Alex Steven (Dad), February 5th 1924 – July 3rd 2015
A Weary Old Plumber, I’m Thinking of You
(Happy Birthday, Dad)
One hundred and two years ago
When dark became day
And the sun shone on you
Did the gods of the world know
How lucky they were
That your sphere of love
Was all-encompassing
Ivor Steven © February 2026
Sorry to my readers and followers for my lack of blogging this week … The old plumber/poet traded his quill in for his old rusty spanner and dirty hammer …
Drawing Above: done for me by Rose in 2017 – https://poetrummager.org/
Back On The Tools. (adapted from “An Old-time Plumber”)
I’ll be seventy-five in July
Could I actually do the task?
Am I physically strong enough?
Am I mentally sharp and able enough
To endure four to five days of hard work?
Surprise, surprise – I have survived the first three days.
The job is nearing completion, and the client is suitably pleased,
And I am home beside the fan, enjoying a cold glass of beer.
Although when I finished, it was nearly dinner time,
And my back was stiff as red-gum bark –
But a job stamped by my old-time quality trademark.
Before I can wrap up the job and rest on the weekend,
I’m waiting for a made-to-order cover panel
Which, unfortunately, will conceal all of my handiwork.
Ivor Steven © February 2026
While waiting for my CHW article to appear last night, I found myself knee‑deep in “lucky envelopes” for the book‑stall dip — a poet’s version of factory work, complete with midnight muttering and a very patient supervisor. Somewhere between the folding and the stacking, this little whimsy arrived.
The Poet’s Lucky Envelope Humdrum
A poem a day is my way;
print five copies of each without delay.
Do not overflow the out tray –
place the copies in relay,
the next five crossways …
and so on – it’s child’s play.
Fold each foolscap page in half,
then fold again, into quarters.
Any fool can do it!
Open an envelope,
shove in the folded page
(No need for that frustrated rage).
Start a row of five;
put the next five on top …
and so on – it’s child’s play
’til midnight ends the day.
And for the soundtrack to this late‑night humdrum, here’s Leonard Cohen and U2 with Tower of Song — a perfect companion for a poet quietly working under the watchful eye of Frankie.
Ivor Steven © February 2026
Two scenes from the same evening — twilight blazing in the west and moonlight rising in the east. Nature offered both, and the music speaks for itself. Which one draws you in?
Lioness Eyes
Who’s winning the mesmerising
photographic contest –
twilight’s effervescent scarlet sky,
illuminating the horizon in the west
or the moon’s royal blue panorama
edifying the evening clouds in the east?
Both scenarios are beautifully picturesque,
and choosing my favourite phosphorescence
is beyond my universe’s tinted opalescence.
Ivor Steven © February 2026
A quiet moment in the afternoon sun, with shadows drifting and Lisa O’Neill’s “Sparkle” humming at the edges…
Micropoetry is an ultra-short form of poetry, typically under 25 words or 140 characters, blending creative brevity with precise language, sharp imagery, and emotional depth, while allowing diverse interpretations.
Wandering Romeos (a Micro Poem)
Like falling snow…
Shadows come and go.
Some have sharp claws –
Others have soft paws.
My shadow’s afterglow…
Is a château
For any wandering Romeo.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
FREE PDF COPY >>> Links Below
Hello, dear readers and followers. As you may know, I stopped producing my “Tullawalla Booklets” at #31 because that was the house number of our family’s Tullawalla Homestead.
However, the booklet format is a superb way for me to catalogue the vast number of poems I produce, and as the saying goes, “I Am Turning Another Page”. Here I have begun a new series of poem booklets, called “Shangri La”, the name of my little Villa, and it is my piece of “earthly paradise, a retreat from the pressures of modern civilization”.
I now have “2245” Poems filed in these booklet formats!!
(On my bookshelf, I have “The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, which contains 1775 poems … when I first started writing poems, I never envisaged that I would produce so many poems)
“Like all my booklets, this one is here to be read at your leisure — no rush, no expectation, just an open page waiting when you are.”
