These four couplets unfold like stepping stones — small pauses across the quiet waters of loss. Each one holds a moment of recognition, a shift in understanding, a breath before the next step. Paired with Leonard Cohen’s “Teachers,” the poem traces the lessons we never received, and the ones we learn only by walking toward them
Life’s Missing Teacher
I never found a teacher, who taught me how to grieve.
The unforeseen creature was difficult to perceive.
After unplugging her extension cord, time was always near.
While wandering toward the edge of life’s weathered pier.
These images caught my eye today — the sun climbing higher, the trees reaching upward, and the birds carving Bach’s Cello music through the air. They became the foundation of the poem below.
Sun, Trees, and Birds
Like a stab in the dark, Where do I start
Is the sun my spark, Or the trees in the shady park
Talking to the larks Is my trademark
There below the sun’s warm arc, And above the trees’ ritual bark
I hear the birds’ melodious hark, Nature’s own cellist playing Bach
Today’s Throwback poem was written before I started my website and is from June 2012, not long after Carole passed away (14 years ago, May 3rd). For reasons I can’t quite explain, this nostalgic piece never found its way into any of my three books. Maybe this unheralded poem will finally nudge me toward completing my fourth.
Where’s That Dream
I have seen the universe through to the stars beyond There is a deep darkness; she is gone. She is gone I saw her smile crack from the pain There was a sorrow, she caught it tomorrow
I have seen the moon through the burning sun Where is that planet she is walking on? I saw her eyes crying tears of sand Where is that beach she is lying on?
I have seen the ocean through the broken coral Where is that ship she is sailing on? I saw her body serene and frail Where are the ashes she is covered in?
I have seen the earth open, swallowing the multitude whole Where is that chasm she is falling through? I saw her gentle soul disappear out of sight Where is that secret haven she is flying to?
I have seen the land go through violent storms Where are the winds of time she is spread upon? I saw her heart, her love, for all of you and me Where is that dream she has left us to find?
Featured Image Above:The image is a photomontage of my computer desk, a Pandora Box, and my imaginary space craft, ‘ITMIMS’ (Ivor’s Time Machine In Micro Space)
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,“Email Overload,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Email Overload – Coffee House Writers
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in July 2022) is drawn from my third book, Until Eyes Hear Sound. It appears in Chapter 5: Observation, Until Eyes Hear Sound.
A Torn Thesaurus
With my fiddle and riddles Here in the middle Of this unopened universe Time spirals in reverse
Quills fly in from cyberspace As alien words unravel and interlace A torn thesaurus is my database I wonder Have I landed in the right place?
“There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in” … Leonard Cohen
“The sky cracked open for a heartbeat, and the light played its own soft melody.”
Through the Widening Crack
Twilight’s canopy of clouds eclipses the evening sky with an embracing violet shroud.
However, the squinting sunlight was silently trying to wave goodbye through the widening crack above the sun’s transient eye.
And there on nature’s colourful curtain, I saw columns of light ascend the nebulous mountain; then I wondered whether I was witnessing the world’s grand celestial pipe organ playing a lullaby to the purple night
At our Dome group meeting, Jen — our chairperson — said, “I’m not here next meeting, so we need to choose a theme for next month.” A few of us laughed, and someone replied, “Well, I’m Not Here sounds like a theme in itself.” And just like that, the idea settled over us, light as a wink.
The Geelong Library and Heritage Centre … affectionately known as The Dome.
This image shows someone holding three cups and the cups are made in the image of a woman’s face. The expression on the three cups are slightly different from each other.
I’m Not Here
I’m not here — I’m in limbo, behind a solitary glass window, there on the north side of the Dome; it stands out like a fairy’s magical home.
I’m not here, but I am somewhere high above the Gingko in the fresh air, where I hear the fairy Godmother’s vacant chair whisper haunting poetic quotes by Voltaire.
“Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” ~ Voltaire “The right to free speech is more important than the content of the speech.” ~ Voltaire “Many are destined to reason wrongly; others, not to reason at all; and others, to persecute those who do reason.” ~ Voltaire
And still, from that quiet window in the Dome, I’m not here — yet somehow feeling at home.
Somewhere between presence and absence, the music carries what words can’t quite hold.
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 