Poetry/Australia – Ivor.Plumber/Poet

Winging Toward Peace

Sometimes a single flight can carry more meaning than the landscape beneath it.
This morning’s mudlark — lifting from foreign sands, gliding toward familiar green, then swept off course by an unexpected breeze — became the quiet messenger behind this piece. Its journey echoed the fragile paths we all take toward understanding, toward apology, toward peace.
What followed was a poem shaped by wings, weather, and the distant hum of icy choirs.

Winging Toward Peace

Swooping out past the sands of foreign ground
Then flying toward the green, bushy trees
of that once-fabled promised land —
only to be diverted by a bold eastern breeze
that buckled my wings and trembling knees
and sent me falling into the Arctic freeze,
where icy choirs continue the cheers
still singing in the hush of sub‑zero seas

There, huddling inside an iceberg’s solitary marque,
all the compassionate delegates from overseas
gathered to hear pleas for apologies and guarantees
from Greenland’s patient, peaceful trustees.

From foreign sands to frozen seas, the journey ends where quiet voices still know the weight of peace. And so, in Greenland’s calm, the final note on harmonious independence lingers.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

Opaqueness

Last night’s twilight slipped across the sky in muted layers — a quiet blend of fading colour, soft cloud, and the half‑moon’s pale glow behind drifting haze. Standing there with the camera, I felt the day thinning into something slower, dimmer, almost weightless.
From that hush, this small poem emerged — a reflection on how light, taste, and time blur at the edges as evening diffuses into night.

What Do You See 355
For WDYS, Sadje offers us a photo by Lensloji (Pexels) of a murmuration of birds forming a shifting pattern above a city skyline and minaret at sunset.

Opaqueness

Time is colourless,
yet daytime becomes darkness
as evening clouds advertise
twilight’s transient demise.

Time is tasteless,
yet midnight is infused with blackness
except for the half-moon’s translucent
loving spoonful of notilucence.

And in the quiet blur between knowing and not knowing, this song finds its way.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

The Overseer

These stunning silhouettes stopped me in my tracks — quiet guardians perched above a fragile world. Their calm presence sparked the environmental protest tone of the four couplets below, a reminder of what remains pure when we look up and listen.

The Overseer

I am the overseer of my kingdom,
a global realm without a dome.

No barbed-wire fences, only sky,
beyond mankind’s envious eyes.

No landmines, only trees,
to house and shelter me.

No hard rain, only the sun,
glowing, to enlighten everyone

“And now, let the sky speak, where the light continues in sound, with a final glow of gentle music.”

Ivor Steven © August 2026

A Fantail’s Flighty Tale, or a Tricky Tail

Sometimes the morning gifts me a little magic.
Yesterday’s wander with Frankie brought a flurry of feathered moments — a Fantail on a rail, a Magpie mid‑grumble, a Mudlark caught in a swirl of tiny bravado. These images arrived with such charm and mischief that the words followed instantly, light as a breeze. What began as a simple set of photos quickly turned into a playful tale of one tiny bird bossing the bigger ones about, all in good humour and whimsy.

The cheeky Fantail and the grumpy Magpie

The twirling Fantail and the brave Mudlark

A Fantail’s Flighty Tale, or a Tricky Tail

I’m not a fiendish tax collector,
nor a fat company director.
I’m not a bossy dictator,
nor a busy Choir conductor.

I’m just a flighty tiny fella
who flits around like a flirty ballerina —
a cheeky little Fantail who unfurls
on the breeze, commander of curls;
Magpie stumbles, Mudlark sighs —
yet all obey my mischievous eyes.

A burst of bright, buoyant energy to match my cheeky Fantail’s playful world — Nick Cave’s “Joy” feels like the perfect musical wink to close this whimsical tale.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

Throwback Friday, Soundless

In keeping with this week’s theme on clouds, light, and the quiet mysteries of the universe, I’m revisiting a reflective poem from August 2018. I’ve made a few small word changes — gentle adjustments that preserve the essence of the original piece.

Soundless (Revised)

My celestial dusk is earthward bound.
Evening clouds are not making a sound.
I cannot hear her moon shadows hit the ground,
and our silent night is being slowly drowned.
Then my midnight queen arises, to be crowned —
the Goddess of Light … and I am spellbound.

A soft companion piece, echoing the poem’s silence, carried on a gentle breath of light.

