Ivor.Plumber/Poet

A Bike To New York

Come rain hail or shine

I’ll be ready for that Qantas Airline

Now I’ll always have time

To appear like I’m in my prime

I’ve a second-hand new toy

That’ll bring me pain and joy

Donated by a kind friend

Helping me get back on the mend

I’m fortunate and high as a purple kite

Under my verandah, I’ve a new silver bike

Lunch For Jiminy Cricket

I’m no Jiminy Cricket

Nor the flighty Tinkerbell

I’m far older than yesterday’s tadpole

And quieter than last night’s old frog

Time for me to venture out

Take a step into the unknown

Hobbling, I board the bus

Heading off to the local eateries

Slowly limping from stop to shops

Resting on a cafe bench seat

With soft and comfy cushions

I’m definitely not moving quickly

Unlike the “Canteen” master chef

Scrambled eggs I’ll have

My choice is delicious

Cooked to perfection

A come-back-to luncheon

For me, and for them

And I’m favourably surprised

My outing went better than expected

Hello dear readers, friends, and followers. I’ve been out of hospital 2 weeks now, and my progress is gradual and I’m quietly improving. However I’ve been keeping myself busy, in between nanna-naps, preparing my new booklet of poems. I’ve just finished the manuscript (Phew and yeah !!), and this one is called, “Tullawalla: “The Healing House”, and all the poems were written during my 6 week stay in hospital, and of course along with the other 6 booklets, all money’s that I collect from the sale of these booklets goes to the Geelong MS Charity Shop. The list of my 7 booklets is below. These booklets are all printed here in my little writing studio/haven, put together by hand, and they’re a foolscap size folder of 21 pages and 40 poems in each booklet

Tullawalla, Poems, By Ivor Steven Tullawalla, A Sign Of The Times Tullawalla, The Waves Say Goodbye Tullawalla, Who’s Left To Row The Boat Tullawalla, Home Is The Air I Breathe Tullawalla, Waiting Time

And, Tullawalla, The Healing House

The booklet, Tullawalla, The Healing House, is a culmination, of writing poems under mental duress and physically very frustrating times. The poems represent a myriad of emotions and jumbled thoughts, of doom and gloom, uncertainties, comedy, and piece of optimism. Please enjoy the booklet that I am attaching here >> https://documentcloud.adobe.com/link/track?uri=urn%3Aaaid%3Ascds%3AUS%3A4ae7d436-945d-41cb-8303-598cf9cc16fb

Booklet #5: Home Is The Air I Breathe Booklet #6: Waiting Time

And Booklet #7: Tullawalla, The Healing House My “Isolation Time”

Cheers

From Ivor xx

Learning To Fly And A Sharp Razor

I’m the silent young writer

Who’s singing last year’s poem

I’m the old lame man

Who’s slowly learning to fly

I see myself in the mirror

My blood’s running dry

The razor is sharp enough

To make a grown man cry

I’m a laughing Hyena

As my blood fills the basin

Whoops, not fun on the run

Laughing, as I’m nervously shaving

There’s more blood in the basin

And my limp right hand’s shaking

Best I stop before I die

The recovering poet still wants to fly

My First Post Is Now My “500th Post”

Liquid Joy (Revised)

Tears of liquid joy

Like rivers of fear

The memories so clear

And a toast to cheer

Tears of liquid joy

Like waves from the heart

Two great oceans apart

And wishing for another restart

Tears of liquid joy

Like dredged canals of the soul

Leaking from a broken porthole

And wishing for a free parole

Tears of liquid joy

A flowing molten lava

Passing a secret convoy

And singing like the last choirboy

Crying liquid joy

That Nightly Sound

I’m at my desk wondering

Sitting here deeply pondering

Whether I’m a strange sort of writer

And am I, an only loner

My keyboard is covered in moisture

A wetness from my overflowing tears

I cry about my latest plight

I cry for the world’s hungry, sleeping tonight

I cry during Xavier’s song, Spirit Bird, like the, Last Post

I cry for the children, the ones we have lost

My heart bleeds tears from within

My heart writes with soul filled ink

My heart dampen’s with every word I weep

My heart floods with emotions every time I sleep

I was wondering

And I am pondering

Do other writers, hear that nightly sound

Hear the pitter-patter of naked feet

Hear the noise of shuffling feet in their sleep

Hear their dirtied feet, the millions of poor children, yet to eat

A Traditional New Year, From Geelong

Traditionally every year here in Geelong, the City Council sends out to every house-hold, a Calendar and information booklet. The twelve pictures in the Calendar, are of the local area, taken by local photographers, and the music I’ve added below, is by local performer, Xavier Rudd. Thank you to Weekly Photo Prompts, for this opportunity to present these glorious photos of the Geelong area. Happy New Year to all my readers. And the Calendar itself is a great >> Tradition