Click >>Here. for the link to your FREE: PDF Copy of “Shangri La, Volume 18, Between Here and the Edge.”
OR … Shangri La, Vol 18, Between Here and the Edge.pdf
Between Here and the Edge
I’m no ancient mariner
with a sextant to chart the sky
The moon was falling into bed,
the sun rising ahead,
both at the same height,
as if I were the hinge between them.
Here I stand on their earthbound bridge
at the centre of my own universe,
unsure of my footing near the edge –
am I fading into the advancing ground,
or drifting back toward an old wedding pledge.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: wae created by Copilot and me.
At the edge of dusk, every path feels like a crossroad.”
The Elusive Crossroad
Beyond the evening’s projecting twilight zone,
I’m looking for this planet’s bright side of the moon.
I observe a strange stratosphere
That does not belong here, nor there.
Between now and the universe’s next episode,
I perceive a mirage of cosmic cathodes,
Faithlessly obscuring eternity’s elusive crossroad.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Featured Image Above: wae created by Copilot and me.
Over at Sadje’s WDYS #325, I think my poem is appropriate for both of her prompt images. To visit her fabulous site please click >> Here.
This poem grew out of three short pieces I wrote in response to posts by fellow WordPress writers—Beth, Mark, and Dwight. Each anecdote carried its own spark, but together they formed a thread I couldn’t ignore. I’ve woven them here into one poem, a reflection on nature, emotion, and the creative fire that keeps us writing.
In stanza order, they are:
Beth – https://ididnthavemyglasseson.com/2026/01/24/the-magic
Mark – https://havocandconsequence.wordpress.com/2026/01/24/smashed-like-a-deity
Dwight – In Pursuit of Passion | Roth Poetry
.
The Pot’s Still Simmering
Once upon a time, while the moon was sweeping
Just after the ice age had ceased creeping
And when the world’s sky had finished wistfully weeping
Mother Nature always had time for her housekeeping
And would never leave “love” under the snow, sleeping
I’ve always found it difficult
to simply wash away the salty tears
The residual droplets seemed
to have crystallized upon my soul’s fears
While the pot
remains simmering
and the irons are still hot,
a passion for writing
is this poet’s lot
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Feature Image Above: was created by Copilot and me.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word “Squish”
To visit their fabulous site, please click >>Here … and I think everything about censorship is awfully “Squishy.”
Nancy’s story on The Elephant’s Trunk [https://theelephantstrunk.org/2026/01/20/rdp-tuesday-disapprove/ ] stirred an old frustration in me — how easily free expression can be twisted, muted, or dismissed. I left a brief comment there, but the idea continued to nag at me throughout the afternoon. Sitting in a quiet corner of the café, I found myself shaping those few lines into something fuller, a small protest poem about the weight of censorship and the stubborn resilience of words. This is where that moment led.
When Words Wear Chains
Words wearing chains,
Pages awash in teary rain;
Quills feel the pain,
Like wisdom without veins
Inside lifeless brains.
How to explain
The inhumane
Of censorship’s careering train,
While the reigning regimes
Sip on foreign champagne.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Inspired by one of Derrick Knight’s quietly atmospheric New Forest photos — which he kindly allows me to use on my poetry site >>https://derrickjknight.com/2026/01/19/decidedly-damp-2/ — this piece reflects the stillness and subtle depth held in a simple pond.
Discreetly Reflective
Discreetly, here I casually lie,
My opalescent veneer
Facing the weathered sky –
Reflective is my exterior.
Underneath, at the bottom of the weir,
A shallow coldness protects my fear
Of overexposure
To the New Forest’s frontier.
But being a reflective mirror
Is my theatrical nature
Music:“Elegy” by Lisa Gerrard & Patrick Cassidy — a quiet echo of the pond’s stillness.
Ivor Steven © January 2026
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 