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,“A Global Suntan,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> A Global Suntan – Coffee House Writers
This afternoon I found myself at the calm centre of things — winter draped itself lightly over the café, letting the sunshine linger just long enough for a quiet moment to unfold.
Winter Sunshine
I’m on the axis of my universe, here in the middle of our cafe, at the centre of this old town — it’s our time to relax and calm down.
We’re midway beneath winter’s hemline; the wind is cold, but the day is fine. The larks are enjoying the sunshine, and I’m sipping a glass of red wine.
As the winter light faded and the sunshine slipped away, the music left its own warm shadow behind.
Hello, dear readers and followers. As you may know, I stopped producing my “Tullawalla Booklets” at #31 because that was the house number of our family’s Tullawalla Homestead. 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 “2407”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 21, Beyond the Midday Moon.”
The midday moon is less than 10° above the horizon — low enough for my weary wings to fly over.
The morning clouds are dispersing, and up here, above the moon, my shadows are free to echo my dreams.
Between the sky and the moon, I gaze into their shared light — sometimes life is out of sight, other times everything is alright, either way, they welcome my unspoken words, whether day or night.
A song that drifts in the same strange daylight as the poem — a quiet companion to the light above us.
When the full moon rises, Frankie and I can’t help but chase its glow.What begins as a playful lift‑off soon becomes a delicious journeythrough clouds that taste like desserts and skies that shimmer with childhood magic.
“Itmims” Ivor’s Time Machine In Micro Space
The Icings on the Cake, or a Sweet Full Moon
I’ve time enough to finish my mushy mango. The full moon is about to put on a show. Both Frankie and my spacecraft, Itmims, are howling and revving to go.
I pour the leftover banana juice into the awaiting craft’s fuel compartment, then untether the impatient machine, and Frankie and I quickly jump aboard. Up, up and away we go, high above the mist and creamy snow.
We fly toward the cherry pie clouds and twilight’s strawberry jelly sky, where, to our consummate delight, we spy the full moon’s white Knight glowing brighter than grandma’s world-famous passionfruit pavlova
Some days arrive quietly and leave a lasting tremor in the heart. Today was one of them. This finale 75th birthday wasn’t just a celebration of another year — it became a gathering of the people who have walked beside me through the most profound chapters of my life.
This group of friends is woven into every part of Carole’s story. They were there when she and I first met, full of hope and laughter. They were there when MS entered our lives forty‑four years ago, offering care, strength, and the kind of support that can only come from people who love without hesitation. Through three decades of Carole’s battle, they stood with us — not as visitors, but as family.
And even after Carole passed fourteen years ago, the thread didn’t break. Every three or four months, we gather to honour her astonishing life — her compassion, her grace, and that infectious smile that could soften any room. Today, on my birthday, that ritual became something deeper. It felt like a circle closing gently around memory, friendship, and the enduring presence of a woman who shaped us all.
The Crew, and my birthday Barbeque Apron present; a handcrafted gift by Dot … “Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.”
Everlasting (a Tanka)
This circle of friends, like a silver wedding ring, bright and long-lasting, lovingly loyal and strong — yet time does not weary them.
A tune for the long road we’ve walked together — still singing, still smiling. A journey that continues to be brightened by loyal friends.
Twilight has a way of softening the edges of the day. In that fading light, time feels loose in the hands, slipping grain by grain. Dark Grains of Sand follows that quiet fall into evening.
Dark Grains of Sand
As the sun sinks beyond the land, the horizon’s sky swirls like tanned quicksand.
As the night begins to melt into tawny strands, twilight unfurls across the wandering bard’s grandstand.
As the grains of time drift through his hands the encroaching darkness remains unmanned and unplanned.
Bob Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand” drifts through the same twilight hush — a perfect echo for this piece.
There are moments in the afternoon when the sky invites us to sense more than we see — when a pale moon lingers above our familiar fixtures and asks us to listen with our eyes. Perhaps, One Day, we’ll pause long enough to notice our daytime luminary’s quiet offerings.
Over at Weekly Prompts, it’s time for the “One Day Prompt.” To visit their fabulous site, please click on >> Here
The Moon’s Daytime Matinee
Mid-afternoon, and the half moon is lingering in the middle of the sky, glowing like a luminary’s lantern.
There for everyone to listen with their tired eyes and peruse the moon’s visionary daytime matinee.
Perhaps, at the same moment, the audience will absorb the extra light waves from the ancient orb’s timeless wisdom.
And as the afternoon drifts on, the moon leaves its quiet note behind, a reminder that even in daylight, wonder still finds a way to shine.
Today’s Throwback Friday arrives wrapped in rain. Frankie and I stepped out into a cold, wet Geelong evening, and the sky was heavy, brooding, ready to break. It seemed the right moment to revisit a poem from June 2021 — a piece written during another season of quiet storms and overflowing emotion.
Raining Oceans of Tears (Revised)
They can send a machine to Mars, but cannot repair a blade of grass in nature’s backyard.
And billions of tears spill into the oceans, creating a soft-surging swell of love gradually rolling in from a blue horizon. Is this the beginning of the next great flood from above?
The words that are left unsaid cannot be misread
Without being misread — sometimes the only answer is to let the rain keep falling.
A quiet morning sky, brushed with soft colour and held in the silhouettes of reaching trees. A few drifting lines followed me home from my walk, settling into a poem shaped by that calm, glassy light.
The Sky Catcher
The blue-stone sky is not about to cry, nor do I hear the wind sigh.
Nature’s clouds tell no lie. High, above the planet’s bonsai, I see the sun’s glassy eye solemnly decry time neither says hi nor goodbye.
A morning sky caught in stillness, and a song that drifts softly in its wake.
Resting was originally written in July 2024, and the photos that follow are little scenes from my world — the moments that helped me understand what resting truly means.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 