This poem grew out of three small conversations across the WordPress community — first with Mark, then with Violet, and finally with Susi. Each reply carried its own quiet image, and when I gathered them together, they seemed to drift toward the same shoreline, as if the words had swum through the ocean and landed on one beach. In stanza order, they are. 1. Mark: WHAT WE BECAME – Havoc and Consequence 2. Violet: Freedom – Revisited | Thru Violet’s Lentz 3. Susi: The Gate To Hell – I Write Her
Sandcastles
Sandcastles built during low tide are not supplied with an upside, nor a legible exit guide.
Freedom never comes in garbage bags full of crumbs. Freedom calls and goes, wearing the same old clothes.
Through the cracks’ depths, the light’s resurfacing stealth gives us reassuring strength.
Funny how a few quick replies can turn into a whole poem. These little moments across WordPress drift together, and before I know it, they’ve built something on the shore. Sandcastles is just today’s example.
In the hush before daylight kisses everything, the setting moon and a lone flyer share the sky’s peaceful journey.
This morning’s moon lingered above Geelong’s blue sky — a quiet witness to words exchanged between kindred writers. Today’s poem gathers those fragments, reshaped from comments left on their pages, into one flowing verse before the morning moon sets. In stanza order, they are:
Beware – of crossing gravel paths. They say – ants wearing army boots Are on the move, – crushing breadcrumbs – and breaking straws. Micro power — – the mighty insects have their own claws and laws. – and know how to gnaw and undermine desert wars
Once upon a time, while the moon was sweeping Just after the ice age had ceased creeping And when the world’s sky had finished wistfully weeping Mother Nature always had time for her housekeeping And would never leave “love” under the snow, sleeping
I’ve always found it difficult to simply wash away the salty tears The residual droplets seemed to have crystallized upon my soul’s fears
While the pot remains simmering and the irons are still hot, a passion for writing is this poet’s lot
Sublime is time; heeds no rhyme, beyond our imaginary climb. Somewhere we await a final line – or is life just a pantomime?
Oh, I see doorways, stairways, and causeways These days I’m living in a hazy daze – or am I wandering in a maze of poetic cliches and unfinished essays?
Do we climb the incline to our ordained shrine? Or is the causeway a surreal design, a decline into a magnetic mine?
Under a dome of flawless white, being elevated toward the uncorrupted light – the beginning of a poet’s last moonlit playwright
From Lisa O’Neill’s Black Sheep —“Do you want a story before you sleep?”A fitting echo for this small pantomime of doorways and moonlit climbs.
Underneath all the mounds, we are all bound together by the same ground, whether we are lost or found.
The packaging is losing its gloss, but the contents are not lost – still spirited like an albatross.
Bluffers and shovers Swoop like overprotective plovers, act like “Big Brother,” ring the buzzer, usher out the duffers, and snuffer the crushers.
Oh, so many detours and hidden contours. Who are these saboteurs?
Lisa O’Neill’s music has a way of grounding us in what matters. This song, in particular, feels like a quiet reckoning—an honest look at the world and the winds that shape it.
Lisa O’Neill, The Wind Doesn’t Blow This Far Right, Lyrics
[Verse 1] I’ve lately been thinking of an old friend Who I haven’t seen in a while Last night I dreamed that the same friend Passed without sayin’ goodbye
[Verse 2] Oh, to be wild like the roses Oh, to be red with delight My blood is red out of fury The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 3] Some terrors are born out of nature Some terrors are born overnight Some terrors are born out of leaders With their eye on a different prize
[Verse 4] The thing is, some leaders are players And players sometimes can be clowns And clowns then sometimes can be dangerous When they’re there and yet they can’t be found
[Verse 5] The Big Mac, the big man, the big bomb The power of money and lies The power of fear in the people The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 6] Some terrors are born out of nature Some terrors are born overnight Some terrors are born out of leaders With their eye on a different prize
[Verse 7] Oh, to be wild like the roses Oh, to be red with delight My blood is red out of fury The wind doesn’t blow this far right
[Verse 8] Drill, baby, drill Don’t, baby, don’t Don’t you hear the winds, feel the fires as they burn? Beautiful planet, beautiful home Drill, baby, drill Don’t, baby, don’t
[Verse 9] Kill, baby, kill Don’t, baby, don’t Don’t you hear the kids as you blindly bulldoze on? Beautiful children, starved to the bone Kill, baby, kill Don’t, baby, don’t Kill, baby, kill Don’t, baby, don’t
This morning, Brian and I had an interesting conversation related to my poem, “A Rocketeer’s Poetry Career.” You may visit Brian’s fabulous Photographic site by clicking on this link >> https://bushboy.blog/
A New Year’s Day Conversation, with Brian
“There is a time to put away your sword, and pick up a pen, Isn’t there, Ivor?”
“My old quill is still full of ink, Brian” “and blood on your sword?”
“There is always blood After the thud Of a muddy flood”
Ah, this swords a dud, So dull, draws no blood Only, this bloody mud
There is a number attached to everything, Tracking them down is overwhelming; Tallying the total is mind-boggling.
I perceive, with a twinkle in my blurry eye, an extra wrinkle on my milky thigh. But I do not cry at the number of crinkles that falsely belie the sounds of my life’s happy jingles.
The number of memories shall not diminish until time decrees, “you’re finished.”
Accompanied by Sleeping At Last’s “Saturn” performed live with the Symphony Orchestra, this poem listens for the echoes beyond numbers—where memory, music, and existence intertwine.
Feature Image Above: Frankie and I, mid-poem at our local café—where thoughts drift between nothing and something, and companionship keeps everything afloat.
Attached Images: Three of my bird photos from today: Wattlebird, Magpie, and Mudlark.
This poem grew from three spontaneous reflections I left on fellow bloggers’ posts—each a response to a moment that stirred something in me. Though written separately, the stanzas now speak to one another, forming a quiet meditation on uncertainty, resilience, and the weight of responsibility. Sometimes, everything lives in the spaces between. The three bloggers in stanza order. 1st Stanza >> Okay, Socrates | Rethinking Life 2nd Stanza >> Tempted By A Demon – I Write Her 3rd Stanza >> Four in a row – Keep it alive
Thinking About Everything
In between nothing, and something — where is everything?
Hold onto a limb, when the body forgets how to swim, and the mind’s in a spin.
Holding onto self-discipline can be hard to maintain — especially for politicians, who hold all the reins in the hard rain.
This live rendition carries a breath of vulnerability and grace—perfect for reflecting on the spaces between nothing, something, and everything. It’s the kind of song that lingers, like a paw resting gently on your arm.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 