Twelve months ago, while visiting my cousins on Vancouver Island, I tapped out a small poem on my iPhone — a moment shaped by cedar shadows, cold tides, and old family echoes. Today’s Throwback Friday returns to that quiet day, and to the fallen ancestors the island seemed to remember.
Fallen Ancestors
Above I saw time drift across the sky.
Below I heard a grey, waterlogged tree cry, “Is this the graveyard where my fallen ancestors have been left to die?”
There “Against the sea wall’s merciless granite crown, surrounded by cold water crashing around…
Please “Take my hand, guide me down, so I can cover them with my green nightgown.”
A quiet echo of the sea’s old memory — as the tide carries its stories forward, this song keeps a heart in the water.
Continuing the Leonard Cohen thread from yesterday, today’s Throwback Friday poem, Destination (June 2024), began as a “writing between the lines” exercise for our Dome Poets group here in Geelong. Using Cohen’s The Goal as my guide (shared below), I tried to shape a companion poem that sits quietly between each of his lines.
Destination, by Ivor Steven
The curtains are open The front door is ajar So, I can hear her sing From her distant star
I do not own much My soul is a gold mine I haven’t lost my touch My heart is kind
I share what I have I have hope and love Couldn’t stop the flood Couldn’t hold her glove
I walk alone I look content Regrets are few Despair ferments
I push on and on I do not complain I’m still alive I’m numb to the pain
No one asks No one knows About finality Under the snow
In keeping with this week’s theme on clouds, light, and the quiet mysteries of the universe, I’m revisiting a reflective poem from August 2018. I’ve made a few small word changes — gentle adjustments that preserve the essence of the original piece.
Soundless (Revised)
My celestial dusk is earthward bound. Evening clouds are not making a sound. I cannot hear her moon shadows hit the ground, and our silent night is being slowly drowned. Then my midnight queen arises, to be crowned — the Goddess of Light … and I am spellbound.
A soft companion piece, echoing the poem’s silence, carried on a gentle breath of light.
Some mornings test us in small, stubborn ways — cold water, burnt toast, lights that won’t flick on. This old poem from July 2018 reminds me that even on those days, we can reset, breathe, and begin again.
Burnt Toast And A Cold Shower
When it’s so hard to get out of my warm bed, I force myself to throw the sheets off, and I face another day again.
When the light doesn’t go on above my head, I replace the globe and flick the switch, and I see again
When my shower hot water turns cold, I patiently wait for the boiler to reheat, and I shall be ready again.
When the toaster burns my bread, I turn the grey dial down to three, and I restart again
When the kettle runs bone dry, I dutifully refill the jug, and enjoy a cuppa again.
When breakfast is done, and it’s time to run, I feel the advantage of being alive, and I smile at my world again.
And sometimes a song is all it takes to steady the morning again.
Today’s Throwback goes back to August 2019, just months after my second and third strokes — a time when the days were dim, and every movement felt uncertain. Finding this poem again reminded me how far that long road has stretched. The wattlebirds I photographed today — wings lifted, rising into open sky — feel like symbols of that slow, determined recovery. This revised piece holds both the struggle and the light that followed.
Long, Long Way (Revised)
I’ve come a long, long way I remember the bad, bad days When yesterday’s were dark and grey On level seven, under heaven’s archway
Lying there immobile and prone Waiting for the etching of my gravestone Unable to hear my silent headphones Unknowingly, spinning inside a black cyclone
I awoke somewhere outside my world’s twilight zone Slowly realising I’d been saved, and finality was postponed
The soundtrack to those long, long days — and the light that followed.
Today’s Throwback Friday arrives wrapped in rain. Frankie and I stepped out into a cold, wet Geelong evening, and the sky was heavy, brooding, ready to break. It seemed the right moment to revisit a poem from June 2021 — a piece written during another season of quiet storms and overflowing emotion.
Raining Oceans of Tears (Revised)
They can send a machine to Mars, but cannot repair a blade of grass in nature’s backyard.
And billions of tears spill into the oceans, creating a soft-surging swell of love gradually rolling in from a blue horizon. Is this the beginning of the next great flood from above?
The words that are left unsaid cannot be misread
Without being misread — sometimes the only answer is to let the rain keep falling.
A bird doing somersaults in the afternoon sky is enough to set my thoughts spinning, too — though that might have something to do with my 75th birthday sneaking up on Monday. So for this Throwback Friday, I’ve dusted off and revised a poem from July 2019, a little night‑music piece full of twists, turns, and rolling dreams. Today’s bird photos feel like they’re joining in, tumbling through the page with me.
My Song Plays Through the Night (Revised)
I twist and roll over. A musical world whirls inside my head; my somersault of dreams rotates under my mattress. Upside down, rhythmical tiredness falls out of the seams. Words tumble around — nameless titles and endless tunes abound.
A bad moon’s returning, singing the blues over my empty town. I twist and roll over again; I’m back where I started. I hear my angel humming Hallelujah — you’re another year older.
Let my angel’s humming of Hallelujah carry us into another year.
This whimsical, philosophical poem was written in November 2020. “This universe is the wreckage of the infinite on the shore of the finite” … Swami Vivekananda
A Finite in the Infinite
Curiosity opens my eyes at first light, I venture beyond my cocoon of fright, And begin to see the world’s perceived fears — Wingless, I crawl away from the sea of tears.
Tired of romancing the stone, I threw a rock into the ocean, Hit the great white ghost in the head, And fed the hungry seagulls more bread.
This is no time to throw the towel in; I just heard the bell for round two ring. The power of the universe glows at night, And I am but a finite in the infinite.
And in the quiet drift between the finite and the infinite, a song reminds us what it means to be alive.
This lifestyle, philosophical poem was written in November 2022 and returns to a moment of small, steady bravery. Inspired by a lone snail crossing the wet bitumen — slow, deliberate, and determined — it reflects on purpose, persistence, and the quiet journeys we all make.
Steve the Snail. His Story
I wonder what the story was Why was Steve the Snail? Crossing the wet bitumen road There, by himself Bravely and slowly sliding along Determined to reach the other side
Steve’s path was a dangerous one But the purpose of his journey Remains locked away Within the privacy Of his ‘one-story’ home
Steve’s quiet journey reminds us how much courage lives in small, steady steps. Brandi Carlile’s The Story deepens that moment — a song for the hidden reasons and private paths we all carry within our own “one‑story” homes.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 