Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2022) is drawn from my third book, Until Eyes Hear Sound. It appears in Chapter 5: Observation, Until Eyes Hear Sound.
A Torn Thesaurus
With my fiddle and riddles Here in the middle Of this unopened universe Time spirals in reverse
Quills fly in from cyberspace As alien words unravel and interlace A torn thesaurus is my database I wonder Have I landed in the right place?
At our Dome group meeting, Jen — our chairperson — said, “I’m not here next meeting, so we need to choose a theme for next month.” A few of us laughed, and someone replied, “Well, I’m Not Here sounds like a theme in itself.” And just like that, the idea settled over us, light as a wink.
The Geelong Library and Heritage Centre … affectionately known as The Dome.
This image shows someone holding three cups and the cups are made in the image of a woman’s face. The expression on the three cups are slightly different from each other.
I’m Not Here
I’m not here — I’m in limbo, behind a solitary glass window, there on the north side of the Dome; it stands out like a fairy’s magical home.
I’m not here, but I am somewhere high above the Gingko in the fresh air, where I hear the fairy Godmother’s vacant chair whisper haunting poetic quotes by Voltaire.
“Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” ~ Voltaire “The right to free speech is more important than the content of the speech.” ~ Voltaire “Many are destined to reason wrongly; others, not to reason at all; and others, to persecute those who do reason.” ~ Voltaire
And still, from that quiet window in the Dome, I’m not here — yet somehow feeling at home.
Somewhere between presence and absence, the music carries what words can’t quite hold.
A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to the hospital for the last time, on the day of her 65th birthday, fourteen years ago.
Hello Carole, time goes by, and my heart has not moved …
Under The Snow
We emanate to a birthday. We deflate to a final day. Birthdays, they all come, they all go. Birthdays, in the sunshine, under the snow. Birthdays, slow to mature, quickly an eon. Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone. Birthdays, hanging on by a breath. Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death. What does it all mean to be alive and cry? What does it all mean to live and to die?
Time Hears No Sound, Cover Reveal (by Kerri Costello) Today, I’m delighted to reveal the front and back covers of Time Hears No Sound. There’s a quiet magic in these designs, and I hope you feel it too.
The artwork comes from my Philadelphia niece, Graphic Design Artist Kerri Costello, whose creative touch has shaped the covers of my last three books—Tullawalla, Perceptions, and Until Eyes Hear Sound.
The disintegrating clock at the centre of the cover reflects the book’s core idea: that time is less a mechanism than a mystery. The warm sky mirrored in the lake suggests memory’s calm surface, while the darker tones around the edges hint at the silences and shadows the poems explore. Together, the colours and imagery echo the journey of the collection—where time drifts, dissolves, and reveals what it cannot say aloud.
To accompany the cover reveal, here’s the Tanka that closes the collection:
Timeless (a Tanka)
Once upon a time At the beginning of time What was before time? Where’s the origin of time? Infinity is timeless
As the weekend’s protest thread continues, this poem looks at what we count — and what we choose not to.
VJ’s article on holding to a deeper “why” nudged me toward this poem — a poignant protest shaped by questions of time, land, and what we risk by looking away. Her story is below—the spark behind this poem. >> Having a Why – One Woman’s Quest
Also, over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word Invasive. To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here
Handless Watchbands, or Who’s Counting
How many grains of sand are left in the ancient hourglass? Why are the Holy grasslands a desert full of misguided missiles and handless watch bands?
How many missiles do the leaders in Versailles have to count before the amount is called genocide?
For what we cannot look away from, let the song bear witness.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in May 2023) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the opening poem in Chapter 8, War: A Waste of Time
“And I have carried on this war. Though no one wins an endless fight. I have claimed that God has guided me. And killed to prove I’m right.” Lyrics from Damien Rice’s song, “What if I’m wrong.”
Between Lines, Who Holds the Power
Do you see – a man walking on water? Did you see – his feet were bleeding? Do you read – the missing scriptures? Did you read – your own family tree? Do you hear, speechless angels, singing? Did you hear – the songbirds crying?
Do you feel – the erased wars calling? Did you feel – the hard rains falling? Do you know – the ones who are lying? Did you know, the refugees are dying?
“What If I’m Wrong”, Lyrics, by Damien Rice
I could wrestle with tomorrow Until tomorrow’s in the past Because I have torn apart what’s beautiful To prove that nothing lasts I have stayed locked behind these doors To show there’s no way out I got lost within the space between The question and the doubt I have built a wall between
What I believed and what is true I have sacrificed the love I had For power over you
I have convicted those who disagree And walked over the weak I have placed a gun within the mouth Of those who dared to speak
And on an ordinary day In an ordinary way I have crushed the minds of children With extraordinary shame
And I have carried on this war Though no one wins an endless fight I have claimed that God has guided me And killed to prove I’m right
What if I’m wrong What if I’m wrong What if I’m wrong What if I’m wrong
Is this soul worth saving at all? Cause if I lose my wings then surely I must fall And the gods prayed to the gods they made
We could wrestle with tomorrow until tomorrow’s in the past We could tear apart what’s beautiful To prove that nothing lasts
We could stay locked behind the doors To show there’s no way out We could get lost within the space between The question and the doubt
Featured Image Above: is of my silver teaspoon with the initials “MS” (Multiple Sclerosis) embossed on the handle button.
Hello, dear readers and followers. I contribute to Coffee House Writers magazine (USA) every second week, and I’m delighted to share that my latest poem,“Between, Inside, and Beyond,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Between, Inside, and Beyond – Coffee House Writers
Some mornings begin in silence, before memory fully wakes, and the hush before daylight becomes a bridge between darkness and light
And, For Sadje’s #Whatdoyousee #331 – 9 March 2026 – My ‘Poem’ closely represented Sadje’s first Image.
To visit Sadje’s fabulous site, please click >> Here
Where It All Began
It was only six-twenty. I could not remember how my bowl became empty.
What is this strange condition? Then I shifted the position of my inner opposition by refining the leftover light from within the dark of night – when silence suspends time – into the musical sounds of rhyme.
Am I too late to catch the worm, or beyond time’s sonic boom? Is there still more to learn?
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 