbers—where memory, music, and existence intertwine.
Ivor Steven (c) December 2025
Hello, dear readers and followers. I write for Coffee House Writers magazine (USA) fortnightly, and my poem “Trojan Cloud” is in this week’s edition.
To read the poem, please click the link below to visit my Coffee House Writers Magazine article.
>> https://coffeehousewriters.com/trojan-cloud/
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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 © November 2025
“Even in the middle of nowhere, wings remember their purpose.” —A reflection on leadership, illusion, and the quiet strength of flight.
A King Without Wings (a Tanka)
In the pilot’s chair
I see warning lights out there
In the deep, dark air
Suspended in nowhere’s grip
Who knew — the King had wings, too?
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
A big thank you to David, of “The Sheptics Kaddish” for inviting me to co-write a “Rengay.” I cannot remember having written a collaborative poem before, but it was so much fun to mix words with such an accomplished writer.
>> https://skepticskaddish.com/2025/10/02/beasts-feast-famines-rations-or-a-rengay/
By Ivor and David
Beasts’ feast; Famine’s rations, or: A rengay
(Ivor)
i’ve no appetite
to be the new King’s taster
bad seeds don’t regrow
(David)
little princeling muffles heave
spits foie gras into goblet
(Ivor)
royalty’s snobbish ways
are wasted and inconsequential
to hungry grazers days
(David)
pastures lie barren
herders curse the banquet hall
torches flare outside
(Ivor)
the underworld cries
darkness falls on vacant eyes
(David)
pomegranate blood
stains her lips with endless oath
frost devours the bloom
Ivor Steven © October 2025
Today’s Throwback Friday Poem appears in my revised edition of “Tullawalla”, July 2022, and was originally written as a travel log piece about my overseas journey to, America, Philadelphia, in May 2019.
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Quietly I Exist
.
I’m writing words from the edge of time
And pondering my life’s lack of rhyme
Thinking every moment is an ironic crime
And quietly, I exist only in mime
.
Life is a mountain of ups and downs
Sharp thorns and slippery crowns
For me, every moment is a good day
Behind me, I leave yesterday
And today I’ll by-pass midday
On my way to bathing in tomorrow’s sun-rays
.
We are not here to control nature
But we are responsible for her future
I don’t think humans are meant to be
Poisoning the sea with plastic and mercury
.
I cannot be the king of this stagnant world
But I am free as my wings unfurled
My eyes have been opened again
To reveal the sky, sunshine and rain
.
Now I see beyond every yellow door
There was once an original world
So, I’ll turn the latch to discover more
And give realities of life a whirl
.
.
.
Ivor Steven (c) Sept 2025
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Fallen Ancestors
.
Above
I saw time drift across the sky
Below
I heard a grey waterlogged tree cry
“Is this the graveyard where my
fallen ancestors have been left to die”
There
“Against the sea wall’s merciless granite crown
surrounded by cold water crashing around
Please
“Take my hand, guide me down
so I can cover them with my green nightgown
.
.
Ivor Steven (c) Sept 2025
After the Fall
After falling through the fragmented cloud,
the rusty and weary traveller
appeared to be disoriented,
without his familiar protective shroud.
Escaping his country has been hazardous,
and he longs for a restful shelter.
However, until the stampede’s contaminated dust
is devoured by its own mistrust-
then, and only then,
will the Almighty Sun
incinerate the lingering clouds
and allow the world’s war-torn sky
to redeem his sacred ground.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 