This morning, Brian and I had an interesting conversation related to my poem, “A Rocketeer’s Poetry Career.” You may visit Brian’s fabulous Photographic site by clicking on this link >> https://bushboy.blog/
A New Year’s Day Conversation, with Brian
“There is a time to put away your sword, and pick up a pen, Isn’t there, Ivor?”
“My old quill is still full of ink, Brian” “and blood on your sword?”
“There is always blood After the thud Of a muddy flood”
Ah, this swords a dud, So dull, draws no blood Only, this bloody mud
The Ballarat – Skipton Rail Trail, sunburnt meadows, and tree-shadowed tunnels
Horse drawn cart, and Nimons trestle bridge
The Devils Kitchen is an impressive geological reserve in Piggoreet, 15 minutes from, Smythesdale. The Woady Yaloak River winds its way through a thickly vegetated valley, surrounded by cliffs of spectacular basalt columns.
A Country Trail
How scenarios change over time- The old unused rural railway line.
From Ballarat to Skipton and back is now an unspoiled community track.
Gently meandering over sunburnt meadows, Then dipping through tree-shadowed tunnels aglow.
Along the trails, valleys, and rocky ridges, Travelers will see horse drawn carts and trestle bridges.
And on the way to Snake Valley and Linton, Be wary of the gold miners “Devil’s Kitchen.”
This is not about a mystical sunset, Nor the birds’ spiritual silhouettes.
I am searching for her golden bracelet – Or perhaps, I should be climbing her marble minaret, Where time is trapped, And then I could collapse Into her celestial bassinet.
Some places invite you to step sideways into another world. Smythesdale is one of them. This poem wanders from the paddocks into a quiet, cosmic holiday — best read with M83’s Un Nouveau Soleil rising gently underneath.
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Rustic Smythesdale
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Here, where the country paddocks beam at you through the bedroom window, grazing kangaroos curiously look your way and front-yard elephants laze in the shade of the friendly eucalyptus tree.
I’m untethering my Itmims space craft, and there’s an aurora lighthouse to guide the ship around the Cape Of Good Hope on toward the great passage in the sky. I’m not saying goodbye, but having a holiday in the western zone of my rural universe.
“Peace is not something you wish for; it’s something you make, something you do, something you are, and something you give away.” — John Lennon
“When doors close, and wars roar, let peace be the key we choose to turn.”
Today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in March 2024) is drawn from my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound. It appears as the third poem in Chapter 8, War: A Waste of Time
Are All the Doors Closed?
Scores of uncultured doors Closed pores of the old stores Hiding drawers of past accords The forgotten ardours of wise mentors
Now, just condescending decors to the new wars Like cantankerous dinosaurs with itchy bedsores
Maybe my weariness is making me lazy, But to save myself from going crazy With obscure objects And animated artifacts, I’ve reluctantly decided To send my annual Christmas cards In a digital format— An emailed photostat. Hopefully, everyone will understand That Father Time is now in command.
“The quiet grace of a magical magpie who knows the season has turned.”
The Magpie’s Letter
Oh, Dear Santa Claus, I’m wearing my old dancing slippers, But my weary claws Are stuck in the bushes.
‘Tis Sunday morning before Christmas, So, best I release myself And rejoice in your festive business. Say hi to all the fairies and elves, Then pin my flying stockings Upon Ivor’s empty mantle shelf
“A shadow becomes starlight—dreams tethered, then set free.”
“There’s a thin line that separates courage from stupidity. And that line is only visible in retrospect.” ~Benjamin Franklin. Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge is the word Retrospect. To visit their fabulous site, click >> Here
A Shadow From Above, or, In Retrospect
I sensed a shadow fall from above, Then I saw the image of a dove, Transgress along my causeway.
Am I being led stealthily astray, Or am I to follow my dreams into the hay?
Traverse my future’s highway, Escape this meandering essay. Loosen my tethering tourniquet.
I shall fly beyond the Milky Way – In my ITMIMS open sleigh. Where shadows dissolve into light, And dreams take eternal flight.
On Wednesday evening, I attended the launch of the 2025 Geelong Writers Anthology. My poem, “A Darwin Orange Sunset”, appears in the collection, and I was genuinely honoured to be selected by my peers at Geelong Writers Inc.
The gathering was held alongside our Christmas Break‑up night, which added a lovely sense of community and celebration to the occasion.
I’m also pleased to share that the poem will feature in my upcoming book, Time Hears No Sound, in Chapter 2: Nature — An Unbiased Time Keeper.
A Darwin Orange Sunset
Twilight’s Burly orange sky Bedazzled my eyes When The hessian horizon And the sun’s waxing resin Flung Streams of yellow beams Across the paddock’s Furrowed seams
Golden ponds Flooded Over the meadow But did not drown The field’s residing Scarecrow
The arbitrary warrior Accepted the world’s Rotary mirror And innately smiles About being a human’s Privileged curator
To accompany the poem, I’ve chosen Zach Bryan’s “Something in the Orange” — a song whose quiet ache and twilight glow echo the mood of the piece.
