Nancy’s “Feeding Time” post from last week sparked this limerick. A stray comment of mine turned into a tiny blues riff about Billy, the old goat who can’t keep out of trouble. Nancy >> Feeding Time – The Elephant’s Trunk
Old Goat Blues (a Limerick)
Billy the silly old goat Instead of his wild oats He ate the old leathery shoes Now he needs a glass of booze To clear his sole full throat
And because Nancy’s goat set this whole thing in motion, here’s a porch‑blues groove with just enough swagger to keep his hooves tapping.
Some stories arrive quietly — sparked by a pair of images that linger longer than expected. Yesterday, Derrick shared a delicate nest tucked into a tangle of branches, and today Jackie offered her charming capture of a donkey pausing near The Lodge. Together, their photos nudged this old poet into motion, setting Danielle on her gentle wander through fading forests, dry summer lodges, and dreams of a new nest.
One sultry day on the edge of the faded forest, young Danielle the donkey wandered away from her dry summer lodge.
It was time to discover the world, find a different place to stay — a cosy nest of hay lined with soft, fairy feathers.
Then come what may, despite the declining chalet’s bumpy driveway and wilted bouquets, she pricked her ears back, ignored the onlookers’ flack, and dreamed on, never sidetracked.
A tender farewell and a hopeful beginning — Danielle’s journey echoing softly through this song.
The morning sky felt like an open canvas, and the birds rose into it as if painted there — framed by light, archived in motion, and forever just beyond our human reach.
Beyond Reach (a Haiku)
Shadows on the sky Bird silhouettes hover high Beyond human reach
This afternoon’s sky gifted me a flock of silhouettes — pigeons rising and circling through the light as if carrying the world’s weight on their wings. Their quiet resilience inspired the Tanka below, a small reflection on the lives caught beneath the shadows of conflict.
Pigeons of the World (a Tanka)
Here under the sun I am not the only one Being overrun By the world’s greedy hired guns Who’s minding our war torn sons?
And still the sky remembers what we forget — even the pigeons know the rise and fall of empires.
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,“A Global Suntan,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> A Global Suntan – Coffee House Writers
Hello, dear readers and followers. As you may know, I stopped producing my “Tullawalla Booklets” at #31 because that was the house number of our family’s Tullawalla Homestead. Yet the booklet format is a superb way for me to catalogue the vast number of poems I produce, and as the saying goes, “I Am Turning Another Page”. Here I have begun a new series of poem booklets, called “Shangri La”, the name of my little Villa, and it is my piece of “earthly paradise, a retreat from the pressures of modern civilization”. I now have “2407”poems gathered across these booklets (On my bookshelf, sits “The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, with 1775 poems — when I first began writing, I never imagined I would one day surpass that number.)
“Like all my booklets, this one is here to be read at your leisure — no rush, no expectation, just an open page waiting when you are.”
Click >>Here –for the link to your FREE: PDF Copy of“Shangri La, Volume 21, Beyond the Midday Moon.”
The midday moon is less than 10° above the horizon — low enough for my weary wings to fly over.
The morning clouds are dispersing, and up here, above the moon, my shadows are free to echo my dreams.
Between the sky and the moon, I gaze into their shared light — sometimes life is out of sight, other times everything is alright, either way, they welcome my unspoken words, whether day or night.
A song that drifts in the same strange daylight as the poem — a quiet companion to the light above us.
Please note: All the images are mine and then sharpened and enhanced by Copilot.
Under the full moon’s watch, the Corellas turn the late afternoon sky into a jubilant parade.
The Full Moon and the Corellas(a Tanka)
I hear them squawking As they fly through my blue sky Those white Corellas May look very elegant But they sound like elephants
As a small tribute to Glen Hansard, whose music has long travelled beside me — a voice that rose and broke like birds in the late‑afternoon sky — here is his unforgettable performance of Bird of Sorrow.
When the full moon rises, Frankie and I can’t help but chase its glow.What begins as a playful lift‑off soon becomes a delicious journeythrough clouds that taste like desserts and skies that shimmer with childhood magic.
“Itmims” Ivor’s Time Machine In Micro Space
The Icings on the Cake, or a Sweet Full Moon
I’ve time enough to finish my mushy mango. The full moon is about to put on a show. Both Frankie and my spacecraft, Itmims, are howling and revving to go.
I pour the leftover banana juice into the awaiting craft’s fuel compartment, then untether the impatient machine, and Frankie and I quickly jump aboard. Up, up and away we go, high above the mist and creamy snow.
We fly toward the cherry pie clouds and twilight’s strawberry jelly sky, where, to our consummate delight, we spy the full moon’s white Knight glowing brighter than grandma’s world-famous passionfruit pavlova
Twilight has a way of softening the edges of the day. In that fading light, time feels loose in the hands, slipping grain by grain. Dark Grains of Sand follows that quiet fall into evening.
Dark Grains of Sand
As the sun sinks beyond the land, the horizon’s sky swirls like tanned quicksand.
As the night begins to melt into tawny strands, twilight unfurls across the wandering bard’s grandstand.
As the grains of time drift through his hands the encroaching darkness remains unmanned and unplanned.
Bob Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand” drifts through the same twilight hush — a perfect echo for this piece.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 