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.
.
It Was Time To Leave (Revised)
.
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
Yesterday, Geelong Cereal published the first part of my dragon series — My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon. Geelong Cereal is a free online magazine showcasing local writing and creative arts, with a special love for serial fiction and stories from the Geelong region. It’s a welcoming space for writers at every stage of their creative journey, and I’m delighted that my dragon has found a home there. A heartfelt thank‑you to Mel, Geelong Cereal’s editor, whose care and encouragement helped bring this first chapter to life. >> My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon
Below is the image of the poem as it appeared in the magazine.
Before Part 1 settles into the dark, and as my dragon drifts back into shadow, here’s a song of solitude and wonder to close the first chapter.
With the full moon brooding over my backyard and Cohen’s noir residue still shadowing the edges of my thoughts, this poem arrived like a quiet confession from the twilight.
The Full-moon’s Jealous Sigh
Phantasmagorically, beyond the real world’s dirty paws, I’ve been flying everywhere — over to a mythical concert on the other side of my horizon, above the full moon’s jealous sigh — where this old mystical poet was seen zooming across the sky.
Then sadly, my Itmims spacecraft began running low on stardust fuel and had to return to my backyard.
Suddenly, my feet were back home, again stuck on the ground, and I was dreamily stumbling around, listening to my muse’s sonorous music sound, weeping down from twilight’s white dome.
So I leave this moonlit wander here — I’ll let Cave’s “Weeping Song” carry the last of this twilight ache.
Hello, dear readers and followers. I contribute to Coffee House Writers Magazine (USA) every second week, and I’m delighted to share that my latest poem,“Don’t Worry, Home is Anywhere,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Don’t Worry, Home is Anywhere – Coffee House Writers
A rain‑soaked afternoon left my pigeon photos a little blurred, yet even in that dull light, a small metaphor took wing — a plain‑grey bird rising above the world’s worrying affairs.
And as the music rises, even a plain‑grey bird reminds us that home is wherever we dare to lift ourselves above the world’s worrying affairs.
Last night’s concert is still humming through me this morning — a gentle afterglow of voices, strings, and silhouettes that hasn’t quite settled. I’m too tired to write a full review, but the feeling of it all lingers, shaping this small poem the way a single note can colour an entire sky. With Bird on a Wire echoing softly in my thoughts, the night has lifted into something quiet and edenic, finding its way into these lines.
From wings in the sky to voices on stage — the same rhythm of freedom and grace carries through.
Maree and Ivor just before the concert began.
Edenic Sky
I’m on a poetic high, up here in my symphonic sky — like a bird on a wire, above the bustling dragonflies buzzing around on standby.
Up here in my rhythmic sky, away from the politician’s tongue ties and blind glass eyes — floating inside last month’s mince pie, still gloating about the blowflies hovering over Shanghai’s under-prepared stir fry.
I’m on a poetic high, up here in my edenic sky.
And so I’ll leave the morning here, with the last notes of the concert still drifting somewhere just out of reach, colouring the sky in their own quiet way. The bird on the wire, the sepia light, and the poem’s small rise all feel like echoes of that lingering music — a reminder that some nights don’t end; they simply soften into the day.
VJ’s Fire haiku lit a quiet spark in me last night, and sometime after midnight my own words drifted upward — a sky‑response shaped by the birds I photographed yesterday and the lingering anticipation of Cohen Noir. There’s something about Leonard’s voice that reminds me to look up, to let thoughts rise, and to trust the air to carry them.
My essence is sky Words fly with the birds up high Beyond prying eyes
And as these sky‑bound words drift toward Cohen Noir, I’m guided again by Leonard’s voice — a reminder to steer my way through the clouds and keep writing beyond prying eyes.
It’s one of those weekends when the creative threads seem to weave together—poems waiting in my drafts, music humming through the house, and Saturday night’s Cohen Noir concert drawing closer with its promise of words, wisdom, and that unmistakable Leonard Cohen glow. The Show’s Never Over feels like the perfect analogy for it all: the way a poem keeps singing long after the final line, just as Cohen’s legacy keeps echoing through every voice that carries his songs forward.
