Hi dear readers, especially those in the Geelong area, I’ll be a stall holder at the Creative Geelong Makers Hub, Centre Point Arcade, in the City, today between 11am and 3pm … pop in, say hello, and peruse my books “Tullawalla & Perceptions” first-hand
Today’s Throwback Friday poem is a rewrite of a piece original called “Living On a Knife Edge”(Feb 2019). This poem was one of two, that I submitted to be published in March 2020 , but the other poem was accepted ahead of this piece, and here today I have again revised the 2020 poem.
Living On a Wooden Bridge (Revised)
Fire, fire, there’s raging fires
I need help to stamp out the flames
Burning down this old timber bridge
A traveler’s last causeway to the edge
Carrying today’s harsh realities
Spanning a lifetime of dreams and fantasies
Rain, rain, there’s a Noah’s flood
I need help to stop the cascading suds
Fill the sandbags with riverbed mud
Plug the leakages with woolly rugs
Ring out qualms and doubts
And accept the charity handouts
Warning, warning, there’s a heatwave
I need help to see through the shimmering haze
And peer into nature’s fiery atmosphere tonight
Where millions of her fireflies are alight
Forcing eyes to hear the sound of flashing delights
Gathering above the bridge to be the world’s new sunlight
“The Hosting Of The Shee” a poem by William B Yeats, sung by the Waterboys
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare Caoilte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: ‘Away, come away’ ‘Away, come away, away, away’.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare Caoilte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: ‘Away, come away’ ‘Away, come away, away, away’.
Our armsa-wave, our lips are apart And if anything gaze on our rushing band We come between him and the hope of his heart We come between him and the deed of his hand.
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare Caoilte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: ‘Away, come away’ ‘Away, come away, away, away, away, away…’.
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W.B. Yeats
One Butterfly (a Rhyming Haiku)
One white butterfly
Quietly fluttered nearby
Breathless! I said Hi
“Song Of Wandering Aengus”A poem by W B Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head And cut and peeled a hazel wand And hooked a berry to a thread.
And when white moths were on the wing And moth-like stars were flickering out I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the ground I went to blow the fire a-flame But something rustled on the floor And some one called me by my name.
It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands I will find out where she has gone And kiss her lips and take her hands.
And walk among long dappled grass And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon The golden apples of the sun The silver apples of the moon The golden apples of the sun.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge word is: Traveller … please visit their wonderful site by clicking on >> Here Today my poem is about those annoying companion travellers.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 