Crooked Ways

I’m not to be told, how to live my life

I’ve lived this life, having lost my wife

I’m not a great philosopher

Nor a fashion writer

I’m not a sprightly young traveler

I’ve no money to buy a new carrier

Too old for a toiling plumber

I actually like penning poetry

Some say your never too old

Whatever, I’ll continue to be sold

my plans to reach for the stars

Where I shall walk my own crooked ways

The Golden Beach

I’d like to thank Gina, of Singledust, and her glorious poem, ‘last pure light’, on “Go Dog Go Cafe”, for inspiring me to write my poem, ‘The Golden Beach’, please click >> Here, to read her wonderful words. Also referring to this weeks, Weekly Photo Prompt: Tradition, yes it’s an Australian tradition to spend Christmas at the beach

Staring over the ripples in my cuppa tea

Gazing at the future forecast by the tea leaf’s

I’m visualising waves upon the morning sea

And the sensation of the sand beneath my feet

Oh to walk on the golden beach again

Inhale the fragrance of the wind caressing my skin

And to swim in the rejuvenating ocean

Feel the surf’s spray on my body, like warm rain

The tentacles of fresh air draw you in securely

An aura of purity and peace abounds richly

There’s a crispness from the sun that warms your heart

And a cleansing depth within the surrounds that soothes your soul

Ballad Of The Absent Mare; By Leonard Cohen: My Typing Exercise

Hello dear readers, I’ve been having trouble comprehending and concentrating on reading your articles/posts, of more than two stanza’s or one short paragraph in length. So my physiotherapist has given me some tasks to help improve my situation. Today I’m typing up one of favourite longer poem’s, by Leonard Cohen, called the “Ballad Of The Absent Mare”. I hope you enjoy his brilliant writing here.

Ballad Of The Absent Mare: By Leonard Cohen

Say a prayer for the cowboy, his mare’s run away

and he’ll walk till he finds her, his darling, his stray

But the river’s in flood and the roads are awash

and the bridges break up in the panic of loss

And there’s nothing to follow, there’s nowhere to go

She’s gone like the summer, she’s gone like the snow

And the crickets are breaking his heart with their song

as the day caves in and the night is all wrong

Did he dream, was it she who went galloping past

and bent down the fern and broke open the grass

and printed the mud with the iron and the gold

that he nailed to her feet when he was the lord

And though she goes grazing a minute away

he tracks her all night and he tracks her all day;

blind to her presence except to compare

his injury here with her punishment there

Then at home on his branch in the highest tree

a songbird sings out so suddenly

Oh the sun is warm and the soft winds ride

on the willow trees by the riverside

And the world is sweet and the world is wide

and she’s there where the light and the darkness divide

and steam’s coming off her, she’s huge and she’s shy

and she steps on the moon when she paws at the sky

And she comes to his hand but she’s not really tame

She longs to be lost and he longs for the same

And she’ll bolt and she’ll plunge through the first open pass

to roll and to feed in the sweet mountain grass

Or she’ll make a break for the high plateau

where there’s nothing above and there’s nothing below

And it’s time for their burden, it’s time for the whip

Will she walk through the flame, can he shoot from the hip

So he binds himself to the galloping mare

and she binds herself to the rider there

and there is no space but there’s left and right

and there is no time but there’s day and night

And he leans on her neck and he whispers low

Whither thou goest I will go

And they turn as one and they head for the plain

no need for the whip, no need for the rein

Now the clasp of this union, who fastens it tight

who snaps it asunder the very next night ?

Some say the rider, some say the mare

some say love’s like the smoke, beyond all repair

But my darling says, Leonard, just let it go by,

that old silhouette on the great Western sky

So I pick out a tune and they move right along

and they’re gone like the smoke, they’re gone like this song

Extracted from the book: Leonard Cohen, Poems And Songs, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets