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
Some places invite you to step sideways into another world. Smythesdale is one of them. This poem wanders from the paddocks into a quiet, cosmic holiday — best read with M83’s Un Nouveau Soleil rising gently underneath.
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Rustic Smythesdale
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Here, where the country paddocks beam at you through the bedroom window, grazing kangaroos curiously look your way and front-yard elephants laze in the shade of the friendly eucalyptus tree.
I’m untethering my Itmims space craft, and there’s an aurora lighthouse to guide the ship around the Cape Of Good Hope on toward the great passage in the sky. I’m not saying goodbye, but having a holiday in the western zone of my rural universe.
There is a number attached to everything, Tracking them down is overwhelming; Tallying the total is mind-boggling.
I perceive, with a twinkle in my blurry eye, an extra wrinkle on my milky thigh. But I do not cry at the number of crinkles that falsely belie the sounds of my life’s happy jingles.
The number of memories shall not diminish until time decrees, “you’re finished.”
Accompanied by Sleeping At Last’s “Saturn” performed live with the Symphony Orchestra, this poem listens for the echoes beyond numbers—where memory, music, and existence intertwine.
“Frankie the Salesman, master of the lucky-dip and poetry protocol. Cavalier by nature, befriending by heart.”
Frankie the Salesman
Here we are, under the glass-roofed part Of the covered Centrepoint Arcade. The spring sun is decorating our book stall, And my salesman is in charge of poetry protocol.
The ‘Take a Poem Home Lucky-dip’ is again very popular My furry assistant has been willingly jocular, And appropriately, befriendingly cavalier.
Throwback Friday: Shadows Revisited. First shared in January 2025, this poem now finds its place as the opening to my upcoming collection, Time Hears No Sound.
The final proofreading of my upcoming poetry collection, Time Hears No Sound, is nearly complete. This weekend marks the last quiet read-through before I send it off to my editor and publisher (Judy). Meanwhile, my talented cover designer (Kerri) is crafting the book’s visual soul. There’s still a journey ahead, but everything is unfolding beautifully. Thank you for walking beside me.
Lost and Found – or – There, Here, and Where?
There Lying on solid ground, my shallow shadow wears no face And utters no sound.
Here My outline bears no carapace.
Where On a graveside mound, I see my darkness — waiting to be found.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem, ‘This Lost Shadow’, was my first-ever published poem, in the anthology ‘Melpomene’, edited by Gwendolyn Taunton. Melpomene is a collection of poetry, prose and short fiction named after the Greek Muse of Tragedy. The central theme of the anthology is the beauty found in sorrow and the darker sides of human nature. Melpomene is broken into four sections: Liber Veneficium (Book of Magic), Liber Maeroris (Book of Sorrow), Liber Fatum (Book of Fate), and Liber Mortuorum (Book of Death). Each section contains both new and classic literature dealing with these themes. Authors in this volume include Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine, William Blake, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, Gwendolyn Taunton, Azsacra Zarathustra, Math Jones, Bernardo Sena, J. Karl Bogartte, C. B. Liddell, James WF Roberts, Christopher Pankhurst, H. A. Cledones, Tamas Nagyatadi Horvath, L. Alexander Carle, Bill Noble, Marg Howlet, Ivor Steven and Gene Banyard. Containing works both old and new, Melpomene offers a prime selection of works on the melancholic side of existence, the transformational beauty of the esoteric, occult secrets hidden in verse, sorrow, doom and the inevitable grasp of death. Melpomene will haunt the reader with a dark and unearthly beauty that is both forbidden and forlorn… >> https://www.amazon.com.au/s?k=Melpomene+by+Gwendolyn+Taunton&crid=3KH5IGU638GFK&sprefix=melpomene+by+gwendolyn+taunton%2Caps%2C903&ref=nb_sb_noss
This Lost Shadow
I’m writing this song for my body and for my soul. I’m singing this song, about my return from the cold. Why am I so tired? Is sixty so old? Why am I so sore? Have I been far too bold? I’m physically worn out and mentally torn. I’m so worried about my every waking dawn. I’m thinking of this quiet life, for you and for me. I’m wondering if this vigilant life is too hard for me. I’m pondering if this tragic life shall continue to be. And feeling this bonded life, drifting out to sea.
I’m writing these words for everyone to see. I’m writing this book about a single weeping tree. Why am I so sleepy? Am I aging too quickly? Why am I so sad? Who is looking after me? I’m this furnace log, burning up with glee. I’m this sinking boat, all about to flee. I’m this overburdened camel, or a donkey maybe. I’m this empty desert, a void, far as the eye can see. I’m this broken branch, withering and dying, oh so slowly. I’m this lost shadow, wandering this barren land furtively.
Once upon a time In a land of ice and rhyme Darkness was my crime When a rift of hollow mime Ravaged my body and mind
“The Throwback poem that began the great Rowback”
Who’s Left to Row the Boat
The storms are too many to count Emotional lows had weathered me out Her journey with MS was a struggle How much lower could our lives sink
After fourteen years of our battles, I suffered a Stroke An ambulance came, my brain was in a boat Floating out to sea, overboard and panic-stricken I wasn’t swimming, barely awake, and drifting I had fallen, nothing was working, and not talking She’s crying, I’m sobbing, my heart is dying And who’s left to row the boat, I’m thinking I was jabbed with a needle and silently sleeping
I awoke a day later, in hospital, feeling wasted My face was limp, mouth parched, was that death I tasted My mind was active, I thought, where is she I knew I was bad; the room was all blurry to me Strong anxieties had set in, I needed to know Nurses came to me, I pleaded, I wanted to go “Help me to see her, just give my bed a tow Please let me go, before I’m covered in snow”
I am entering the last five days of my journey to Canada and appropriately I have chosen “Within Us” as my Throwback Friday poem. This nostalgic piece also appears in my book “Tullawalla”, Chapter 6, page 98.
Remembering our 49th wedding anniversary, Carole
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Within Us
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The oceans wave us goodbye. Sand and sea, one beach. Like the surfs white crest. Love is, within our lonely breasts.
The lands push us apart. Alps and plains, one realm. Like a rivers rocky cascade. Love is, a turbulent escapade,
The sky opens us up. Dawn and dusk, one sun. Like the moons daytime eclipse. Love is, a hidden apocalypse.
The universe covers us complete. Stars and planets, one creation. Like the distant Milky Way. Love is, within us to stay.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 