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Geof Spavins May 19
Bitters fade away
Golden brew soothes heavy souls
Joy in each small sip

Froth crowns the moment
Memories swirl like soft foam
Cheers spark a new dawn

Raise a glass tonight
Laughter echoes in soft clinks
Hope in every toast
Geof Spavins May 16
The family gathered, voices bright,  
In the steakhouse glow of amber light.  
Sizzling plates and stories shared,  
Love well-seasoned, deeply cared.  

The mother poured a glass of red,  
Softly nodding at words once said.  
The father carved the tender beef,  
A simple act, yet rich belief.  

Children whisper, napkins torn,  
Trading bites with giggles worn.  
Fizzy drinks, dripping fries,  
Magic dancing in their eyes.  

The grandpa chuckled, took a sip,  
Savouring time that tends to slip.  
For in the hum of knife and fork,  
Life was seasoned—bold, uncorked
Geof Spavins May 12
I was born in fire, cracked, burned, sealed.  
Scorched by fate, my essence peeled.  
No longer whole, no longer free,  
Yet now I wait - dark destiny.  

I drown in steam, in boiling deep,  
My whispers lost, my echoes weep.  
No hands will mourn, no voices cry,  
Yet still I serve, still I comply.  

A sip, a sigh, a fleeting thrill,  
I pass through lips, yet linger still.  
A phantom taste, a bitter spark,  
A sacrifice to fuel the dark.
  May 11 Geof Spavins
Kim Mason
What does this word mean to me?
It starts from long ago,
A different dimension
I question, ‘did it exist?’
The era of no mobile phones
Permed hair dos, ‘what was I thinking-and those glasses, yuk!’
‘Aha - Take on me-a reminder

A child of thirteen
Having older sisters had its downside.
They played mean
Giving me milk to drink,
And taking pride,
Then jumping on my stomach
as my back sinks
into the cold soil and the
Freshly mowed grass.
Then the scientific results -
They pass.
Milk trickles down my nostrils.
They laughed hysterically
And I sighed.

Then being tagged along with them and their boyfriends
Because they were told to look after me.
Gooseberry.

We used to go gooseberry picking with our parents
Yet this was ordered, no running, skipping or general play
My parents later split.
When we got home though, Mum made this into gooseberry pie,
I already taste the warm, juicy sweetness on the inside
With a crunch on the outside.
Drizzled with hot, sweet creamy custard poured on top.

Even then, being inside trapped my spirits,
Especially on a warm sunny day.
The woods were calling me
Exploring alone,
Finding alone,
Gooseberries
But then feeling the tummy ache.
Remember that Mum said to wash them first!
Not everything in life comes with a clean conscience
Choose carefully
If only i listened then,
what heartache would I save myself.

Yet those joys of being thirteen,
Then climbing trees,
Feeling proud as the sun shadows the path with branches.
Life filled my soul to perfection.
Innocence.
A glimpse of God where the sun echoed,
In spring
amongst the sounds of children playing in the woods,
Never growing weary
Keeping faith - my heart
Though it hurt
Now tasting the fruit
Poem
Geof Spavins May 6
In the concrete jungles, I rise - an echo among forgotten voices, bearing the scars of urban sorrow etched into the crumbling facades of life.

Each verse bears the marks of true struggle, the worn hands of workers, the tired eyes of those left dancing with shadows, their whispered histories woven into ink.

I walk the alleys of shattered dreams, where hope trembles like a frail ember, translating the stark cadence of hardship into raw, unyielding lines of truth.

The burden is heavy - a relentless gravity pulling me into the depths of worn stories, yet in each honest stanza, I find a spark, a subtle defiance that carves a path through despair.

For in this commitment to unvarnished reality, my pen becomes a bridge between silence and voice, and though the weight may press upon my spirit, it is the pulse of the oppressed that fuels my every word.

I will explore how everyday struggles forge art from hardship. What truths rest behind the façade of our city streets, and which emotions lie untold in the margins of our collective existence?
Geof Spavins May 4
Time rolls like a stream
Carving out life’s secret ways
Dawn whispers softly,
Moments heal our weary hearts
Time enfolds us in new light.
Tanka
Geof Spavins May 4
Silence, before the world has stirred,
I wander through a mist of dreams and whispered hopes,
A tender murmur in the cool, damp air,
Where every dewdrop cradles the promise of morning.
I inhale deeply, the scent of raw earth and possibility,
Feel the gentle pull of a day yet uncharted,
And wonder if you, too, need a lift this norming day.

The velvet dark retreats as dawn paints pastel hues,
An artist’s caress smoothing away the remnants of night.
The air, alive with magic, flows like an unseen river,
Carrying secrets from the far realms of slumber.
In this ephemeral space between shadow and light,
I find strength to set aside yesterday’s burdens,
Floating on the breath of "luft" that refreshes and renews.

There lies a sacred promise in the rising gold,
A call to each heart that dares to dream anew.
The silent language of morning sings in every ray,
Urging us to rise, to unfurl like blossoms after rain.
In these whispered minutes, the world transforms,
Becoming a canvas where hope and courage intertwine,
And the soul takes flight, buoyed by the airy hymn of life.

Across the horizon, where light meets ambition,
I glimpse reflections of all we dare aspire to be.
Every beam, every soft ray, a reminder:
We are born of stardust and dreams, fragile, infinite.
The "norming" day speaks not of constraint but rebirth,
Of reinventing ourselves with each inhalation,
And letting the wind of change carry us beyond familiar bounds.

Imagine the air as a guide, a gentle, constant friend,
That undresses the heavy garb of yesterday’s doubt,
Unfurling hidden layers, revealing the beauty within.
Each breath, a silent prayer of hope,
Each step forward, an act of defiant tenderness
Against the inertia of routine and the weight of yesterday,
A pledge to rise high on the wings of a revitalized soul.

Morning unfurls like a long-lost letter from the heart,
Each word inscribed in the quiet moments before the bustle.
There is a poetry in the soft cadence of your existence,
A blend of resilience and vulnerability that sings louder than any storm.
With every exhale, you release what no longer serves,
Breathe deeply, and let the bright air cleanse your spirit,
For the day, like a gracious friend, awaits your bold arrival.

In the labyrinth of light and shadow, you wander,
Searching for strands of meaning hidden in the gentle breeze.
And there, in the liminal space of early dawn,
The air itself speaks with the language of renewal,
Whispering of forgotten dreams, buried beneath layers of hesitation,
Yet eager to rise anew as you step beyond the threshold,
Carrying the soft, relentless promise of a fresh, unwavering "luft."

So let the rising sun be your guide in this norming day;
Allow the cool, shifting air to lift you from within,
Transforming challenges into stepping stones
And the quiet sighs of early morning into a symphony of hope.
Embrace each delicate, breath-held moment
As an invitation to become more, to bloom fiercely
Under the boundless canopy of a day reborn in light.

Now, as the morning crystallizes into golden hours,
Remember that you are a traveller in this vast expanse of wonder,
Crafting your own story with every tender breath,
Every beat of a heart that rises with the sun.
Let the wind carry away your doubts, and let your spirit soar,
For life, like the air, is free and infinite,
Ever inviting you to dance with the dawn, unbounded and alive.

In these verses, may you find your uplift, your solace,
A thick, luminous tapestry woven from threads of hope, duty, and desire.
So step into the day with open arms and a soul unburdened,
And let the soft, ethereal "luft" of morning lead you
Into realms where every moment is a promise,
Every breath a celebration,
And every heartbeat a testament to your enduring light.
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