Yesterday, Geelong Cereal published the second part of my dragon series, My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 2, My Dragon – The Revival. Geelong Cereal is a free online magazine showcasing local writing and creative arts, with a special love for serial fiction and stories from the Geelong region. It’s a welcoming space for writers at every stage of their creative journey, and I’m delighted that my dragon has found a home there. A heartfelt thank‑you to Mel, Geelong Cereal’s editor, whose care and encouragement helped bring this latest chapter to life. >> My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 2. My Dragon, The Revival
Below is the image of the poem as it appeared in the magazine.
With Dragon’s Young Years drifting through my headphones, I returned to the world of my dragon. The song’s gentle reflections on the passage of time felt like an appropriate soundtrack for a tale of revival and second beginnings.
Does a bird measure the success of its flight, or simply fly? After a moderately successful day at the market, I carried that question home. Sometime during the night, it became a poem.
Successfully Unsuccessful
Am I unsuccessfully successful or Successfully unsuccessful?
What is successful? Why be successful? Who defines success?
Is being successful? simply being successful at being unsuccessful? or being a failure at being unsuccessful?
Is Corporate greed being successful? or self-righteousness being unsuccessful?
What is successful? Who defines success?
As the magpie continues its flight… The poem ends here. The questions do not.
Another pink twilight this evening reminded me of a tanka I drafted some months ago. As the colours gathered across the western sky, it seemed the perfect time to finally share it.
And here are last evening’s twilight photos
Nature’s Pink Matinee (a Tanka)
A pink twilight sky We, the fortunate witnesses Stand here wondering Why nature’s matinee shows Are never on earth sold out
Tonight’s audience may have been small, but nature’s performance was unforgettable. 🎵🌸
This is a poem I haven’t seen since writing it in October 2019. Today, as is my way, I’ve made a few small revisions, but the essence of the original remains intact.
Our Last Stand (Revised)
Crawling over barren pastures of land, On detergent feet and hands, Old arms are now empty of nature’s seeds, I only see future investment greed.
And history’s lessons are hard to understand, When we’re taught disrespect by corporate bands, Who only extinguish life into grains of sand, Instead of regenerating our planet’s last stand
Originally written in 2019 and revisited today, Our Last Stand finds a fitting companion in Archive’s haunting Again, a song that echoes the poem’s reflective mood and enduring message.
Watching birds in flight, I am often struck by their grace and seeming freedom from the burdens we humans create for ourselves. Inspired by a series of bird photographs, this poem begins with nature’s gifts before quietly turning its gaze towards a troubled world below.
Nature’s Wings
Birds have wondrous wings and can also sprightly sing
Birds’ lovely lightweight feathers can glide and hover forever
Birds have perceptive eyes and do not criticise or demonise
Birds possess sensitive ears and escape the world’s warring fears
Birds shun the battered ground while eyes still hear that shattered sound
While shaping this poem at the café, I heard “Lift” by Marisa Anderson and felt this gentle melody drifting on the same wings that inspired today’s poem.
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 Bird of the Sun,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> A Bird of the Sun – Coffee House Writers
And as this song unfurls its quiet wings, may it carry you into the same bright drift where my poem first took flight.
Over the past week, I’ve found myself looking skyward more often than usual. Between writing, photography, and preparing a recent radio article, air, light, and freedom have kept weaving through my thoughts. Then, after all the planning and concentration had passed, this poem arrived unannounced. Inspired by a dragonfly dancing beneath a bright spring sky, High Hopes felt less like a piece I wrote and more like an exhale after a long creative stretch.
High Hopes
I’m whirring and whizzing around beneath a gentle blue shroud between the wispy white clouds, and Earth’s swampy ground.
The sun’s radiant rays are catching my eye, dazzling enough to make me joyfully cry. My wings are glossily glimmering as I zoom and dance from tree to tree, sprightly laughing and wishing the whole world could feel my glee, and wistfully inherit and occupy all the freedom which surrounds me.
