A poem by request, for the “Poet Rummager”. From a more recent era of my life. The photos, taken by I.Steven, part of the Shipwreck Coast, South-West Victoria, along the renowned, Great Ocean Road




We’re a shipwreck of the night.

The lighthouse was out of sight.

After the storm of wild passion.

Feeling wearied, a wreckage of fusion.


We’re a sperm whale on the beach.

The giant of the sea, without a speech.

After the turmoil of an endless wish.

Feeling totally lost, a wreckage amiss.


We’re a burnt-out forest of the dawn.

The ashen mountain smoulder ’til morn.

After the raging nights fire.

Feeling humbled, a wreckage of desire.


We’re a paradox of the unfolding day.

The bedsheets awry, here to stay.

After the fatigue of a forever promise.

Feeling complete, a wreckage of braveness.


Ivor Steven.


Missing You.

As you the readers, might be aware, I’m hugely influenced by the works of Leonard Cohen. This poem bares format similarities to Leonard’s poems/songs,  “Love Calls You By Name”  and, “Bird On A Wire”. I’m Forever grateful for Leonard Cohen’s profound impact on my writings and my life’s attitudes.  This old poem was written when my Lady’s deteriorating medical condition and medical equipment and care needs, left me no alternative but to relocate myself to the other bedroom of our home, where upon, the music played and my words flowed.

Missing You.

Missing you, like a bee and her distant hive.

Like the sun with no sky.

Missing you, like the moon of last night.

Like my eyes with no sight.

Between the rain and my pain.

Between the calm and the storm.

Between the waterfall and the pond.

Between my heart and the beyond.

Missing you, like a swallow with no breeze.

Like a whale in the sea.

Missing you, Like the universe with no dark.

Like the strings in a harp.

Between the rage and your cage.

Between the winds and the waves.

Between the ground and your flowers.

Between the castle of your towers.

Missing you, like the beach with no sand.

Like the dove from above.

Missing you, like a mother and her newborn child.

Like a lonely stag in the wild.

Between the river and the broken levee.

Between the kiss of your hips.

I know you can hear me,

I know you can see me,

I know you’re near,

Yet you’re far away from here.


Ivor Steven.

Under The Snow

A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to hospital for the last time, on the day of her last birthday. I’ve slightly edited the wording overnight, and now a general birthday poem for all to enjoy, and posting here, on this “my day”.

Under The Snow.


We emanate to a birthday.

We deflate to a final day.

Birthdays, they all come, they all go.

Birthdays, in the sunshine, under the snow.

Birthdays, slow to mature, quickly an aeon.

Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone.

Birthdays, hanging on by a breath.

Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death.

What’s it all mean to be alive and cry.

What’s it all mean to live and to die.


Ivor Steven.

In My Room


In My Room, and my nuts.

Top left, impressive long-stitch craft, by Carole.

Framed by my kind and gentle Dad.

Bottom right, CD’s to be ripped into my music library.



My Bookcase, and my hats.

Made for my 18th birthday.

By my dear Grand-pa, the carpenter.

Recipe books, photo albums.

Fiction and non-fiction.

My Vaults, my nicknacks !



My Girl, snuggled in her bed.

Lily, a special gift to Carole.

From one of her Angelic Carers.

My shoes, sorry girls, just 3 pair.



My Desk, my computer set-up.

A scanner, and 2 printers.

Middle right, my record turntable.

Top left, my poetry folders.



My bedhead, my go at cabinet making.

My speakers, a cherished gift from my brother.

My poetry reading, my needful dictionary.

My bedside lamp, my lifetime night-light.

My note-pad, my night-time essential.

My pillows, my dream-time catchers.


Ivor’s little tour, inside my little bedroom, where my dream-time, memories, visions, and thoughts, turn into my words. This presentation, inspired by,  derrickjknight, and his gorgeous photographic tours.

Let Her Be

It wasn’t that much of a task,

To be with me.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be that past lover.

What’s it like, to be a distant mother.

What’s it like, to have no real cover.

What’s it like, to have a body of another.

It wasn’t too much to ask,

To let her be.

What’s it like, to be about and free.

What’s it like, to be a fish in the sea.

What’s it like, to be a queen bee.

What’s it like, to smile with glee.

Please set her free,

And give her back to me.

Let her be,

And set her free.


Ivor Steven.


My internal flame for her, still flickering.

Burning like the old Olympic torch.

Eternally glowing, without a permanent home.

Charring the timbers of all her defenses.

The leftover ashes, blistering my soul.

The fire-front ruins, leaving me dark and hollow.

A flame, not to be easily extinguished.

A fire, always smouldering in my heart.


Ivor Steven.

There’s Room


There’s Room.

“It’s A Small World”, they say.

My dog, she’s small.

The little courtyard is hers.

My house is small.

The lounge/dining, is enough.

My kitchen is like a galley.

The laundry/bathroom, is clean.

My bedroom is broad.

A double-bed, and studio desk.

My bookcase and humble vaults.

A display of history and wine.

My room, resonating Leonard’s ballads.

My room, my words and dreams.

My room, a song for you.

“Oh”, where are you.


Ivor Steven.