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.
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.
Twelve months ago, while visiting my cousins on Vancouver Island, I tapped out a small poem on my iPhone — a moment shaped by cedar shadows, cold tides, and old family echoes. Today’s Throwback Friday returns to that quiet day, and to the fallen ancestors the island seemed to remember.
Fallen Ancestors
Above I saw time drift across the sky.
Below I heard a grey, waterlogged tree cry, “Is this the graveyard where my fallen ancestors have been left to die?”
There “Against the sea wall’s merciless granite crown, surrounded by cold water crashing around…
Please “Take my hand, guide me down, so I can cover them with my green nightgown.”
A quiet echo of the sea’s old memory — as the tide carries its stories forward, this song keeps a heart in the water.
In the soft glow of a haloed sun, a seagull and his friends traced a tale across the sky — and one of them decided to share a little wisdom as he climbed into the light, shaping today’s poem.
Cyril the Seagull
Cyril is no ordinary seagull, he’s neither plain nor dull.
I’ve been watching him and his friends, soaring through the clouds’ sunny trends.
When he swooped in close enough, I asked him off-the-cuff:
“Why are you considered to be so commonly homespun?” He puffed his wings like a bumblebee and proudly flew off toward the sun.
Cyril whispered as he climbed: Like humans, we also populate the world However, I’m free to fly and enjoy nature’s phoenix sky uncurled.
And as Cyril lifts into the light, this timeless song rises with him — a quiet reminder to simply be.
Spring arrived today with a quiet kind of joy — a bird lifting into the morning light, gulls gliding above the bay, and a flowering tree catching the sun just right. On my walk to the café, these small moments gathered around me, each one adding its own note to the season’s first song. By the time I sat down with my coffee, a Tanka had already begun to bloom — shaped by the warm promise of the new season.
Spring is Singing (a Tanka)
Daylight’s kissing earth, Its warm glow hugs everything, And the midday sun Thaws my once‑wavering wings — Now nature’s choir is singing
As spring begins to rise, a tender melody of warmth and light to accompany the season’s first song.
“To frozen clods even spring’s invisible law returns with grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn” … Walt Whitman
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,“Spring Will Never Vanish (a Villanelle),” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Spring Will Never Vanish – Coffee House Writers
As Whitman knew and this villanelle remembers, spring’s law always returns — and Tom Waits sings it home.
