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.
“Frankie the Salesman, master of the lucky-dip and poetry protocol. Cavalier by nature, befriending by heart.”
Frankie the Salesman
Here we are, under the glass-roofed part Of the covered Centrepoint Arcade. The spring sun is decorating our book stall, And my salesman is in charge of poetry protocol.
The ‘Take a Poem Home Lucky-dip’ is again very popular My furry assistant has been willingly jocular, And appropriately, befriendingly cavalier.
Throwback Friday: Shadows Revisited. First shared in January 2025, this poem now finds its place as the opening to my upcoming collection, Time Hears No Sound.
The final proofreading of my upcoming poetry collection, Time Hears No Sound, is nearly complete. This weekend marks the last quiet read-through before I send it off to my editor and publisher (Judy). Meanwhile, my talented cover designer (Kerri) is crafting the book’s visual soul. There’s still a journey ahead, but everything is unfolding beautifully. Thank you for walking beside me.
Lost and Found – or – There, Here, and Where?
There Lying on solid ground, my shallow shadow wears no face And utters no sound.
Here My outline bears no carapace.
Where On a graveside mound, I see my darkness — waiting to be found.
“Time Hears No Sound” Good news! I’ve completed the first draft of my manuscript and have begun the initial proofreading phase. I’m delighted to share that my previous editor and publisher, Judy Rankin, along with the talented cover designer and illustrator, Kerri Costello, have both agreed to join me on this new project. Their support means the world as I take this next step. Manuscript Details:189 poems, 177 pages, and 11,555 words.
Proofreading at the Cafe
There’s a manuscript in my knapsack, Traveling along with every step I take Proofreading is a necessary backtrack – Page after page, in between coffee breaks,
Until the task is completed, Even if I am feeling exhaustipated.
‘On the Nature of Daylight‘ by Max Richter — the kind of music I listen to while proofreading. Gentle, expansive, and quietly stirring, it helps me hear the silence between the words.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem, ‘This Lost Shadow’, was my first-ever published poem, in the anthology ‘Melpomene’, edited by Gwendolyn Taunton. Melpomene is a collection of poetry, prose and short fiction named after the Greek Muse of Tragedy. The central theme of the anthology is the beauty found in sorrow and the darker sides of human nature. Melpomene is broken into four sections: Liber Veneficium (Book of Magic), Liber Maeroris (Book of Sorrow), Liber Fatum (Book of Fate), and Liber Mortuorum (Book of Death). Each section contains both new and classic literature dealing with these themes. Authors in this volume include Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine, William Blake, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, Gwendolyn Taunton, Azsacra Zarathustra, Math Jones, Bernardo Sena, J. Karl Bogartte, C. B. Liddell, James WF Roberts, Christopher Pankhurst, H. A. Cledones, Tamas Nagyatadi Horvath, L. Alexander Carle, Bill Noble, Marg Howlet, Ivor Steven and Gene Banyard. Containing works both old and new, Melpomene offers a prime selection of works on the melancholic side of existence, the transformational beauty of the esoteric, occult secrets hidden in verse, sorrow, doom and the inevitable grasp of death. Melpomene will haunt the reader with a dark and unearthly beauty that is both forbidden and forlorn… >> https://www.amazon.com.au/s?k=Melpomene+by+Gwendolyn+Taunton&crid=3KH5IGU638GFK&sprefix=melpomene+by+gwendolyn+taunton%2Caps%2C903&ref=nb_sb_noss
This Lost Shadow
I’m writing this song for my body and for my soul. I’m singing this song, about my return from the cold. Why am I so tired? Is sixty so old? Why am I so sore? Have I been far too bold? I’m physically worn out and mentally torn. I’m so worried about my every waking dawn. I’m thinking of this quiet life, for you and for me. I’m wondering if this vigilant life is too hard for me. I’m pondering if this tragic life shall continue to be. And feeling this bonded life, drifting out to sea.
I’m writing these words for everyone to see. I’m writing this book about a single weeping tree. Why am I so sleepy? Am I aging too quickly? Why am I so sad? Who is looking after me? I’m this furnace log, burning up with glee. I’m this sinking boat, all about to flee. I’m this overburdened camel, or a donkey maybe. I’m this empty desert, a void, far as the eye can see. I’m this broken branch, withering and dying, oh so slowly. I’m this lost shadow, wandering this barren land furtively.
Once upon a time In a land of ice and rhyme Darkness was my crime When a rift of hollow mime Ravaged my body and mind
“The Throwback poem that began the great Rowback”
Who’s Left to Row the Boat
The storms are too many to count Emotional lows had weathered me out Her journey with MS was a struggle How much lower could our lives sink
After fourteen years of our battles, I suffered a Stroke An ambulance came, my brain was in a boat Floating out to sea, overboard and panic-stricken I wasn’t swimming, barely awake, and drifting I had fallen, nothing was working, and not talking She’s crying, I’m sobbing, my heart is dying And who’s left to row the boat, I’m thinking I was jabbed with a needle and silently sleeping
I awoke a day later, in hospital, feeling wasted My face was limp, mouth parched, was that death I tasted My mind was active, I thought, where is she I knew I was bad; the room was all blurry to me Strong anxieties had set in, I needed to know Nurses came to me, I pleaded, I wanted to go “Help me to see her, just give my bed a tow Please let me go, before I’m covered in snow”
I found this poem that I first posted in February 2018. I hope you enjoy the re-run, and as is my way, I’ve made a few edits.
Beyond Sunset (Revised)
Gently, the dying moonlight awakens my dawn And the baptizing sunrise waters my eyes Drowning the silent hours of my shallow day And dimming my hopes of playing in the hay
A hazy dusk shrouds the cemetery lawn And the rituals of sunset beckon my evening plight Flailing and falling upon sleepless night And I lie prone under my weighted crown
Today’s Throwback Friday poem is an odd collection of anecdotes from my hospital bed, written in December 2018. After I had just suffered a ‘minor’ stroke, and these were the jumbled thoughts that were tumbling out of my tired and confused mind …
Odds and Sods, Spots and Blots
Lazy Bones
Cordless phones Garden gnomes Overhead drones Windowless homes Creaks and moans Lazy bones
Pain
Pain is like the rain It comes and goes Heavy and light
A Lie
It’s a lie that I don’t cry It’s a lie that I passed you by It’s a lie that I never tried It’s a lie that I’ll never die
Mirror
Mirror, mirror, on the wall You showed me how to stand tall Again, it’s time for your call
Judge
I’m neither a judge Nor a dealer in sludge I’d rather eat some fudge And give my side of life a nudge
Even Though
Love is all above thee Love is a blanket of autumn leaves Love showers us with glee Love is everywhere, to feel and see
Hello, dear readers and followers. I write for Coffee House Writers magazine (USA) fortnightly, and my poem “Dusty Photos”is in this week’s edition. … To read the poem, please click the link below to visit my Coffee House Writers Magazine article. >> https://coffeehousewriters.com/dusty-photos/
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 