Some evening skies seem to wear a crown of their own. These three photographs inspired a short reflection on the changing shapes of cloud and light as day drifts into twilight.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Colour Challenge for October is Grey/Gray. To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here.
Two Crowns
Eventide
The sun is settling down behind the horizon’s heliotrope clouds draped in ribbons of golden brown
Twilight Time
the clouds are drifting down over the horizon’s terraced treetops cloaked by the corpulent sky’s chunky crown
Beyond Time
Nature’s wonders are our world’s comfy eiderdown surrounding the horizon’s mystical realm: there endures the planet’s glorious crown
Some crowns are worn for a moment, others endure beyond time. The beauty of our world asks for nothing more than to be noticed.
I wrote this poem in November 2017 during one of my neuralgia attacks. At the time, I genuinely felt as though I was approaching the end of the road. Yet, in the end, it could not happen. There was simply too much love surrounding me. The poem was written in two parts, and for Part 2, “An Answer Follows”, my dear friend Terry Fielding later composed a song using those words. The audio recording is included below.
What began as a poem during a difficult time was later transformed into song by my dear friend, Terry Fielding.
Throwback Friday, Followed By Two, featuring Part 2, “An Answer Follows”
Part 1. One Day Follows
The abyss is bigger, not less On these days of darkness The owls are singing sad tunes On these days of bad moons The brain is harpooned again On these days of constant pain The sunshine has gone, I confess On these days of over stress The mind has little attitude On these days of sleepy solitude
Part 2. An Answer Follows
You’ve all walked into my heart And you’ve run into my past You’ve all flooded into my soul And you’ve soared into my dreams I crave that … one day soon Tomorrow, or another day too That all your kind hearts Will be bathing themselves In the soothing oils Of your glorious souls
Music has long been part of Terry’s life. Before listening to our collaboration, enjoy this performance ofThe Fields of Athenry, recorded in his home studio.
Some Australian traditions have a way of returning each year as faithfully as the seasons. Melbourne Cup Day is one of them. Inspired by a half-moon drifting across a spring sky and a chance encounter between Frankie and a horse on our evening walk, this poem reflects on a race that briefly captures the nation’s attention.
An Aussie Tradition
The first Tuesday in November, even the chary moon remembers it’s Melbourne Cup Day, a 165-year-old Australian tradition.
The day when the nation stops for a horse race, and even non-gamblers come out of hibernation, up the ante without feeling out of place.
For a few fleeting minutes, the nation’s heartbeat follows the pounding hooves. And somewhere above the track, the old chary moon remembers once again.
As the old chary moon remembers once again, here’s Slim Dusty’s tribute to Australia’s most famous horse race.
Some photographs linger in the mind long after they are taken. These images of a bird beneath the sun and moon quietly followed me into sleep and became a dream. By morning, the dream had found its wings and eventually became this wishful song.
Another Wishful Song
I dreamt of being a peaceful dove, blissfully flying above our spectacular solar sun and our magnanimous moon.
I gazed out upon the universe’s vast beyond. Would my weary, wishful wings carry me to where I belong?
Am I wrong to imagine there’s another song further away than my kingdom’s billabong?
Some dreams remain with us long after we wake. This song felt like a fitting companion for one that found its wings.
Yesterday’s heavy sky hung low and grey, yet the birds seemed unconcerned. Their black-and-white silhouettes drifted between cloud and light, carrying a quiet reminder that even beneath the heaviest skies, nature continues to write its own story. This poem grew from those fleeting moments in flight.
Black and White Bookends
Come fly with me, my friends, I’ve heard our heavy sky’s on the mend, defying the world’s breathless trend.
Today is not the end. Feel free, there’s no need to pretend. Let us all transcend this man-made pitchblende.
We are not to be condemned for wearing nature’s black-and-white portends, between her unpenned bookends.
The black-and-white birds drifted on beneath a healing sky, while the clouds continued writing their own silent story on the wind.
