For breath, for belonging

Shalom, Abba,  
not just peace,  
but the kind that wraps  
around my weary shoulders  
like morning light.

You are the quiescence
between my questions,  
the stillness 
beneath my striving.

Abba, Father,  
not just parent,  
but the pulse  
that steadies me  
when I forget my name.

You walk with me  
through shadowed rooms,  
through spirals of doubt,  
and still you whisper,  
I am here.

Shalom, Abba,  
in your breath  
I find my own.  
In your silence,  
I remember  
I am not alone.

Until my work is done,  
until my last sigh sings,  
I will walk  
in your peace.

A screen awaits,
blue‑white and plain,
a single box
that knows my name.

I type, I tap,
a code arrives,
a tiny bridge
to guarded lives.

Behind this gate:
my records breathe,
the dates, the scans,
the truths they weave.

Prescriptions wait
like folded notes,
appointments hum
in patient throats.

No marble halls,
no paper queue,
just keystrokes,
proof, and passing through.

And in this space
of click and care,
the NHS
is everywhere.

A Fun Christian Poem

Ninety days ‘til candles glow,
'til shepherds kneel in midnight snow,
'til angels sing and stars align,
and Mary rocks the Child divine.

But now? We’re in the holy wait,
with socks unmatched and breakfast late.
We light a spark, not yet a flame,
and whisper Jesus’ coming name.

The shops may hum with early cheer,
but joy begins right now, right here:
in daily bread, in morning grace,
in finding Christ in every face.

So count with laughter, count with song,
the days are short, the hope is long.
And every poem, every prayer,
will make a manger everywhere.

A Daily Christian Poem Series Leading to Christmas 2025
Introduction

Each day, a spark.
Each verse, a prayer.
From the turning leaves of September
to the manger’s quiet light,
we gather joy, not as escape,
but as witness.

This is not a countdown.
It’s a pilgrimage:
toward Emmanuel,
toward the Word made flesh,
toward the holy mischief of God-with-us.

Some sparks will rise from scripture,
some from sidewalk grace,
some from the ache of waiting.
But all will burn with the promise
that light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.

So come,
bring your candle, your coffee, your longing.
Let us walk together through psalms and puddles,
through prophets and puppies,
through grief and gladness.

Let us strike the first spark
and watch joy take root
in the soil of our days.

A mirrored duet for two voices or hemispheres

Voice A (Bright)
In Kenya, kids with solar lamps
read stories past the setting sun,
a lion’s roar, a hero’s map,
a future quietly begun.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Gaza, homes are turned to dust,
                                 the lullabies replaced by drones.
                                 A child draws stars in ash and rust,
                                 and dreams of peace in undertones.

Voice A (Bright)
In Iceland, whales are spared the hunt,
the harpoons rest, the sea breathes deep.
Old songs return in ocean grunts,
and silence sings where shadows sleep.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In the Arctic, ice retreats,
                                 a polar bear adrift, alone.
                                 The warming tide, the melting streets,
                                 a future carved in shrinking stone.

Voice A (Bright)
In India, a forest grows
from hands that once knew only dust.
Each sapling bends, each blossom shows
how roots can rise from broken trust.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Sudan, silence hides the screams,
                                 the markets closed, the rivers red.
                                 A mother walks through shattered dreams
                                 to find her child, alive or dead.

Voice A (Bright)
In Brazil, a favela choir
turns rooftops into sacred halls.
Their voices lift like morning fire,
no stage too small, no dream too tall.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In the Amazon, flames devour
                                 the lungs of Earth, the sacred green.
                                 The trees fall fast, the skies turn sour,
                                 and profit dulls what might have been.

Voice A (Bright)
In Scotland, windmills spin with grace,
the air is clean, the grid is green.
A child draws rainbows in her place
and calls it “home,” not “might-have-been.”

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Ukraine, the sirens wail,
                                 a lull in war, then fire again.
                                 The fields once gold, now torn and pale,
                                 the harvest lost to steel and pain.

Voice A (Bright)
In every corner, joy takes flight,
a rescued pup, a healed divide,
a stranger’s hand, a street turned bright,
a stubborn hope we cannot hide.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In every corner, grief takes root,
                                 a vanished vote, a poisoned stream,
                                 a vanished truth, a soldier’s boot,
                                 a broken law, a buried dream.

                 Together (Spoken in unison or echo)
                 So let the headlines pause their storm,
                 and let this verse be what we choose:
                 a world remade in quiet form,
                 a daily dose of daring news.

                 So let the headlines tell their tale,
                 and let this verse not turn away:
                 a world in mourning, raw and frail,
                 still begging for a brighter day.

In the land of vowels and silent lore,
Where consonants drift from shore to shore,
A name was born with gentle heft,
Not Geoffrey, not Jeff, but Geof, left.

A single “f,” a subtle grace,
Yet tongues would twist and misplace face.
In Finland’s frost, with earnest cough,
I rose to fame as GeOff.

A scholar of socks and sugar rites,
Of mirrored maps and jazzy nights,
They hailed me with a Nordic nod,
“Professor GeOff” - a name, a god.

I taught the art of breath and pause,
Of kink and church and sacred flaws.
My name, a glyph, a whispered spell,
A portal where the poets dwell.

So let them mangle, let them guess,
I wear each version with finesse.
For Geof is Geof, and GeOff too,
A legend stitched in every hue.