Today, a casual stroll on the path turned into an unexpected glimpse of tenderness, and all we can do is slow our steps and witness the quiet life unfolding at our feet
A Mid-Morning Fling
It was odd to see larks Lying on the concrete path. At first, I thought One of them was injured.
Then, as I approached For a closer gander, The grounded bird Was not wounded at all, But pleasantly enjoying Her partner’s advances.
And as I edged nearer, My unexpected presence Did disrupt their Mid-morning fling.
A gentle reminder that even the smallest moments can shift the rhythm of a day — just as a song can shift the rhythm of a heart
In keeping with this week’s ‘Environment’ theme, today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2020) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as a poem in Chapter 2, Nature: An Unbiased Timekeeper
Polar Bears and Cold Sheep
hello world, do you see my frown? will the blizzards ever calm down? will the rains forever fall on broken ground? will our tears of silence be the only sound?
the frozen wounds are deep the mountains of snow are steep humans need to stop being cold sheep and begin taking their own individual leaps
the rewards of being caring and kind far outweigh the coldness of being left behind
For the wounds we’ve carved into the earth, may this music echo the quiet truth our planet keeps trying to tell us.
After wrestling with the usual tangle of messages and mischief‑makers, I stepped onto the track for a breath of real air. The wattlebirds were already there, perched and unbothered, reminding me that the sky has no time for scammers or phishers — and neither should I.
Wattlebirds Are No Log-jammers
After wading through my pool of emails, the clean-up I had planned did fail. Anyhow, it was time for my morning walk among nature’s wattlebirds and hawks. Despite the cool, misty rain The refreshing breeze will clear my foggy brain
Not far along the wet, winding track, I see a wattlebird having a peaceful nap, perched high up in the tree’s branches, oblivious to humanity’s modern advances.
Beautiful wattlebirds are not log-jammers, river phishers, or honey scammers They are free to do as they please and can fly away from any tight squeeze.
A small reminder that the sky is always wider than the noise.
In the hush of twilight, a pink glow threaded the treeline — a hint of the hidden realm where fairies hover above the causeway, chorusing something tender and otherworldly
Beyond the Pink Horizon
Deep behind the trees’ silhouettes and beyond the horizon’s pink curtain, in that ambiguous twilight zone there lies an earthly paradise — a glimmering crimson kingdom where our magical, luminous fairies hide.
And I wonder: where is the missing archway into this purple-haze never never land, or is it simply reality’s mysterious causeway calling me through the transient light.
Through the transient glow, the fairies’ lullaby drifts across the horizon.
As the sky softened into twilight, the colours opened my poetic picture book, and Ben Howard’s “Old Pine” drifted through the moment with the same quiet warmth.
The Weekend Challenge on Weekly Prompts is the word “Hell.” To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here … my Tanka today is a long way up beyond “Hell.”
Nature’s Iris (a Tanka)
A crimson twilight And a seductive sunset Is nature’s iris Unfolding my picture book Where my quiet poems rest
What began as two simple responses — one to the city’s hard truths, one to the fading light — has merged into a single reflection on how we move through darkness and bridge life’s rolling undertow.
It’s sad how some people can sink so low. It’s sad how the onlookers come and go. It’s sad how Skid Row groans and crows. It’s sad how urban rainbows lose their glow, and drown in life’s rolling undertow
Nearing the looming edge of night, is there a hidden bridge between life’s fading light and that last, unbroken ridge?
And somewhere in the half‑light, we keep searching for the bridge to span life’s rolling undertow.
Today’s Throwback poem was written in May 2024. For reasons I can’t quite explain, this reflective piece never found its way into my new book Time Hears No Sound. Maybe this insightful poem will nudge me toward beginning a new manuscript for my fifth book.
Cold Feet
I wandered outside; the evening air was damp and cold, and the moon was sharing the dappled midnight sky with dark, satiny clouds.
Forlornly, I looked up and quizzically asked the moon, “I have failed. My words were drowned in the hail. I’m poor and unbound; all I have is muddy ground. Who listens, anyhow? Where do I go now?”
“Do not fret, my friend As Confucius said, It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. And that old Japanese Proverb: Fall down seven times, stand up eight. “
I wandered back inside. The desk lantern was still burning. I reopened my torn notebook and began writing again.
For the nights when the cold settles in, but the words still find their way.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 