Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
A bell without a gong. A dove without a sky. A poem for uneasy times, paired with Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem.”
Ding Dong
Wondering –
Who’s right and what’s wrong?
Pondering –
Who’s weak and what’s strong?
Unearthing
Another Viet Cong,
Hearing the same old song.
Listening –
The peace bell has no gong.
Foreboding –
Where has the holy dove gone?
Wishing,
Hoping –
Forever too long.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
A saffron moon, a gliding pelican, and a wistful spoon — twilight over the bay, set to Lisa O’Neill’s “Silver Seed.”
The Moon and the Pelican
Twilight time,
the moon is on the climb.
The bay is misty and calm,
below the whispering palms.
Pelicans gracefully glide by
in the evening’s hessian sky.
There is a saffron moon
to fill my wistful spoon.
While I wait for the bird’s silhouette
To inscribe my words on the moon’s lunette.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: Created by Copilot and me.
This poem began as a poetic comment I shared with Beth, in response to her moving article about a group of monks who set out from the Huong Dao Temple in Fort Worth, Texas. Their 2,300-mile pilgrimage to Washington, D.C. will span roughly 120 days and carry them through ten states — a quiet, powerful gesture of peace.
I’m grateful to Beth for allowing me to reproduce the photos from her post here on my poetry site.
Beth >> walking into the new year with peace. | I didn’t have my glasses on….
“Walk For Peace”
Silently, like daylight moves across a sundial,
The monks walk for peace in a humble style.
Within myself, I wistfully smile,
And hope that all the rank and file
Will also freely walk every single mile.
And add to the world’s peaceful stockpile.
Lisa O’Neill, If I Was A Painter, Lyrics
[Verse 1]
If I was a painter with colours no end
I’d paint the whole thing simply again
Where everything runs into everything
Where every colour is born without sin
[Verse 2]
Red be a roaring river in my veins
Green be the beat of the heart in the trees
Blue be the pull of the moon on the tide
Let brown be the base of some true love’s eyes
[Bridge]
Give us a chance at an earthly lifе
Then pull it from under us when wе arrive
Sending us orderly – what choice had I?
Born under the only sky
[Pre-Chorus]
Vast, vast, vast
Silver, gold and brass
The moon′s milk, the sun’s silk
All move among the stars
[Chorus]
I found out when I listened
Love is received from love
Up in the steely night
Stars span the Galway shawl
I was scared of the underground in London
At the speed of my generation
Are the old people getting forgotten
In this fuss of the world we spin?
[Verse 1]
If I was a painter with colours no end
I’d paint the whole thing simply again
Where everything runs into everything
Where every colour is born without sin
Ivor Steven © January 2026
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
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2024) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the second poem in the Humour section of Chapter 9, Humour, Fantasy, and Fairyland: Timeless
Pockets Full of Stones
I would like to fly away
On this cold, wintry day
But my pockets are full of stones
And my old wings are fragile bones
My benevolent friend, the moon
Is hibernating in his orbital cocoon
So, I’m grounded with muddy toes
Stuck here on this frosty meadow
.
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 © January 2026
This morning, Brian and I had an interesting conversation related to my poem, “A Rocketeer’s Poetry Career.” You may visit Brian’s fabulous Photographic site by clicking on this link >> https://bushboy.blog/
A New Year’s Day Conversation, with Brian
“There is a time
to put away your sword,
and pick up a pen,
Isn’t there, Ivor?”
“My old quill
is still full of ink, Brian”
“and blood on your sword?”
“There is always blood
After the thud
Of a muddy flood”
Ah, this swords a dud,
So dull, draws no blood
Only, this bloody mud
Ivor Steven © January 2026
The Ballarat – Skipton Rail Trail, sunburnt meadows, and tree-shadowed tunnels
Horse drawn cart, and Nimons trestle bridge
The Devils Kitchen is an impressive geological reserve in Piggoreet, 15 minutes from, Smythesdale. The Woady Yaloak River winds its way through a thickly vegetated valley, surrounded by cliffs of spectacular basalt columns.
A Country Trail
How scenarios change over time-
The old unused rural railway line.
From Ballarat to Skipton and back
is now an unspoiled community track.
Gently meandering over sunburnt meadows,
Then dipping through tree-shadowed tunnels aglow.
Along the trails, valleys, and rocky ridges,
Travelers will see horse drawn carts and trestle bridges.
And on the way to Snake Valley and Linton,
Be wary of the gold miners “Devil’s Kitchen.”
A song to wander with along the trail…
Ivor Steven (c) December 2025
Golden Bracelet
This is not about a mystical sunset,
Nor the birds’ spiritual silhouettes.
I am searching for her golden bracelet –
Or perhaps,
I should be climbing her marble minaret,
Where time is trapped,
And then I could collapse
Into her celestial bassinet.
Ivor Steven (c) December 2025
Some places invite you to step sideways into another world. Smythesdale is one of them. This poem wanders from the paddocks into a quiet, cosmic holiday — best read with M83’s Un Nouveau Soleil rising gently underneath.
.
Rustic Smythesdale
.
Here, where the country paddocks
beam at you through the bedroom window,
grazing kangaroos curiously look your way
and front-yard elephants laze in the shade
of the friendly eucalyptus tree.
I’m untethering my Itmims space craft,
and there’s an aurora lighthouse
to guide the ship around the Cape Of Good Hope
on toward the great passage in the sky.
I’m not saying goodbye, but having a holiday
in the western zone of my rural universe.
.
.
Bhttps://youtu.be/36mlX318Q3w?si=OJ47PPfWNKAsJGNt
.
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:
Stanza 1. Derrick, >> Not Going Out Much – derrickjknight
Stanza 2. Nancy, >> Novembre – The Elephant’s Trunk
Stanza 3. David, >> This, too, shall pass, or: A rengay – The Skeptic’s Kaddish 🇮🇱
Stanza 4. Beth, >> darkness just begun. | I didn’t have my glasses on….
The Weather Report
The weather report comes and goes,
whether we feel like it or not.
Nature’s unchained window frames
shall always remain,
unclaimed and untamed.
I miss your November sunshine,
Just before Christmas time.
I miss your gorgeous November style –
all year round, your everlasting smile.
With the season’s colourful changes,
Nature’s crayons pepper the ranges.
Her tablecloth’s scattered mess
Becomes her ancient doll’s festive dress.
A spectacular sunset,
and they are all stellar,
in their own special way –
by single-handedly
signifying the end
of another successful day.
Ivor Steven (c) December 2025
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 