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Ignatius Writealot


Sydney, NSW, Australia

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A Voice


Ignatius Writealot

A voice can capture, Its tones beguile,
the mind of man to linger.
He'll answer soft, with words of love,
to beg her chant continue.
The sounds she mouths, and accents given,
in her communication,
To you her friend her thoughts bestowed,
her blessing most especial.

Your needs are such, your heart you'll trade.
in quiet and friendly barter.
For even greater doses of,
her trusting loving chatter.

Her laugh, her sighs, the harmony,
that peaceful special cadence.
Of moments shared, and memories made,
these tributes that she's giving.
Accept them, prize them always as,
the vibrant gems of living.



Ignatius Writealot

I see your eyes; your hair; your smile,
My heart compresses time.
Your wry unbidden love of life,
Invokes response from mine.

I see the pain; the joy; the laughs,
With which you greet each day.
Compassion brought to bear by you,
For each who comes your way.

Bright treasure; gift; a butterfly,
To burst upon this earth.
Providing love's enlightenment,
For those who heed your words.

So spin; so weave; this bright cocoon,
This skein that gathers time.
That we your friends may share with you,
Your wisdom and your smile.

A Winding Road


Ignatius Writealot

Curving road, compliant van.
tank that’s full, going far.
Scything lights, clear white line.
leaving trucks, trailers behind.

Southern moon, hangs in a sky.
peppered with stars, night birds fly.
Streams of on-coming, dip bright lights.
CB snarls, "Come around she’s right".

Heading north, coastal towns.
locals chat on "Truckers’ Band".
Truckers flirt, local "YL’s".
out of range, faint goodbyes.

Heading inland, trucks start to wind.
now it’s me who’s left behind.
Convoy forms, in the now cloudy night.
road once more, begins to climb.

Trucks again, left behind.
now here comes, the downhill run.
Trucks again, come around.
moving ahead, on uphill grind.

I key the mike, 'Breaker' their chat,
ask where they’re bound, ‘lickitty splat’.
Mother, the leader, bids me G’day.
"heading north, all the way".

"’Little wheels van’, let me hasten to say,
there’s cows on this road, as often as ne’er.
Be our guest, take the old 'rocking chair'!"
"What is the chair?" I ventured to ask.

"It’s second in line, where you will be safe."
ease up a bit, and I will come round,
Tuck in behind me, follow me down".
"yip yip," said mother, "now that is the spot."

"You can just set there, I’ll do the work."
And so we travelled, mile upon mile.
The whole living convoy, tucked in behind.
Drivers chatter, joke, skite, and laugh.

The night sped by, in good-humoured chaff.
"Yip yip," said Mother, "now here’s drum.
The rest of this troop, never has come.
North of the ‘Hume’, and these roads are thin".

"So sit there behind me, I’ll give you a shout.
You sneak out around me, and flatten her out.
There’s cuttings ahead, where wide ones can't pass.
Unless they’re hard, on the side to be safe".

"As you move forward, just give us a hoot.
count off each ‘big wheels’, comes into the ‘Chute’!"
Feeling important, I wound up the hill,
easily passed him, and sped between walls.

Each time an oncoming, ‘big wheels’ did roar.
Towards my convoy, I gave out the call!
"One in the Chute! I’m followed by nine."

"Thanks good buddy!" the ‘South-bounder’ replied.
"Over my shoulder, they’re holding a squall!"
And so I called off, big wheels or small.
Before very long, ran into that squall.

Slipped back to my place, in the old rocking chair.
Eyes glued to tail lamps, that led me with care.
Out from the rainstorm, and back to the coast.
With laughter and chatter, ran down to the lights.

Truck stop at Lismore, coffee and toast.
Now at last meeting, all of the blokes.
Thank ‘Mother’ quietly, for his friendly school,
Do this run alone? I'd be the fool

Refreshed, re-assembled, sped through the night,
multi-lane highway, smoothing our flight.
Mother, the courteous, greeted on sight,
legion South-bounders, now passing by.

"G’day ‘Skinny Dawg’," he greeted a coach,
fled through the cane fields, thundering North.
"Good Morning 'Cane Toad'", to passing cane trucks,
hurrying empty, towards a day’s work.

At last to the outskirts, of Brisbane we came.
"And tell me young feller, where are you bound?"
I’m sure you can picture, my present plight.
I didn’t expect to arrive over-night.

"I’ll have to stop somewhere, and get me a map.
To show me in detail, just where I’m at!
I’m heading to a factory, in ‘Eagle Farm’.
Where my boss waits Monday, for this little load."

"No need young feller! listen up you guys.
We’re hanging a right, at the next set of lights".
"We’re squiring 'good buddy', to old ‘Eagle Farm’,
To drop him off neat-like, all safe and sound."

And so it was, on that strange autumn night.
A ten-piece convoy, ground through the town.
Slid past the racecourse, in a swathe of light,
Continuing on, and faded from sight.

I stood waving, to my passing friends,
Thankful for company, friendship though brief.
Then curled up to sleep, back of the van,
Still feeling the passing, this wonderous land.

Often on the ‘Hume’, I listen for sounds,
The ‘Yip Yip’ from ‘Mother’, as he winds up his band.
Who trustingly follow, their leader their friend,
North to the cane-fields, to convoy again.

The Sea


Ignatius Writealot

To love the sea; is to love the sky,
which one more pleasing to the eye?
Your eyes have shades of both,
and yet; your love is indeterminate.

Will you endure and love me still?,
your smile remain and be mine till.
Both sea and sky their due fulfil,
and bring another day.

I'd scarce contain my joy to see,
another day by this same sea.
With your soft eyes reflecting skies,
and laughter that is only mine.

How can this sea; how can this sky,
stay here and live; each night to die?
They need each other; they meet you see!