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 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.
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,“Is My Horizon Unreachable?” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Is My Horizon Unreachable? – Coffee House Writers
Some moments arrive with a kind of stillness that asks you to look a little longer. Today, the sky was crossed with dark, wiry lines and the slow sweep of wings, each moment carrying its own quiet message. As I followed those shapes toward the brightening horizon, a poem began to form — unplanned, but insistent — rising out of the light which was beyond my reach.
Beyond the last pylon, let the music carry you the rest of the way toward that unreachable light.
And so the final arc of my rainbow trilogy rests here, carrying me gently into tomorrow.
Sunday arrives with a softer kind of clarity — rainbow light lingering after the night’s dream‑relay, a lone bird rising through the blue, and the moon keeping quiet watch above it all. After drifting between yesterday, tomorrow, and today, I find myself settling into the calm of the morning, letting its gentle hope unfold in its own time.
Blue Jay Ballet
Dreamtime is a relay where thoughts have no say; they inwardly sway between yesterday, tomorrow, and today – they don’t go away.
Old windows don’t fray, new doors are on delay in different ways
Life’s calmness paddles across the bay Life’s quietness shares my causeway Life’s loneliness is here to stay – come what may
A gentle reminder that tomorrow still waits in the light — and so the sky carries me forward, come what may.
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.
Chocolates are delightfully delicious … wars are deadly and destructive … Above the valley, a white-feathered messenger rises — reminding us how fragile peace can be
Yesterday we visited the Moorabool Valley Chocolate Café for coffee and cake, and the moment brought this poem back to me — a piece I wrote in August 2018, when a simple liquor chocolate stirred memories, questions, and the ache of a world still at war.
Eating Chocolates And Watching Wars (Revised)
Hungrily, I’m eating a liquor chocolate — a selfish heavenly delight, arousing my old mind’s senses.
I wonder what she would be thinking, looking down from the stars through her sensitive olive eyes — her everlasting smile, her gracious courage, her generous heart, her forgiving soul, her love for me and you.
I wonder what she would be thinking, seeing these futile, bloody wars through her compassionate olive eyes — the dead and maimed, the millions of shuffling homeless, the distraught, broken families, the crying children locked in sheds, the desperate refugees with no beds.
I wonder what she would be thinking while she preciously holds the last white dove, observing these senseless wars that never ever ends.
And for the song that holds the cracks and the light, here is Leonard Cohen’s Anthem — offered to a world where the last white dove may never fly free again.
The Little Cloud Studio window display at the Creative Geelong Makers Hub stirred a memory of Emily Dickinson’s quiet devotion to nature — this piece is my own small letter back to the world, written from a forest of imagination.
“This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me — The simple News that Nature told — With tender Majesty, Her Message is committed To Hands I cannot see — For love of Her — Sweet — countrymen — Judge tenderly — of Me.”
Emily Dickinson
The Forest, a Fantasy Land
Come join me in the forest’s fantasy land; I know of a picture-perfect place where the dappled sunlight silently filters through the trees.
There’s a picnic table built for two. I’ll bring a food hamper and Emily Dickerson’s magical book of poems.
Within the bower’s peace and quiet, if you listen closely, nature’s gentle breeze softly rustles through the ferns and leaves; and then you’ll hear the green toadstools from the forest floor’s mossy logs humming a familiar tune.
Today’s music drifts from the heart of the forest — Enya’s “The Memory of the Trees.”
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 