Photos – Page 5 – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Tomorrow’s Our 50th Anniversary (a Tanka)

Fifty years arrives like a soft, golden hush — a moment where memory steps forward, hand in hand with the present. As tomorrow’s anniversary draws near, I found myself looking toward the sky, letting its warm light guide me back through the years. This Tanka is the quiet breath before the day itself, a small reflection of the love still shimmering in every sunset.

Tomorrow’s Our 50th Anniversary (a Tanka)

Sunset’s pure-gold sky
And I’m inwardly smiling.
She’s flamboyantly
channeling me — a bright clue:
tomorrow’s our golden day.

And tomorrow, as the golden sky leans close, her light will rise through me once more.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

How Deep Is My Well

In the hush before dawn, the poet’s desk waits — ink, paper, and silence mingling with the faint hum of a song. “Last Rites” plays softly, and the night’s spell lingers just long enough to ask: how deep is my well?

How Deep Is My Well

Inside my pastel grey cell,
where the poet’s pencils dwell,
I stumbled over the inkwell
and felt a dank, dark swell
run down my silk lapel.

“Help!” I yell.
My cocoon’s inner shell
has become as black as hell.

“Please! Ring the hotel bell
Perhaps the night-shift personnel
will know how to quell
this bewitching writer’s spell.”

From here, the ink settles… and this song becomes the last whisper of the night.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

Poles Apart

I nearly deleted this photo — a pole in the way, a couple of wires cluttering the frame — until the birds decided to rescue it. They swooped in, sketched their own storyline across the sky, and left me wondering who was really directing the scene. While they painted truth up there, I stayed down here trying to catch whatever tale fluttered past. This little poem followed soon after, curious, a bit cheeky, and happily poles apart.

Poles Apart

We’re poles apart
before we even start.
You guys up there,
me down here —
I don’t know where.

Truth flutters freely in the air.
Meanwhile, down here,
fiction is both oblong and square.

Wise cracks don’t need stairs.
Poetic knack has dare and flair,
and down here
storybooks fly anywhere
without a compere,
traveling from deckchair to airchair.

And as the birds drift off into their own truth, this tune keeps the sky talking.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

Out of the Blue

From yesterday’s crow encounter, a poem emerged — a moment on the country’s edge, a sentinel shaping the sky’s peaceful realignment.

Out of the Blue

Upon the country’s outpost I stand,
a sentinel, overseeing this grand land.

I pause, breathe the whistling wind,
and unfurl my black feathered skin.

My wings flare out toward the light —
the world’s warring blight
is nowhere in sight.

Tranquility is my chosen line —
one sweep, the silent, sunlit sky is mine,
and out of the blue, nature’s shrine
peacefully realigns.

“A final breath of blue sky carrying the crow’s peaceful realignment into sound.”

Ivor Steven © September 2026

My Vision (a Senryu)

A quiet morning reply to Bart’s Fraiku, my worn lenses lifting me toward today’s blurry blue sky.
Bart >> Fraiku: For Your Eyes | Bartholomew Barker, Poet

My Vision (a Senryu)

In front of my eyes
Beyond dust-covered lenses
I pause to see more

And the vision carried on beyond the frame.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

Throwback Friday, Fallen Ancestors

Twelve months ago, while visiting my cousins on Vancouver Island, I tapped out a small poem on my iPhone — a moment shaped by cedar shadows, cold tides, and old family echoes. Today’s Throwback Friday returns to that quiet day, and to the fallen ancestors the island seemed to remember.

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.”

A quiet echo of the sea’s old memory — as the tide carries its stories forward, this song keeps a heart in the water.

Ivor Steven © September 2026

Cyril the Seagull

In the soft glow of a haloed sun, a seagull and his friends traced a tale across the sky — and one of them decided to share a little wisdom as he climbed into the light, shaping today’s poem.

Cyril the Seagull

Cyril is no ordinary seagull,
he’s neither plain nor dull.

I’ve been watching him and his friends,
soaring through the clouds’ sunny trends.

When he swooped in close enough,
I asked him off-the-cuff:

“Why are you considered to be
so commonly homespun?”
He puffed his wings like a bumblebee
and proudly flew off toward the sun.

Cyril whispered as he climbed:
Like humans, we also populate the world
However, I’m free to fly and enjoy
nature’s phoenix sky uncurled.

And as Cyril lifts into the light, this timeless song rises with him — a quiet reminder to simply be.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

Spring is Singing (a Tanka)

Spring arrived today with a quiet kind of joy — a bird lifting into the morning light, gulls gliding above the bay, and a flowering tree catching the sun just right. On my walk to the café, these small moments gathered around me, each one adding its own note to the season’s first song. By the time I sat down with my coffee, a Tanka had already begun to bloom — shaped by the warm promise of the new season.

Spring is Singing (a Tanka)

Daylight’s kissing earth,
Its warm glow hugs everything,
And the midday sun
Thaws my once‑wavering wings —
Now nature’s choir is singing

As spring begins to rise, a tender melody of warmth and light to accompany the season’s first song.

Coffee House Writers Magazine features my new poem, “Spring Will Never Vanish”

“To frozen clods even spring’s invisible law returns with grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn” … Walt Whitman

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, “Spring Will Never Vanish (a Villanelle),” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below.
>> Spring Will Never Vanish – Coffee House Writers

As Whitman knew and this villanelle remembers, spring’s law always returns — and Tom Waits sings it home.

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.

There Are No ‘Cents’ in Pretense

Just before midnight, I wandered through Nancy’s whimsical corner of The Elephant’s Trunk, where her poetic mischief nudged me over the fence of common sense. In that soft hour, a playful spark took hold — and this anecdotal poem tumbled out as my midnight excuse.
For Nancy >> Poet’s Excuse – The Elephant’s Trunk

And because midnight rarely behaves itself, here’s Nick Cave’s “Night Raid” slipping in with its dark velvet mood before the poem leaps the fence again.

There Are No ‘Cents’ in Pretense

None of it needs to make sense
no matter present tense
or past tense

Your quill has a license
to leap the pretense fence —
forget about common sense

And write delicious nonsense
in future tense
with imaginative effulgence

And to round out this midnight ramble, here’s the song I shared with Nancy — Leonard Cohen’s wonderfully unusual “Ballad of the Absent Mare,” a wandering little masterpiece that trots alongside any poet willing to leap the fence of pretense.