Here I am on a Jet Plane, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. Therefore today’s Throwback Friday poem is a very appropriate finale piece, to coincide with my amazing adventures in Canada over the past 21 days.
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It Was Time To Leave (Revised)
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It’s time to tidy up my mess Clean up the room and get dressed It’s time to pack my suitcase Fill the travel bag and vacate this place It’s time to put on my famous rocker shoes And walk away from this dream come true It’s time to say heartfelt goodbyes To these wonderful Canadian guys It’s time for final hugs and kisses Sad farewells and best wishes It’s time for my usual emotional tears Separate myself from these every day cheers It’s time to flyaway from a land of berries and fairies Leave this magical world of faraway families It’s time to say a million thank you’s For making my stay a Really Real great do It’s time for me to travel back home With glorious memories of this magical Astrodome
In September 2000, I suffered my first stroke. After a stretch of intensive rehab, I was finally allowed to return home and resume caring for my wife. I was still healing, still unsteady, and not yet permitted to drive. With the patient guidance of my wonderful speech therapist, I slowly relearned how to speak, read, and write. During those early recovery days, music was always playing in the background — especially Leonard Cohen. Something in his haunting lyrics stirred me, nudged me, compelled me to start writing things down. That’s when I first discovered a small, surprising knack for shaping words into rhyme. After several months, my therapist gently encouraged me to join a local writers’ group. And as the old saying goes, from little things, big things grow.
“A Few Milestones Along the Way”
Every now and then, WordPress taps me on the shoulder with a small surprise — a reminder of how long I’ve been wandering these digital paths, and how many kindred spirits I’ve met along the way. This week, a handful of “Achievements” arrived, and they made me pause, smile, and look back over the journey.
Ten years on WordPress. That one landed with a soft thud in my chest. A decade of poems, stories, late‑night edits, early‑morning inspirations, and the steady rhythm of showing up — even on the days when the words came slowly.
Views from over 150 countries. It still amazes me that something written at my desk in Geelong can find its way to readers oceans away. These badges aren’t really about numbers; they’re about connection — the quiet thread between writer and reader, stretched across continents.
A comment longer than the original post. That one made me laugh. It’s proof of what I love most about this place: the conversations, the generosity, the way a single poem can spark a whole exchange of thoughts, memories, and stories.
And the Globe Trotter badge — 50+ countries — a reminder of the early days when I first realised people were actually reading.
None of these milestones happened in isolation. They grew from the kindness of readers, the encouragement of fellow writers, and the simple joy of sharing words. I’m grateful for every visit, every comment, every quiet moment someone spent with one of my poems.
Here’s to the next stretch of the journey — wherever the words decide to wander.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word ” expressive.” To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here.
In the long echo of these streets, after all the turns and tremors, I’m still here, listening for the next line.
In keeping with this week’s ‘Environment’ theme, today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2020) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as a poem in Chapter 2, Nature: An Unbiased Timekeeper
Polar Bears and Cold Sheep
hello world, do you see my frown? will the blizzards ever calm down? will the rains forever fall on broken ground? will our tears of silence be the only sound?
the frozen wounds are deep the mountains of snow are steep humans need to stop being cold sheep and begin taking their own individual leaps
the rewards of being caring and kind far outweigh the coldness of being left behind
For the wounds we’ve carved into the earth, may this music echo the quiet truth our planet keeps trying to tell us.
After wrestling with the usual tangle of messages and mischief‑makers, I stepped onto the track for a breath of real air. The wattlebirds were already there, perched and unbothered, reminding me that the sky has no time for scammers or phishers — and neither should I.
Wattlebirds Are No Log-jammers
After wading through my pool of emails, the clean-up I had planned did fail. Anyhow, it was time for my morning walk among nature’s wattlebirds and hawks. Despite the cool, misty rain The refreshing breeze will clear my foggy brain
Not far along the wet, winding track, I see a wattlebird having a peaceful nap, perched high up in the tree’s branches, oblivious to humanity’s modern advances.
Beautiful wattlebirds are not log-jammers, river phishers, or honey scammers They are free to do as they please and can fly away from any tight squeeze.
A small reminder that the sky is always wider than the noise.
In the hush of twilight, a pink glow threaded the treeline — a hint of the hidden realm where fairies hover above the causeway, chorusing something tender and otherworldly
Beyond the Pink Horizon
Deep behind the trees’ silhouettes and beyond the horizon’s pink curtain, in that ambiguous twilight zone there lies an earthly paradise — a glimmering crimson kingdom where our magical, luminous fairies hide.
And I wonder: where is the missing archway into this purple-haze never never land, or is it simply reality’s mysterious causeway calling me through the transient light.
Through the transient glow, the fairies’ lullaby drifts across the horizon.
After a week of words and wandering, we finally rest. I apologise for my slow blogging replies — time has been sprinting while this old poet hobbles behind.
I’ll be reading my poems “Drumsticks” and “Dear, Danny” at the next Dome Poetry meeting — a relaxed afternoon of Postcards and Poetry at The Courthouse Museum.
Never a Dull Moment
I’m enjoying an extra-busy weekend — Creative Geelong market on Saturday, Dome Poetry meeting Sunday morning, where I recited my poem “The Portrait That Found Me.”
I also presented two poems “Drumsticks” and “Dear, Danny,” which I’ll be reading at the next meeting At The Courthouse Museum, Drysdale, For an afternoon of Postcards and Poetry.
So as you can see, I’ve written lots more poems during the week — over and above my normal daily output. Needless to say, I’m exhaustipated again.
And here at the Box Cafe on Sunday afternoon, we are having a much-needed rest and relaxation
A quiet promise before the song begins: the three poems from today’s journey will soon be finding their place here.
As the sky softened into twilight, the colours opened my poetic picture book, and Ben Howard’s “Old Pine” drifted through the moment with the same quiet warmth.
The Weekend Challenge on Weekly Prompts is the word “Hell.” To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here … my Tanka today is a long way up beyond “Hell.”
Nature’s Iris (a Tanka)
A crimson twilight And a seductive sunset Is nature’s iris Unfolding my picture book Where my quiet poems rest
What began as two simple responses — one to the city’s hard truths, one to the fading light — has merged into a single reflection on how we move through darkness and bridge life’s rolling undertow.
It’s sad how some people can sink so low. It’s sad how the onlookers come and go. It’s sad how Skid Row groans and crows. It’s sad how urban rainbows lose their glow, and drown in life’s rolling undertow
Nearing the looming edge of night, is there a hidden bridge between life’s fading light and that last, unbroken ridge?
And somewhere in the half‑light, we keep searching for the bridge to span life’s rolling undertow.
Today’s Throwback poem was written in May 2024. For reasons I can’t quite explain, this reflective piece never found its way into my new book Time Hears No Sound. Maybe this insightful poem will nudge me toward beginning a new manuscript for my fifth book.
Cold Feet
I wandered outside; the evening air was damp and cold, and the moon was sharing the dappled midnight sky with dark, satiny clouds.
Forlornly, I looked up and quizzically asked the moon, “I have failed. My words were drowned in the hail. I’m poor and unbound; all I have is muddy ground. Who listens, anyhow? Where do I go now?”
“Do not fret, my friend As Confucius said, It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. And that old Japanese Proverb: Fall down seven times, stand up eight. “
I wandered back inside. The desk lantern was still burning. I reopened my torn notebook and began writing again.
For the nights when the cold settles in, but the words still find their way.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 