After completing this poem and reflecting on an unexpectedly creative few days, this song arrived from my brother at exactly the right moment. Sometimes the universe knows the closing line before we do.
“High hopes written, spring sunlight captured, the dragonfly released, and now… breathe.“
Stories shared, songs performed, and a community brought together through the magic and community spirit of Pulse Radio Geelong.
Beneath the studio lights, there was something special in the air at Pulse Radio last night as “Smooth Talkers: An Evening of Tales and Tunes” brought together readers, musicians, broadcasters, and supporters of local arts. With a live audience, heartfelt performances, and the warmth of community radio, the evening celebrated the enduring power of stories and music to connect people and strengthen community.
1. Georgia and Maddi make final preparations before the audience arrives, setting the stage for an evening of stories, music, and community connection. 2. Live anchors Maddi and Chris welcomed performers and audience alike, guiding the evening with warmth, enthusiasm, and a genuine love of community radio.
1. With the audience settled and anticipation building, Martin opened the evening’s readings, setting a welcoming tone for an inspiring night of stories and spoken word. 2. Taking my turn at the microphone, I was honoured to be part of an event that brought together local readers, musicians, and supporters of the arts.
Throughout the evening, listeners responded warmly to the readings and performances, creating a welcoming atmosphere for all involved.
Wendy and Marianne brought the rich sounds of folk music to the Pulse Radio studio, and their harmonious duet became a memorable highlight of the evening.
Over at Weekly Pompts, the Weekend Challenge word is Fanciful. To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here.
Author’s Note: The following micro-fiction piece was the one I shared during Pulse Radio’s “Smooth Talkers: An Evening of Tales and Tunes”. Originally published on this blog earlier in the week, I have included it here for readers who may have missed it and for those who attended the evening and wished to revisit it.
A Pigeon’s Lament(Micro-fiction)
Sitting alone atop this broken wooden fence, I stare into the blinding sun that floods the great blue yonder, wondering if the horror has finally gone. Are we carrier pigeons free to ride the airwaves again, or has the world turned us into couriers of foreboding danger rather than bearers of faithful hope?
As I reflected on an evening filled with stories, music, laughter, and community connection, one song kept returning to mind. Queen’s “Radio Ga Ga” remains a fitting tribute to the enduring power of radio to bring people together.
We pass pigeons every day without a second thought — small grey silhouettes tracing quiet arcs above us. And the sky, too, becomes something we stop seeing, even though it’s always there, patient and unbought. Yet in a single moment, when wings cut across the clouds, we’re reminded that these ordinary companions are never truly ordinary. They’re right in front of our eyes, offering a shy kind of wonder we forget to claim.
Sky High
The pigeons flew by no one said hi
The people openly cry and still ask why
I quietly sigh — life is their lie.
The patient sky remains our allay
Not something to buy, but a shy high that never dies
After a day spent watching pigeons cross an open sky and shaping this poem, and following an exciting evening on the radio airwaves, I happened upon this performance before turning in for the night. It seemed a perfect fit. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem comes from this time last year, and during these days of feeling like an unwound clock, “Man Overboard!” feels like an appropriate choice. Daylight Saving steals an hour, but where does it go? This poem asks, with a wink and a sigh, where time goes as it slips overboard. Paired with Tame Impala’s hypnotic groove, it becomes a meditation on time’s absurd disappearance.
“Man Overboard!”
Time vanished overboard, and was last seen going forward.
Who will rescue the lost hour? Who has the righteous power, inside the clock’s stoic tower?
Somehow it doesn’t matter that no one heard the clatter.
Time has no protective hands. Time is not a rubber band, nor a loose grain of sand.
I do not understand how time’s forgotten hour was banned and stored away in never-never land.
Sometimes events happen without explanation. While the poem wonders where the missing hour went, Tame Impala’s “Let It Happen” suggests we relax, let go, and drift with the mystery.