Nature’s bookends are no longer unpenned. A poem now sits quietly on the shelf between them.
Some theories attempt to explain the mysteries of the universe. Others focus on more pressing questions, such as where all the missing socks have gone.
And at Weekly Prompts, since it’s the last weekend of the month, the challenge is to include the words ‘One Day’ in your Post. To visit their fabulous site, please click >> Here.
“My One Sock Theory”
All the single missing socks are being siphoned off by AI There is only one “I” in AI and there are trillions of AI guys zooming around; so all the single “I” guys, in that infinite AI world, need a sock to wear, for every stressed-out single Black “I”— especially when stepping into the cold, deep theories about the mysterious Black-holes.
For now, the lone sock keeps its secrets. The evidence has been found. The mystery remains.
From dawn until dusk, shadows travel faithfully beside us, changing shape with every passing hour. This light-hearted verse wonders what becomes of these silent companions when the sun finally sets.
Do Shadows Sleep?
Shadows eclipse the ground without making a sound.
Dark, silent phantoms of the day, the sun’s prying silhouettes, come what may.
Tall, like a juggler on stilts, or squat like a Scotsman’s kilt.
Tonight my shadow will slip away like a ghost, following daylight’s river toward the coast.
Do shadows sleep, or do they simply follow daylight’s river toward the coast?
Today, Geelong Cereal published the fourth part of my dragon series, My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 4, My Dragon – Frozen In Time. A heartfelt thank‑you to Mel, Geelong Cereal’s editor, whose care and encouragement helped bring this latest chapter to life. >> My Dragon, The Tetralogy: Part 4. My Dragon, Frozen In Time
Inspired by a photograph from Derrick Knight’s wonderful website, this dragon poem also appears in our collaborative book, Perceptions. Below is the image of the poem as published in Geelong Cereal magazine.
As my dragon remains suspended in time, this thoughtful song felt like a fitting companion for the journey.
Halloween prompts often encourage us to look at transformation in unexpected ways. I wrote this poem in response to a Halloween challenge hosted by Ingrid at Experiments in Fiction in October 2020. If you’d like to visit the original prompt, you’ll find the link below. >> https://experimentsinfiction.com/2020/10/24/eif-poetry-challenge-8-halloween-special/
The Reincarnation of a Pumpkin
My locked bubble is about to go boom, A year I’ve been a stranger in my own tomb, Under a pumpkin lid, hiding my gloom, Where my world was a rotting cave of doom.
Now these orange walls are my life-giving womb, Being reborn like a smiling old groom, I’m breaking away from the master’s dead blooms, Escaping on the green witch’s magical broom.
Flying over the full moon of autumn, Where I’ll be able to wear my mask and costume, Hidden under my orange Kaftan from Khartoum, Then I’ll invade the newsrooms, and all the children’s bedrooms.
Some poems emerge from unexpected prompts and take on a life of their own. Looking back, this song still seems a fitting companion for a pumpkin determined to escape its fate.
Some poems arrive in notebooks. Others begin life squeezed into the bottom margin of a newspaper. Later, at the café, the scribbled notes were deciphered and shaped into a poem. Fortunately, my handwriting proved just legible enough to rescue the words before they drifted too far into the moon-zones.
“Words travel in curious ways. Today, WordPress notified me that my site had passed 500,000 all-time views. Each visit has been a step along a path of words, photos and friendships. I am truly grateful for that.“
Words! A Mind of Their Own
I cannot touch my toes and putting on my clothes is a task for these old bones, while my brain’s in moon-zones floating around on polished stones.
Now where’s that HB pencil? Quick, before the thought has flown. These days, this body’s a slow-rising utensil, and my words have a mind of their own.
Some thoughts arrive quietly, circle for a while, and eventually settle into words. The HB pencil was found, the words came to rest, and the moon-zones drifted peacefully onwards with this song.
