Nancy’s “Feeding Time” post from last week sparked this limerick. A stray comment of mine turned into a tiny blues riff about Billy, the old goat who can’t keep out of trouble. Nancy >> Feeding Time – The Elephant’s Trunk
Old Goat Blues (a Limerick)
Billy the silly old goat Instead of his wild oats He ate the old leathery shoes Now he needs a glass of booze To clear his sole full throat
And because Nancy’s goat set this whole thing in motion, here’s a porch‑blues groove with just enough swagger to keep his hooves tapping.
As twilight settles across the shelves, Steve pauses for thought atop his old bookcase…
Steve the Snail’s Bookcase
I’m sitting in a secret place on top of this old bookcase — I’m not a nutcase, but wistfully wondering about that space between the sun’s twilight zone and the world’s traversing horizon.
Is that the mysterious place beyond third base, the dark coalface, that I’m yet to embrace — my final footrace?
But wait — before I vanish into space without a trace, I need to don my carapace and tighten these slivery bootlaces.
Steve’s gentle reminder drifts in: put your hat and shoes on, and enjoy life while you’re able.
As Steve settles into the hush of twilight, this song drifts in beside him…
This morning’s wattlebird carried a question across the sky — a fleeting shimmer of light and wonder. Inspired by that moment, I found myself chasing the same golden touch through words and image, letting the Dream’s warmth echo the poem’s quiet hope.
Will I Be the One? (a Tanka)
There’s a wattlebird Flying past the golden sun And then I wondered Who will be the chosen one to receive the Midas touch?
And as the wattlebird slips past the golden sun, this song carries the same gentle light forward.
It was “our” 50th Anniversary yesterday, the 10th of September. Whispering Flowers was written back in early 2019, during my recovery from two strokes — a time when every small journey felt tender and deliberate. Today, the flowers have been delivered, and we’ve spent the afternoon in the sunshine, sharing an anniversary lunch at the café and a glass of red, letting the memories settle gently around us.
Whispering Flowers (Tullawalla, page 41)
Carole and I, 45 years ago, before her MS developed.
At the cemetery with flowers for Carole, and then to the Cafe for lunch and a toast to Carole.
Whispering Flowers (Revised)
I went shopping this morning, To buy her flowers For our anniversary day.
A bus trip to the local florist, then I boarded another bus to the cemetery — my first time on a bus carrying flowers.
Bouquet in hand, on I hopped, You could’ve heard a pin drop.
Over the silence, I heard solemn whispers. The men on the bus courteously nodded, And the ladies knowingly smiled.
Gratified, I dipped my cap in acknowledgement. Then I started to sense the day’s emotions arise, and with my honesty glowing, I felt proudly special.
And as Scarborough Fair drifts through the afternoon light, I carry her memory faithfully, where flowers and remembrance quietly meet.
Fifty years feels both distant and close, a milestone carried quietly through my days. Some memories soften, some sharpen, but one truth remains — I still see her in the small moments, in the quiet spaces, in the light that lingers. Today, I honour that presence the only way I know how: with a few simple lines.
I See You Now, Fifty Years, Today
A day I celebrate every day — every day, walking my narrow path, I see you now. Every day, looking into our misty mirror, I see you now.
Fifty years, today — every night, in my dreams, I see you now. Every night, in the stars. I see you now.
I am here, you are where you are. One day, my dear, I’ll join you in the stars.
A song that echoes the way I still see her — in dreams, in stars, in the quiet of today.
Fifty years arrives like a soft, golden hush — a moment where memory steps forward, hand in hand with the present. As tomorrow’s anniversary draws near, I found myself looking toward the sky, letting its warm light guide me back through the years. This Tanka is the quiet breath before the day itself, a small reflection of the love still shimmering in every sunset.
Tomorrow’s Our 50th Anniversary (a Tanka)
Sunset’s pure-gold sky And I’m inwardly smiling. She’s flamboyantly channeling me — a bright clue: tomorrow’s our golden day.
And tomorrow, as the golden sky leans close, her light will rise through me once more.
Some stories arrive quietly — sparked by a pair of images that linger longer than expected. Yesterday, Derrick shared a delicate nest tucked into a tangle of branches, and today Jackie offered her charming capture of a donkey pausing near The Lodge. Together, their photos nudged this old poet into motion, setting Danielle on her gentle wander through fading forests, dry summer lodges, and dreams of a new nest.
One sultry day on the edge of the faded forest, young Danielle the donkey wandered away from her dry summer lodge.
It was time to discover the world, find a different place to stay — a cosy nest of hay lined with soft, fairy feathers.
Then come what may, despite the declining chalet’s bumpy driveway and wilted bouquets, she pricked her ears back, ignored the onlookers’ flack, and dreamed on, never sidetracked.
A tender farewell and a hopeful beginning — Danielle’s journey echoing softly through this song.
I nearly deleted this photo — a pole in the way, a couple of wires cluttering the frame — until the birds decided to rescue it. They swooped in, sketched their own storyline across the sky, and left me wondering who was really directing the scene. While they painted truth up there, I stayed down here trying to catch whatever tale fluttered past. This little poem followed soon after, curious, a bit cheeky, and happily poles apart.
Poles Apart
We’re poles apart before we even start. You guys up there, me down here — I don’t know where.
Truth flutters freely in the air. Meanwhile, down here, fiction is both oblong and square.
Wise cracks don’t need stairs. Poetic knack has dare and flair, and down here storybooks fly anywhere without a compere, traveling from deckchair to airchair.
And as the birds drift off into their own truth, this tune keeps the sky talking.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 