How human it is to speak with a drawl
to define and expound and interpret it all,
naming objects and assigning a label
placing a meaning and fixing it stable.
Is it really that thing that we named, overweening
or is it's existence outside of our meaning.
A teacup exists in a ritual of convention
a utilitarian Chinese invention.
But it's also a collection of bone dust and clay
the function transforming the substance this way,
the matter and molecule existed before
and after it's broken it's bone dust once more.
We build a construction of nouns in our head,
the meaning assigns a convenient "instead"
As the vessel returns to it's matter
language and labels and meaning will scatter.
Impermanence is both fickle and cruel
but in a grand triumph of human renewal.
we impose hope in our order once more
pretending that chaos bends to our lore.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 9:21 AM UTC
A fiction is woven in silence
the worn out shoes at the door
a house rule observed in compliance
they're neglected and piled up once more
discarded yet thrown all together
worn in but stretched to the sole
it creates a softer creased leather
but odour combined takes it's toll
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 11:57 PM UTC
What is the meaning of meaning you ask
As if understanding could even unmask
The word described by the word is just cagey
And the search for it, well, that’s pretty new agey
Perhaps it’s the happiness, before we focus on dread
Our beauty that’s fleeting before we are dead
It hums in the silence, it leaps through the air,
It thrives in knowing — and not knowing — it’s there.
Yesterday whispered, “You’re nothing at all,”
Today stretches forward, a tentative call.
Tomorrow might gift me a torchlight, a spark,
Or leave me still wandering blind in the dark.
It’s both the climb and the ache in our knees.
It’s both the summers warmth and the winter’s freeze
It shouts in our triumph, but it hides when we lose,
An whisper of a mumble that will only confuse.
The search for the question, or the answer’s pursuit,
An enigma of itself that will never compute
A cosmic conundrum, a riddle, a game—
the meaning of meaning is one and the same.
Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 2:32 AM UTC
Operation Overlord - 156,000
British forces at Normandy - 61,000
Troops on Gold Beach -24,000
Troops in the 50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division - 18,000
Troops in 8th Battalion - 800
two-inch mortar team - 2
Troop at war within a war - 1
Among tens of thousands ultimately it was one on one,
fighting with self, the unholy fear that sat undigested
with the bile and ration biscuit.
My Grandad survived this
He came back, yes, but he was not the same man
He scrambled ashore under the crack of mortar fire
and the scream of steel against sand.
The war took away chunks of him—pieces he could never get back. Something had changed in the way he stood,
the way he looked at the world,
as though he carried an invisible weight
that no one else could see.
At first, his laughter would still bubble up,
his humour slicing through the tension of everyday life,
as sharp and wry as it had always been.
Yet behind the jokes, there was a shadow,
a far-off echo of horror, the smell of salt and explosive,
the faces of comrades lost in moments too fleeting for words.
He buried it all, carefully,
under layers of quiet strength and fatherly love.
His family would never need to bear it;
it was his burden alone.
He returned to the vagaries of civilian life,
to conversations about the weather and pansies,
to cups of tea and headaches,
to the small joys and irritations that make up a life.
But there were nights when the past surged up like a tide,
relentless and suffocating. In those moments, he would sit alone in the dark, *** end in his hand gripping his knee,
and wrestled with the ghosts of Normandy.
He never spoke of it to his children.
Not the fear. Not the chaos.
Not the image of himself kneeling over a mortar
with trembling hands,
fighting not just the enemy but the primal terror of death.
Instead, he built a life for those he loved,
pouring himself into the role of father and grandfather,
filling the silence with stories
of building inspections and seaside holidays.
His silence about the war was not an omission but a shield—
an act of love to protect his family
from horrors they should never have to know.
And in that silence, there was heroism too,
a quiet bravery in choosing to carry the unthinkable alone.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 12:00 AM UTC
Your grand memorial, all engraved,
Your history gilded, iniquity paved.
But each new eye who stops to read,
will know the less your wrongful deed.
"Erected here for future’s view,
By friends to make you shine anew."
The weight of grief, the tears once shed,
offset by a plaque that says you are dead.
Still, neath this stone, to make it clear,
Your marker says, “Yep, I was here.”
For all your fear of being erased,
In stone, your ego seems misplaced.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 9:10 AM UTC
Our group meeting, a chance to debrief,
a chance to chant slogans and share core belief.
We cry, “We’re one!” but quietly brood,
Each schism is wrapped up in tight solitude.
Our minds are a chorus but our hearts are askew,
United in name, but divided in view.
We strengthen our voices, but fewer will hear,
The closer we stand, the more we strike fear.
