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.
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,“Uluru, Kakadu, Kathmandu, and Xanadu,” appears in the new issue. You can read it by following the link below. >> Uluru, Kakadu, Kathmandu, and Xanadu – Coffee House Writers
The journey begins — a lone bird rising through the misty avenue.
Twilight lifts its veil, a little pothole in the sky beginning to glow — and below it, this old July Birthday magpie rises, still not done with the day, or the many more days waiting beyond the horizon.
Goodnight, But Not Goodbye
The twilight clouds are alight, Mother Nature’s waving goodnight.
Levitating above the linen horizon’s misty eye, I see my pothole flickering in the sky.
But I know daytime is still my ally, and this old July magpie isn’t done yet — so loosen your black ties.
I’m cruising around on standby, and my celestial star will send me a lullaby when the moment is right to say goodbye.
And as the magpie rises — somehow above it all, that little pothole in the sky keeps glowing.
A small conversation with age itself — seventy‑five years in my bones now, and Frankie turning ten beside me, both of us learning how to age with a bit of grace and a bit of mischief, reminding us that growing old is just another way of staying present.
When I Am Old
If, I was young back in nineteen-sixty-one – no, when I am young again, without these strokes of pain down the other side of my brain
I will remember that day in November when Mum said, (with a cheeky grin), “Never marry a redhead.” Then Dad (who was a redhead) smiled and wisely told me “There’s always more fish in the sea, but be careful what you wish for beyond your front door.”
As I became a young man, I asked for a redhead’s hand. Alas, beyond the garden’s flowers, life is both sweet and sour.
Thereupon, my dear parents elected to be our loving warrants and held our hands above life’s deepening quicksand.
A piece of music for the quieter hours — for the moments when age speaks softly and reminds us how to stay present.
A bird doing somersaults in the afternoon sky is enough to set my thoughts spinning, too — though that might have something to do with my 75th birthday sneaking up on Monday. So for this Throwback Friday, I’ve dusted off and revised a poem from July 2019, a little night‑music piece full of twists, turns, and rolling dreams. Today’s bird photos feel like they’re joining in, tumbling through the page with me.
My Song Plays Through the Night (Revised)
I twist and roll over. A musical world whirls inside my head; my somersault of dreams rotates under my mattress. Upside down, rhythmical tiredness falls out of the seams. Words tumble around — nameless titles and endless tunes abound.
A bad moon’s returning, singing the blues over my empty town. I twist and roll over again; I’m back where I started. I hear my angel humming Hallelujah — you’re another year older.
Let my angel’s humming of Hallelujah carry us into another year.
Midmorning’s Rising Sun Gazing above the usual field of view, high into the cloudy stratosphere, I catch sight of a jetstream’s snowdrops falling from beyond the rising sun’s solar empyrean halo.
Twilight’s Setting Sun Gazing toward the hessian horizon, below the low misty atmosphere, I catch sight of an evanescent cashmere twilight which had serendipitously caught the setting sun’s solar empyrean halo.
Let the final light’s echo carry you from morning’s rise to twilight’s hush, and here’s the song that keeps the halo glowing a little longer.
