After lunch, with the air heavy and my thoughts drifting in a fog, I still reached for the quill. Even in these muddled moments, the world offers small reminders — a magpie in the grass, another lifting into the grey sky — that creativity doesn’t disappear; it simply falters and finds its way again. Today’s poem grew from that gentle wobble, from the tiredness and the tenderness of still trying to write when the mind feels a little featherless.
The Poet’s Confused Quill
I’m a pushcart poet without an axle for the wheels (maybe all I need is a square meal)
The thick green grass is soggy and tangled
I’m a muddling magpie with his featherless quill stuck in the muddy mire.
The heavy, becalmed air Is smoggy and breathless
Is the gloomy sky falling down or will the poet’s hallowed ground rise up again, when his eyes hear sound
Sometimes clarity returns not in a rush, but in the stillness after confusion — where the long way around becomes the way back to ourselves.
Feature Image:I still find myself looking toward the bright side — from somewhere just beneath the flowering wishing tree on the moon.
This afternoon’s café quiet carried me back to the edges of last week’s stroke‑fatigue episode — not in fear, but in recognition. I sat with its soft ache, like a body sighing before it speaks, and let the moment settle around me.
Frankie watched on from his blue bench, patient as ever, while the wishing tree above reminded me that even on the slower days, hope still hangs from familiar branches. Here’s the poem that found me there.
Quietly Sighing
Here in the cafe, staying away from yesterday.
Not hiding nor crying — just quietly sighing.
Another sand dune climbed; that’ll do for now, until next time.
My tired old wings remain firmly attached to my heartstrings — an antique violin miming today’s tunes.
And I’m still able to see tomorrow’s wishing tree flowering on the moon.
When the poem settles, I softly step from the wishing tree on the moon into Mendelssohn’s sighing wind.
Three days of steady rain have kept me home, resting and recovering at an easy pace. Between showers, I found myself watching puddles form and rivers rise — and somewhere in that rhythm, this whimsical piece appeared. Ravishing rabbits waiting to board the Ark seemed the perfect companions for a rainy Sunday poem.
Ponds and Puddles
Splish, splash, splosh — puddles and ponds, but no soulful swans.
Sharp, hard hail rocks, heavy, fat raindrops, but no wistful wattlebirds.
Rivers are rising, mudlarks are still flying — but look, there are two white rabbits waiting to board the Ark.
While the rabbits wait for the Ark, I’ll rest here with this gentle song.
I’ve been resting at home this week, easing through a spell of stroke fatigue while the rain keeps falling outside. This poem has come together slowly over three days — written in quiet moments when my energy allowed — sparked by the return of my orchids and the memories they carry.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Colour Challenge for October is Orange. To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here
The Orchid’s Story
It’s been nearly a decade since your smiling blooms softly touched my memories. You were my father’s beloved orchids, a living keepsake I inherited when I moved into my Shangri‑La — he would be so proud to see you now.
While you’ve been quietly hibernating, my river of life has ebbed and flowed. beneath familiar bridges and over jagged ridges
A fascinating tourist trip to China, but sadly followed by two more strokes. Phenomenally, I recovered in time to board the plane to America for a debut visit to see my Philadelphia cousins.
Luckily, you were still cosily asleep during the worldwide COVID calamity. After a couple of chaotic years, the catastrophic disease dissipated. However, not to be outgunned, cataclysmically, wars of the world repossessed the planet like a prehistoric curse.
Fortuitously, during the spring of last year I was able to visit my Canadian cousins on Vancouver Island and Alberta — showed me the scenic sights and treated me like a poetic prince.
And now you stand, clandestine after all this time, on your piece of pristine and palatial residence colourfully and nonchalantly smiling at me today, as if everything were back to normal,
While the rain softly taps at the windows, the orchids silently bloom again — a quiet reminder of resilience, as the flowers tell their story once more.
Note:Sorry for my lack of blogging over the past couple of days — time has been running a bit too fast for this old poet. Between radio rehearsals, CHW submissions, and tending to my own poetry website, I’ve been stretched thin. Even so, I’ve managed to bring togetherShangri La, Volume 22. After a breather tomorrow, hopefully things will be back to normal.