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 © August 2026

The Blue Fescue

The sky felt unsettled today — light pushing through cloud, a lone bird cutting across the haze, and the sun straining behind its thinning veil. These moments stayed with me, each one a quiet reminder of how fragile our atmosphere has become. From those three glimpses of the day, this small protest poem emerged, carrying both concern and hope for the blue we’re slowly losing.

Alongside that moment of sky and flight, two other images stayed with me today — another glimpse of the unsettled light above, and a quote from The Book Bird notice board. Richard Flanagan’s words felt uncannily aligned with the mood of this piece, reminding me how writing can step beyond politics and speak from a deeper, more human place. Together, these images helped shape the protest thread running through The Blue Fescue.

The Blue Fescue

Above Earth’s governing clouds,
beyond the atmosphere’s
atomic shrouds,
I hear the sun’s white veneer
pulsating from inside
the sky’s diminishing blue.

There hiding — teary-eyed —
waiting for an overdue
enlightening breakthrough
to cure the world’s
stewed blue fescue.

A song for the shifting sky — a reminder that even in the blur between heroes and villains, we’re still searching for the light that carries us forward.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

The World’s Dulcified Sty

A whisper from the deep past — where the earth was whole and the old rhythms still held sway. The music stirs that memory, and the images catch its fading light.

The World’s Dulcified Sty

The twilight sun doesn’t die;
it just goes down to hide
for a bit of shut-eye
and a quiet cry —

about the Earth being classified
by those who turn a blind eye
to the world’s dulcified sty,
that continues to be cannibalised
by the corporate blowfly’s
mercenary money supply.

Ivor Steven © August 2026

Bright Yellow

The late afternoon sky felt a little ‘confused’ — washed in grey, unsure of what it wanted to be — yet something small and golden stayed with me. By 4am, those quiet flashes of colour were still lingering in my thoughts, reminding me that even the softest moments can brighten themselves into something worth capturing.

Celebrating 11 years with WordPress …

This weekend, the Challenge on Weekly Prompts is the word Confused. To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here

Bright Yellow

I cannot catch the sun
Above the trees’ expanses
And the cloud’s soft ski run.
Yet through the reaching branches,
Across nature’s pure white canvas,
I see bright yellow wattle flowers —
A small still-life masterpiece
Colourfully reminding me
That there is more than one way
To brighten up my day.

And in that quiet moment, even the grey sky learned to shine a little yellow.

Throwback Friday, Burnt Toast And A Cold Shower

Some mornings test us in small, stubborn ways — cold water, burnt toast, lights that won’t flick on. This old poem from July 2018 reminds me that even on those days, we can reset, breathe, and begin again.

Burnt Toast And A Cold Shower

When it’s so hard to get out of my warm bed,
I force myself to throw the sheets off,
and I face another day again.

When the light doesn’t go on above my head,
I replace the globe and flick the switch,
and I see again

When my shower hot water turns cold,
I patiently wait for the boiler to reheat,
and I shall be ready again.

When the toaster burns my bread,
I turn the grey dial down to three,
and I restart again

When the kettle runs bone dry,
I dutifully refill the jug,
and enjoy a cuppa again.

When breakfast is done, and it’s time to run,
I feel the advantage of being alive,
and I smile at my world again.

And sometimes a song is all it takes to steady the morning again.

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.

Distant Stars — A Poem for Gina

Last evening’s twilight brought two distant birds gliding across the sky — a quiet moment I thought little of at the time. But this morning, Gina’s birthday bundle arrived from Kuala Lumpur, carrying its own warmth across the miles. Suddenly those birds felt like a gentle reflection of our long friendship: separated by distance, yet always moving within the same sky. From that pairing of twilight wings and Gina’s thoughtful bundle, this three‑couplet poem emerged — three small waves of acknowledgement, connection, and renewal.

Gina’s response: “This is a very special poem — yes, please post it; too beautiful to be kept hidden. Love the second stanza about the stars.” — Gina

Distant Stars — A Poem for Gina

Long grey clouds may separate our friendship,
but distance is not part of the script.

We endearingly continue to wave from afar,
like a constellation’s pair of outlying stars.

Luminously looking forward to our next meeting,
and tenderly renewing our curriculum vitae greetings

A fitting accompaniment — Angus & Julia Stone’s “Celestial Bodies,” a live performance with the same quiet, sky‑bound warmth that inspired this poem.