Down a quiet back lane near the café, this striking street art stopped me in my tracks — it felt like a quiet conversation waiting to happen, eye to eye with the unexpected.
Eye to Eye, or I to I
With one eye querying mankind and the other eye wondering about my state of mind — bewildered and always pondering what’s real beyond my Venetian blinds.
I am neither refined nor confined, and I have escaped being quarantined.
I question myself. Are my eyes behind the times, or have I misread my bookshelf’s poetry finds and the fairytale rhymes?
A final glance, and the moment drifted on — leaving its quiet echo behind, carried forward now in the music’s slow drift
Today’s Throwback goes back to August 2019, just months after my second and third strokes — a time when the days were dim, and every movement felt uncertain. Finding this poem again reminded me how far that long road has stretched. The wattlebirds I photographed today — wings lifted, rising into open sky — feel like symbols of that slow, determined recovery. This revised piece holds both the struggle and the light that followed.
Long, Long Way (Revised)
I’ve come a long, long way I remember the bad, bad days When yesterday’s were dark and grey On level seven, under heaven’s archway
Lying there immobile and prone Waiting for the etching of my gravestone Unable to hear my silent headphones Unknowingly, spinning inside a black cyclone
I awoke somewhere outside my world’s twilight zone Slowly realising I’d been saved, and finality was postponed
The soundtrack to those long, long days — and the light that followed.
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
This afternoon I found myself at the calm centre of things — winter draped itself lightly over the café, letting the sunshine linger just long enough for a quiet moment to unfold.
Winter Sunshine
I’m on the axis of my universe, here in the middle of our cafe, at the centre of this old town — it’s our time to relax and calm down.
We’re midway beneath winter’s hemline; the wind is cold, but the day is fine. The larks are enjoying the sunshine, and I’m sipping a glass of red wine.
As the winter light faded and the sunshine slipped away, the music left its own warm shadow behind.
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
Some days arrive quietly and leave a lasting tremor in the heart. Today was one of them. This finale 75th birthday wasn’t just a celebration of another year — it became a gathering of the people who have walked beside me through the most profound chapters of my life.
This group of friends is woven into every part of Carole’s story. They were there when she and I first met, full of hope and laughter. They were there when MS entered our lives forty‑four years ago, offering care, strength, and the kind of support that can only come from people who love without hesitation. Through three decades of Carole’s battle, they stood with us — not as visitors, but as family.
And even after Carole passed fourteen years ago, the thread didn’t break. Every three or four months, we gather to honour her astonishing life — her compassion, her grace, and that infectious smile that could soften any room. Today, on my birthday, that ritual became something deeper. It felt like a circle closing gently around memory, friendship, and the enduring presence of a woman who shaped us all.
The Crew, and my birthday Barbeque Apron present; a handcrafted gift by Dot … “Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.”
Everlasting (a Tanka)
This circle of friends, like a silver wedding ring, bright and long-lasting, lovingly loyal and strong — yet time does not weary them.
A tune for the long road we’ve walked together — still singing, still smiling. A journey that continues to be brightened by loyal friends.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 