Barwon Heads Community Hall, 77 Hitchcock Ave, Barwon Heads VIC 3227, Australia
Yes, I’ll be there, along with many other Geelong and Victorian Indie Authors. Over 30 local independent writers gathered under one roof- what better way to spend a Sunday morning in January than a trip out to the beautiful Barwon Heads
About the Event
The Book Reality Experience presents the 3nd Annual Indie Author Summer Book Fair, which celebrates stories from children’s books through to horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and every genre in between. We can’t wait to welcome you to this one-day event filled with over 30 Author Exhibits, providing you with the opportunity to talk directly with independently published authors… some of whom will become your new favourites. ** FREE entry to all visitors.
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
This poem began as a poetic comment I shared with Beth, in response to her moving article about a group of monks who set out from the Huong Dao Temple in Fort Worth, Texas. Their 2,300-mile pilgrimage to Washington, D.C. will span roughly 120 days and carry them through ten states — a quiet, powerful gesture of peace. I’m grateful to Beth for allowing me to reproduce the photos from her post here on my poetry site. Beth >> walking into the new year with peace. | I didn’t have my glasses on….
“Walk For Peace”
Silently, like daylight moves across a sundial, The monks walk for peace in a humble style.
Within myself, I wistfully smile, And hope that all the rank and file Will also freely walk every single mile. And add to the world’s peaceful stockpile.
Lisa O’Neill, If I Was A Painter, Lyrics
[Verse 1] If I was a painter with colours no end I’d paint the whole thing simply again Where everything runs into everything Where every colour is born without sin
[Verse 2] Red be a roaring river in my veins Green be the beat of the heart in the trees Blue be the pull of the moon on the tide Let brown be the base of some true love’s eyes
[Bridge] Give us a chance at an earthly lifе Then pull it from under us when wе arrive Sending us orderly – what choice had I? Born under the only sky
[Pre-Chorus] Vast, vast, vast Silver, gold and brass The moon′s milk, the sun’s silk All move among the stars
[Chorus] I found out when I listened Love is received from love Up in the steely night Stars span the Galway shawl I was scared of the underground in London At the speed of my generation Are the old people getting forgotten In this fuss of the world we spin?
[Verse 1] If I was a painter with colours no end I’d paint the whole thing simply again Where everything runs into everything Where every colour is born without sin
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
This morning, Brian and I had an interesting conversation related to my poem, “A Rocketeer’s Poetry Career.” You may visit Brian’s fabulous Photographic site by clicking on this link >> https://bushboy.blog/
A New Year’s Day Conversation, with Brian
“There is a time to put away your sword, and pick up a pen, Isn’t there, Ivor?”
“My old quill is still full of ink, Brian” “and blood on your sword?”
“There is always blood After the thud Of a muddy flood”
Ah, this swords a dud, So dull, draws no blood Only, this bloody mud
Time is swift, like a deer. Seven and a half decades of cheer- And I am still here To welcome another year.
No longer a brave musketeer, Nor a faithful volunteer, I am near the last frontier Of my uncharted poetry career; And I no longer fear Becoming her celestial rocketeer.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 