Inspired by one of Derrick Knight’s quietly atmospheric New Forest photos — which he kindly allows me to use on my poetry site >>https://derrickjknight.com/2026/01/19/decidedly-damp-2/ — this piece reflects the stillness and subtle depth held in a simple pond.
Discreetly Reflective
Discreetly, here I casually lie, My opalescent veneer Facing the weathered sky – Reflective is my exterior.
Underneath, at the bottom of the weir, A shallow coldness protects my fear Of overexposure To the New Forest’s frontier. But being a reflective mirror Is my theatrical nature
Music:“Elegy” by Lisa Gerrard & Patrick Cassidy — a quiet echo of the pond’s stillness.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in August 2023) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the first poem in the Fairyland section of Chapter 9, Humour, Fantasy, and Fairyland: Timeless
Where Have The Fairies Gone?
Deep in the enchanted woods Under mossy rocks and water-reeds I saw an iron-bar prison door Lying over a cave in the dry creek bed
I wondered and yelled out “Hello! Is anyone down there?” Eerily, a gentle voice whispered “Do not worry, we are sheltering here.” “Why are you hiding?” I inquired “We are waiting for humanity to stop the carnage on our planet.”
Then, peeping up from lower in the chasm I witnessed that the small luminous eyes Of Earth’s guardian faeries Were joyless and crying
Music/Video: by Sigur Ros, “Ylur”, translated means, Warmth
Sublime is time; heeds no rhyme, beyond our imaginary climb. Somewhere we await a final line – or is life just a pantomime?
Oh, I see doorways, stairways, and causeways These days I’m living in a hazy daze – or am I wandering in a maze of poetic cliches and unfinished essays?
Do we climb the incline to our ordained shrine? Or is the causeway a surreal design, a decline into a magnetic mine?
Under a dome of flawless white, being elevated toward the uncorrupted light – the beginning of a poet’s last moonlit playwright
From Lisa O’Neill’s Black Sheep —“Do you want a story before you sleep?”A fitting echo for this small pantomime of doorways and moonlit climbs.
Winds outside and storms within. Nature shifting, people shifting, and a song that carries the ache of distance. A small piece for looking outward, and inward, at the same time.
Don’t Open the Venetian Blinds
Turbulent seas, And broken trees Nature’s wild winds – Do spellbind mankind’s Undefined minds.
Buckled knees, And breaks in the bay’s Protective quays Nature’s stone-blind to mankind’s Redesigned minds.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word ‘Journal.’ To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here
“This morning’s muse — wings caught mid-thought.”
My Journal’s Wings
High above my poetic eye I fly, where the early birds gracefully glide by across the bright morning sky.
And in my journal, I pause to ask why birds become the muses of my word supply— as if their wings remind me that thought itself is a kind of flight, and every line I write is another way of learning how to rise.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 