where once was singing
a fallen wren’s nest baking
on sunny blacktop

When I was a boy,
I lived near wilderness,

and on cold, bittersweet,
windy-sky days
I sometimes ventured out by myself

to sit
and feel
and smell
the crisp wind,

and I could feel myself

in the trees,
in the sharp,
rotted-quartz rocks

and the red clay earth.

Type: Revelation / Integrity Binding

Effect: Unveils hidden truths, restores clarity, and binds words to their deepest intent. Especially potent in moments of doubt, deception, or emotional fog.

Verse Begins:

I do not pry.
I pull thread.
Not to expose,
but to unfurl instead.

Truth ain’t sharp
it’s soft and slow.
It hums beneath
what we think we know.

I speak not to judge,
but to join.
To braid the broken
into one line.

Tongue to tether,
heart to hand,
I cast from the place
where truths withstand.

No mask can hold
what rhythm reveals.
No lie survives
what silence heals.

So listen.
Let the hush unwind.
Let the woven word
be kind.

Verse Ends.

I want to be a hippie,
join a small commune,
set up my camp
way out in the woods,
near the back forty
& the railroad tracks.

I want to swim naked
with them pretty chicks,
braid natty dreads,
go tubing on the river,
make beeswax candles
& tie dyes.

I want weave dream catchers,
paint glitter on Venetian beads,
sing happy songs,
create new stars,
eat whole wheat bread
& make Tabouili salads.

I wanna dance,
circle the blazing fire,
shout out at the moon,
splash myself in patchouli,
smell ****-smoke in the air
& indulge in tantric things.

I don’t wanna
hurt anybody,
break any laws,
just wanna spread love,
blow kisses to butterflies,
ride double-rainbows
on magic carpets
& be a hippie.

I want to go to Romania,
split this vacuum,
fly jumbo
across the deep blue
into Bucharest.

I want to adopt a gypsy baby,
a fat one with olive skin,
one with Romany eyes,
cries all the time,
bangs its head
against the crib.

I want to be a saint,
make a difference
in at least one person's life.
I figured a gypsy baby
might be the most grateful.

Having another gypsy
as a parent
would certainly
be better than
a non-gypsy one.

I saw lot's of gold men
strutting out in the desert,
spinning themselves
like drunken madmen
warped on internal-sin.
They fell at your feet
like arcade-magic,
the way you want it.

But you gave it away
to the whole team.
So sultry & wanton,
cravings, cravings, cravings,
screaming such sexiness,
scheming your selfish desires,
another everybody's girl,
saving nothing &
not much left to give.

by Geof the Cheeky Breakfast Bard

I cracked beneath the morning light,
A fragile shell, not built for fight.
But heat was kind, the pan was slow,
And flipped me soft, with golden glow.

The spatula, a gentle shove,
Reminded me of push and love.
No need to scramble every part,
Some things are best with tender heart.

The salt came next, a grain of grace,
To season doubt I couldn’t face.
And pepper, bold, with specks of sting,
For truths that bite but still must cling.

I watched the yolk, still whole, still bright.
A sun that held its shape through night.
Though life may burn and plates may clatter,
I learned: stay soft, and you still matter.