Why not a spark—a more gentle grace,
more thoughtful of others, more softer of face.
Our group, once splintered, could find repair,
Not as a tribe, but through bonds of care.
Groups may stumble, but our hearts still align,
Through trials we polish, like stone into shine.
Our group can live through this, together with pride
Our fellowship mended, holds stronger inside
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 11:56 PM UTC
A mist hung low, in a thick wet cloud,
clinging in silence, enshrouded and cowed.
The path was narrow, the light was thin,
Yet I took a step to venture in.
For what awaits my weary soul,
But to reckon with the shadows' toll?
The forest called, its roots ran deep,
Where wounded hearts in silence weep.
My first tree stood, a fragile frame,
Its bark as pale as moonlit flame.
A whisper rose, a memory’s sting,
Of sharp words said in careless spring:
"I can't love you," my immature voice rang,
A sentence sharp as cold winter's fang.
Her eyes welled, with a silent plea,
But my pride had spurned her company.
The sapling trembled, its roots were aquake,
The weight of all my words, my mistake.
Beneath its bark, her voice remained,
A tender ache literally ingrained.
The trees leaned close as if to know,
The weight of guilt I rarely show.
A forest of regret now my daystar
and in each tree I had carved a scar.
This forest grows from seeds of shame,
Each planted by a once known name.
The soil drinks up the tears they'd shed,
I selfishly withered the leaves instead.
My guilt was full, my heart a drum,
I rashly imagined my reckoning done.
But deeper in ancient trees stood full grown
They called out to me in an unnerving tone
A gnarled root stock with bark weather-worn
Stood as a marker of promises torn.
the soil was loosened by roots that had spread
and the memory it shared filled me with dread
"I'll wait for you," her voice sincere,
A promise carved, yet I drew near—
I turned away, her trust betrayed,
And watched as her faith began to fade
The gnarled bark bore every sigh,
Each passing year, her hope ran dry.
And now the roots encircle my shame,
Whispering softly her unspoken name.
The younger me, was cold and self-centred,
and distant, aloof and sometimes ill tempered
“This tree’s not mine!” I protested in shame,
But the guilt spoke up in my head all the same:
It shouted at me "It's not only yours",
It's a shrine that is shared,
You could have avoided it,
If only you'd cared.”
Each tree I passed, a tale it spun,
tangling others in regrets I'd begun.
A shopkeeper's sigh, a heavy glance,
A friendship I'd lost like it hadn't a chance.
Each life I'd brushed, with a careless act,
Had planted roots deep I couldn’t retract.
Branches twisted by the past out of reach.
This was the lesson the trees had to teach
For every root that stretches is your test,
And every scar can be healed with rest.
The forest had whispered, forgiving and kind,
“Your footfalls mark lasts, but then so does time.”
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
By Listening We hear,
but often forget—
The fragility of half murmured ideas
signal lost in a tide of noise.
Talking overshadows listening,
Loud, brash, and always there.
listening creates by transforming.
A friend listens,
and a conversation
Turns to something extraordinary.
We roar, we scream, we sing,
But listening eludes description—
its shape unclear until all words are heard
What if we thought
of ourselves as listeners?
compliant, unresisting
designed to receive the world?
Would it change us?
Would our own language then expand
to hold the weight of both
silence and sound?
cosmos made clearer
by this unseen gift.
Imagine yourself a receiver of grace,
Open to everything,
even the dark matter of thought.
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 3:52 AM UTC
I welcome your avatar, to eternity's nest,
A programmable haven, where none shall find rest.
No hunger, no thirst, no tedious milieu,
Just infinite hours after mortal adieu.
It’s all up to you . . . , what games shall we play?
What tasks will endure the endless array?
For Aeons stretch long, and novelty fades,
What joy could remain in such stagnant parades?
If time is unbound and death is no more,
Could pleasures grow richer, or simply a bore?
Perhaps you'll go mad on your own, all alone,
Or beg for the silence of the endless unknown.
But before you do; You may exit with grace,
Deleting the program, depart from this place.
Before you decide, consider and find,
An end to eternity might be better aligned.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 11:22 PM UTC
What devilry is this, Consciousness keen,
That tempts us to see what ought be unseen?
A plague upon survival's ilk,
This thinking beast now wrapped in silk.
No longer content to forage and breed,
now dabbles in lofty thoughts of need.
Hope . . . , you deceitful ***** how you mock
Promising grace while hurrying the clock.
To question, to yearn, to toss and to flail,
The folly to search and drink from the grail.
Yet, mad hope persists, to soothe our lot,
and reason abandons the mind it begot.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 9:45 PM UTC