FREE PDF COPY >>> Links Below
Hello, dear readers and followers. As you may know, I stopped producing my “Tullawalla Booklets” at #31 because that was our family’s Tullawalla Homestead house number. Yet the booklet format is a superb way for me to catalogue the vast number of poems I produce, and as the saying goes, “I Am Turning Another Page”. Here I have begun a new series of poem booklets, called “Shangri La”, the name of my little Villa, and it is my piece of “earthly paradise, a retreat from the pressures of modern civilization”. I now have “2458”poems gathered across these booklets (On my bookshelf sits “The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, with 1775 poems — when I first began writing, I never imagined I would one day surpass that number.)
“Like all my booklets, this one is here to be read at your leisure — no rush, no expectation, just an open page waiting when you are.”
Click >>Here –for the link to your FREE: PDF Copy of“Shangri La, Volume 22, The Blue Fescue.”
Above Earth’s governing clouds, beyond the atmosphere’s atomic shrouds, I hear the sun’s white veneer pulsating from inside the sky’s diminishing blue.
There hiding — teary-eyed — waiting for an overdue enlightening breakthrough to cure the world’s stewed blue fescue.
A song for the shifting sky — a reminder that even in the blur between heroes and villains, we’re still searching for the light that carries us forward.
Yesterday, Geelong Cereal published the first part of my dragon series — My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon. Geelong Cereal is a free online magazine showcasing local writing and creative arts, with a special love for serial fiction and stories from the Geelong region. It’s a welcoming space for writers at every stage of their creative journey, and I’m delighted that my dragon has found a home there. A heartfelt thank‑you to Mel, Geelong Cereal’s editor, whose care and encouragement helped bring this first chapter to life. >> My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 1 – My Dragon
Below is the image of the poem as it appeared in the magazine.
Before Part 1 settles into the dark, and as my dragon drifts back into shadow, here’s a song of solitude and wonder to close the first chapter.
With the full moon brooding over my backyard and Cohen’s noir residue still shadowing the edges of my thoughts, this poem arrived like a quiet confession from the twilight.
The Full-moon’s Jealous Sigh
Phantasmagorically, beyond the real world’s dirty paws, I’ve been flying everywhere — over to a mythical concert on the other side of my horizon, above the full moon’s jealous sigh — where this old mystical poet was seen zooming across the sky.
Then sadly, my Itmims spacecraft began running low on stardust fuel and had to return to my backyard.
Suddenly, my feet were back home, again stuck on the ground, and I was dreamily stumbling around, listening to my muse’s sonorous music sound, weeping down from twilight’s white dome.
So I leave this moonlit wander here — I’ll let Cave’s “Weeping Song” carry the last of this twilight ache.
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,“Don’t Worry, Home is Anywhere,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Don’t Worry, Home is Anywhere – Coffee House Writers
A rain‑soaked afternoon left my pigeon photos a little blurred, yet even in that dull light, a small metaphor took wing — a plain‑grey bird rising above the world’s worrying affairs.
And as the music rises, even a plain‑grey bird reminds us that home is wherever we dare to lift ourselves above the world’s worrying affairs.
Last night’s concert is still humming through me this morning — a gentle afterglow of voices, strings, and silhouettes that hasn’t quite settled. I’m too tired to write a full review, but the feeling of it all lingers, shaping this small poem the way a single note can colour an entire sky. With Bird on a Wire echoing softly in my thoughts, the night has lifted into something quiet and edenic, finding its way into these lines.
From wings in the sky to voices on stage — the same rhythm of freedom and grace carries through.
Maree and Ivor just before the concert began.
Edenic Sky
I’m on a poetic high, up here in my symphonic sky — like a bird on a wire, above the bustling dragonflies buzzing around on standby.
Up here in my rhythmic sky, away from the politician’s tongue ties and blind glass eyes — floating inside last month’s mince pie, still gloating about the blowflies hovering over Shanghai’s under-prepared stir fry.
I’m on a poetic high, up here in my edenic sky.
And so I’ll leave the morning here, with the last notes of the concert still drifting somewhere just out of reach, colouring the sky in their own quiet way. The bird on the wire, the sepia light, and the poem’s small rise all feel like echoes of that lingering music — a reminder that some nights don’t end; they simply soften into the day.
VJ’s Fire haiku lit a quiet spark in me last night, and sometime after midnight my own words drifted upward — a sky‑response shaped by the birds I photographed yesterday and the lingering anticipation of Cohen Noir. There’s something about Leonard’s voice that reminds me to look up, to let thoughts rise, and to trust the air to carry them.
My essence is sky Words fly with the birds up high Beyond prying eyes
And as these sky‑bound words drift toward Cohen Noir, I’m guided again by Leonard’s voice — a reminder to steer my way through the clouds and keep writing beyond prying eyes.
