Don’t Ask Me Why

Hi dear readers, I’ve found this old poem in my folder of poetry called “Love And Reflection”. I’ve changed a few words, so the poem is in the present tense, but basically the words are in the same format. I’ve had it hidden away for a while, the poem is quite personal and emotional for me, I hope you enjoy reading my words from 6 years ago.

Don’t Ask Me Why


Unknowingly, I often dream of her serene ashen face

Years ago, I gently held her frailty in my tired arms

Softly I whispered to her, my last words of love and grace

Don’t ask me why, I count the moons since I missed her charms

Because I cannot give you a sensible or plausible answer

Don’t ask me why, I count the stars since I lost my way

Because I’m unable to fathom the depths of my inner cancer

Don’t ask me why, I count my every heart beat, since she died that day

Because now, I’ve nearly recovered

And somehow, life has been steadily rediscovered

Remembering, she’ll never ever go away

Knowing someday, I’ll be allowed to stay


Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Yorkie And Me

Yorkie’s staring at me vacantly

Like I’m a strange tattooed bikie

Sitting on him, me anxiously crying away

Why am I crying, he quietly says

Looking at me with those big silver eyes

Pondering whether he’s hurting me

Is the ride too much pain

Is all the walking a physical drain

No !! None of that I exclaim, crying tears again

I’m crying wondering, if I’ll ever get there

Crying, because I cannot wait to be there

Crying with embarrassment, for the tears I’ll shed when I’m there

Suddenly, Yorkie barks out at me

Oh Ivor, keep pedalling, toughen-up and and you’ll arrive

Yes, me and my companion Yorkie, have become friends.


Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Yorkie, Against The Undertow

I’m pedalling my silver bike, called Yorkie

Pedalling slow and steady, out near my bar-bie

I’m not actually moving

But I am dreaming

Thinking of places I could be

Visualising what I might see

If I can keep pushing

I’ll end up with a Qantas cushion

I know the year is new and early

But I’m feeling unfit and unworldly

There’s a long way, for my body to go

There’s no turning back, despite the undertow


Ivor Steven (c)  2019

A Bike To New York

Come rain hail or shine

I’ll be ready for that Qantas Airline

Now I’ll always have time

To appear like I’m in my prime

I’ve a second-hand new toy

That’ll bring me pain and joy

Donated by a kind friend

Helping me get back on the mend

I’m fortunate and high as a purple kite

Under my verandah, I’ve a new silver bike


Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Lunch For Jiminy Cricket

I’m no Jiminy Cricket

Nor the flighty Tinkerbell

I’m far older than yesterday’s tadpole

And quieter than last night’s old frog

Time for me to venture out

Take a step into the unknown

Hobbling, I board the bus

Heading off to the local eateries

Slowly limping from stop to shops

Resting on a cafe bench seat

With soft and comfy cushions

I’m definitely not moving quickly

Unlike the “Canteen” master chef

Scrambled eggs I’ll have

My choice is delicious

Cooked to perfection

A come-back-to luncheon

For me, and for them

And I’m favourably surprised

My outing went better than expected


Ivor Steven (c)  2019




Tullawalla: Booklet #7


Hello dear readers, friends, and followers. I’ve been out of hospital 2 weeks now, and my progress is gradual and I’m quietly improving.  However I’ve been keeping myself busy, in between nanna-naps, preparing my new booklet of poems. I’ve just finished the manuscript (Phew and yeah !!), and this one is called, “Tullawalla: “The Healing House”, and all the poems were written during my 6 week stay in hospital, and of course along with the other 6 booklets, all money’s that I collect from the sale of these booklets goes to the Geelong MS Charity Shop. The list of my 7 booklets is below. These booklets are all printed here in my little writing studio/haven, put together by hand, and they’re a foolscap size folder of 21 pages and 40 poems in each booklet

Tullawalla, Poems, By Ivor Steven                                                                                   Tullawalla, A Sign Of The Times                                                                                               Tullawalla, The Waves Say Goodbye                                                                                     Tullawalla, Who’s Left To Row The Boat                                                                        Tullawalla, Home Is The Air I Breathe                                                                            Tullawalla, Waiting Time

And, Tullawalla, The Healing House

The booklet, Tullawalla, The Healing House, is a culmination, of writing poems under mental duress and physically very frustrating times. The poems represent a myriad of emotions and jumbled thoughts, of doom and gloom, uncertainties, comedy, and piece of optimism. Please enjoy the booklet that I am attaching here >>





Booklet #5: Home Is The Air I Breathe                      Booklet #6: Waiting Time



And Booklet #7: Tullawalla, The Healing House          My “Isolation Time”





From Ivor xx


Learning To Fly And A Sharp Razor


I’m the silent young writer

Who’s singing last year’s poem

I’m the old lame man

Who’s slowly learning to fly


I see myself in the mirror

My blood’s running dry

The razor is sharp enough

To make a grown man cry


I’m a laughing Hyena

As my blood fills the basin

Whoops, not fun on the run

Laughing, as I’m nervously shaving


There’s more blood in the basin

And my limp right hand’s shaking

Best I stop before I die

The recovering poet still wants to fly




Ivor Steven (c)  2019

My First Post Is Now My “500th Post”

Liquid Joy (Revised)


Tears of liquid joy

Like rivers of fear

The memories so clear

And a toast to cheer

Tears of liquid joy

Like waves from the heart

Two great oceans apart

And wishing for another restart

Tears of liquid joy

Like dredged canals of the soul

Leaking from a broken porthole

And wishing for a free parole

Tears of liquid joy

A flowing molten lava

Passing a secret convoy

And singing like the last choirboy

Crying liquid joy


Ivor Steven (c)  2019

That Nightly Sound

I’m at my desk wondering

Sitting here deeply pondering

Whether I’m a strange sort of writer

And am I, an only loner

My keyboard is covered in moisture

A wetness from my overflowing tears

I cry about my latest plight

I cry for the world’s hungry, sleeping tonight

I cry during Xavier’s song, Spirit Bird, like the, Last Post

I cry for the children, the ones we have lost

My heart bleeds tears from within

My heart writes with soul filled ink

My heart dampen’s with every word I weep

My heart floods with emotions every time I sleep

I was wondering

And I am pondering

Do other writers, hear that nightly sound

Hear the pitter-patter of naked feet

Hear the noise of shuffling feet in their sleep

Hear their dirtied feet, the millions of poor children, yet to eat


Ivor Steven (c)  2019