To set the mood, I’ve paired the piece with this tender and beautifully rendered cover — David Gilmour’s “Thanks For The Dance”, from the Von Trapped Series — a quiet homage that feels right at home beside the poem.
The Show’s Never Over
Nature’s time-honoured outdoor theatre never closes. My out-of-date eyes never tire of remaining open for the entire show, never asleep until my weary midnight curtain slowly drapes down over my dreamtime playground.
Sometimes a poem leaves a final shimmer in the air — the same lingering glow that Cohen’s songs carry — and this quiet, heartfelt cover feels like the perfect echo of that moment.
With Saturday night’s Cohen Noir: Celebrating the Music, Words & Legacy of Leonard Cohen drawing near, I’ve been revisiting the quiet ache and devotion in his work. Today’s Throwback Friday poem, Strings, was first written in June 2017, shaped in part by Cohen’s song Show Me the Place. With this year marking a decade since his passing, it feels fitting to return to the piece. I’ve revised it a few times over the years — the original title was Violin Strings — but the heart of the poem has remained true. The featured image above is a scanned print from The Wordless Songbook, Leonard Cohen, by George A. Walker, a treasured book from my personal library.
Below are two recent fantail moments from our morning walkies — small, bright pauses that seemed to echo the gentle mood of today’s Throwback Friday.
Strings
I’m singing a song about you, Singing words, both wistful and true. From my heart to my soul, the veins — They’re as tight as violin strings. I needed you to take my hand, Take my hand and show me the way. Show me the way, to a formal debut, Show me the way, into your dancing shoes.
I needed you to take my dreams, Take my dreams and show me how to behave. Show me the way, to your family home, Show me how to drink from your holy grail. I needed you to take my open heart, Take my heart and show me how to pray. Show me the way into your world, Show me how to fly, in your Milky Way.
I needed you to write some heavenly notes, Take my violin and show me how to play. Show me the way to your harp’s wings, Show me the way into your heartstrings.
As I revisit this piece in the lead‑up to Saturday night’s Cohen Noir: Celebrating the Music, Words & Legacy of Leonard Cohen, I’m reminded again of how deeply his work threads through my own. For anyone who wants to hear the quiet ache that first inspired Strings, here’s Leonard Cohen’s Show Me the Place — a song that still opens the same door.
Feature Image : Created by Copilot and me — a wattlebird rising above a soft, cloud‑washed bridge in the sky. I sent my two photos (attached below) to my Copilot app and asked for an image of a wattlebird flying above a bridge in the sky. This is the result: a golden, dreamlike lift.
Oh, to safely fly above that peaceful bridge in the sky. Like a worldwide dream — a bowtie’s golden ribbon, bandaging the stratosphere together, from here to Shanghai.
A quiet, drifting companion for the poem’s soft ascent.
A peaceful sunset can feel like the world exhaling — yet sometimes, in that fading light, a different truth appears. This morning’s sky carried both beauty and unease, and my thoughts followed the sun toward the shadowed side of our turning planet.
The Dark Side of Sunset
I was absentmindedly marching, away from worldly soul-searching, when I saw the sun arching toward the dark side of our planet.
Then I wondered who’s there on the other side of this old orb of granite.
And who decides who lives and who dies during the bleak, black night, when the bombs batter what’s left of the moonlight.
A final reflection on the sun’s descent — and the stark questions it leaves burning in the dark.
A gentle twilight settled over yesterday’s sky, its fading colours echoing the soft hush of evening. This poem grew from that quiet moment — a lingering farewell woven through the last light of day.
Echoes Of Goodbye
Daylight is on the soft edge of night. Today’s sentinel sun has wistfully said goodbye to the world’s indigenous blue sky.
Twilight time melodramatically commandeers earth’s chromatic horizon.
I stand here, amazed and wondering how do I explain these encircling, empyreal surroundings to the echoes of our final goodbye.
A final whisper of twilight, carried forward in song.
