Featured Image Above:Daylight moon, slipping through confetti clouds — a silent witness to the world’s warring manoeuvrers, drifting apart.
Confetti Clouds
I’m slip-sliding downward from behind the morning clouds – or are they earth’s mourning shrouds, discarded by the world’s warlords then shredded into propaganda streamers, to deceive all the invisible dreamers?
I am an unbiased, timeless observer who has witnessed every violent crowd’s mismanaged, murderous manoeuvre.
A quiet day indoors — Frankie dozing, Lisa O’Neill singing, and words drifting through the heat.
Upbeat in the Heat
A hot north wind is scorching everything. The sun is blazing; inside, we are hiding. Frankie is sleeping, And I am writing. while listening To Lisa O’Neill Singing and pondering how amazing that her lyrics are always resonating with the drift of my own wanderings.
“Birdy From Another Realm”Enlightens me with colours;his song is like no other.
Featured Image Above: From Bing Images, numrush.nl
Here in Geelong, we are going through a warm/hot spell, and this is a poem that I wrote in January 2019, so appropriately, the poem gets replayed today.
Hotter Than Helios
Today is hotter than hot This town’s a living melting pot You could fry an egg without a cooktop I won’t be taking Yorkie for a trot My body’s losing the plot Waiting for my aorta’s mystery clots
My writing’s burnt out, on Helios hill Leaving an arid inkwell, holding a dry quill Despite the heat, I’ll do an exercise session. It’s my will To continue with this daily drill No excuses, to lose sight of spring’s daffodil Working out, like I’m an old grinding flour mill
Even if I’m over-baked, like Sunday’s hot roast For her, I’ll take life’s chances to the utmost
It was a rare summer’s morning — the moon falling, the sun rising, both holding the same height in the sky. I stood between them for a moment longer than I meant to, feeling something shift, something settle. The poem began forming there and then, carried on a bridge of clouds. To complete the moment, I’ve paired it with Lisa O’Neill’s The Globe — a song that feels as earthy and genuine as the morning itself.
Between Here and the Edge
I’m no ancient mariner with a sextant to chart the sky The moon was falling into bed, the sun rising ahead, both at the same height, as if I were the hinge between them.
Here I stand on their earthbound bridge at the centre of my own universe, unsure of my footing near the edge – am I fading into the advancing ground, or drifting back toward an old wedding pledge.
The Globe, Lisa O’Neill, Lyris
[Verse 1] When I was small Two feet tall I thought that the world Was a map on the wall And that globe of a ball We′d spin and explore But that world showed no door to me
[Verse 2] I grew more In feet and in lore I learned to read ’bout the globe In through the windows of my eyes I sang the blues and greens I touched on things one only sings When they’ve found the key And still the world in all my awe Showed no door to me
[Verse 3] Not wholly old I’ve paved some road I’m taller than I’ll ever be I’ve learnеd things I cannot sing I spin relentlessly I pluggеd out of self in doubt In soul misplaced the key And lo and behold That cruel old globe Went showed its door to me
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
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2024) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the second poem in the Humour section of Chapter 9, Humour, Fantasy, and Fairyland: Timeless
Pockets Full of Stones
I would like to fly away On this cold, wintry day But my pockets are full of stones And my old wings are fragile bones
My benevolent friend, the moon Is hibernating in his orbital cocoon So, I’m grounded with muddy toes Stuck here on this frosty meadow
The Ballarat – Skipton Rail Trail, sunburnt meadows, and tree-shadowed tunnels
Horse drawn cart, and Nimons trestle bridge
The Devils Kitchen is an impressive geological reserve in Piggoreet, 15 minutes from, Smythesdale. The Woady Yaloak River winds its way through a thickly vegetated valley, surrounded by cliffs of spectacular basalt columns.
A Country Trail
How scenarios change over time- The old unused rural railway line.
From Ballarat to Skipton and back is now an unspoiled community track.
Gently meandering over sunburnt meadows, Then dipping through tree-shadowed tunnels aglow.
Along the trails, valleys, and rocky ridges, Travelers will see horse drawn carts and trestle bridges.
And on the way to Snake Valley and Linton, Be wary of the gold miners “Devil’s Kitchen.”
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 