It’s Market Day this Saturday from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. * Our popular monthly markets are all undercover at Centrepoint Arcade on the third Saturday of every month. * They feature art, unique goods from local makers, second-hand goods, plants, books, and more. * There are also open art studios, Yesterday Vintage, Untether Gallery, and the May’d Shop.
All at, Centrepoint Arcade 132 Little Malop St, Geelong From 10 am to 3 pm
And I’ll be there with ‘Frankie’ and my “New Bookstall Set-up“
Midmorning’s Rising Sun Gazing above the usual field of view, high into the cloudy stratosphere, I catch sight of a jetstream’s snowdrops falling from beyond the rising sun’s solar empyrean halo.
Twilight’s Setting Sun Gazing toward the hessian horizon, below the low misty atmosphere, I catch sight of an evanescent cashmere twilight which had serendipitously caught the setting sun’s solar empyrean halo.
Let the final light’s echo carry you from morning’s rise to twilight’s hush, and here’s the song that keeps the halo glowing a little longer.
Last night’s twilight carried a strange chromatic weight — colours deepening, clouds gathering, the horizon holding its breath. And on this cold winter evening, that same wintry mood returned and shaped the Tanka below
Twilight’s Chromatic Storm (a Tanka)
Dark Ominous clouds Growl along the horizon Then suddenly howl Over trees and open fields Dumping sharp, icy black pearls
And in the fading light, as twilight settles, the storm’s voice drifts into song.
While capturing the sun‑veiled clouds yesterday, a passing group of pigeons slipped into my frame — a quiet, serendipitous moment that inspired the poem taking flight below.
Flying Through the Sun-veiled Clouds
My weary wings are cold and old, yet despite my life’s controlled leasehold — I have a sense of being almost paroled and sold.
I’m boldly journeying above the rolling cloud-deck, toward the transcendental edge of that unfolding hole in the sky where the golden seam of light will once again resurrect my silhouette’s pluckiness to continue flying through the great beyond.
And so I rise, though frayed and worn, my fading shadow, albeit weather‑torn, still seeks the glow where new skies are born.
As the cold day folds away, I’ll let the music carry the final light of the day.
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.
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.
One small flower caught my eye on our walk, and of course Frankie had to follow me in — just to make sure I wasn’t finding something better than him.
An Interesting Flower
We were meandering back along our beaten walking track when like an undercover spy I saw a flower with my inquisitive eye As I ventured into the shrubbery there, right behind me, was Frankie “What’s Dad found in there – is it something tasty for me?”
Well Frankie, I’ve since discovered, the flower was an African Iris, they are drought-resistant and like those sandy banks near our track.
Frankie approved the flower — and he definitely approves this track to finish the walk.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 