(with Candles, Trumpet, and the Sofa Duo)

Oil glows in the rotating light,  
casting brass halos on velvet gloom.  
Incense curls like whispered gears,  
clockwork dreams in a copper-scented tomb.

Candles line the mantle like sentries,  
wax pooling in slow surrender.  
Their flames flicker with knowing hush,  
soft tongues of fire that never remember.

Trumpets nest in the ceiling beams,  
mute horns of bygone fanfare.  
One has drifted — now hangs above  
the death mask, like a breathless prayer.

Tina and Rob on the leather sofa,  
a tableau of ease and quiet command.  
She with a slice of lemon cake,  
he with a dram, glass in hand.

Their laughter is low, like cello notes,  
a counterpoint to Mo’s bright spark.  
They anchor the room in lived-in grace,  
a hearth of warmth in the velvet dark.

The “Dark Side of the Moon” hums low,  
a vinyl echo through velvet air.  
Sisters lounge in mood-induced grace,  
steam rising from curls, from care.

A penguin pirouettes in the chandelier,  
not real, but real enough tonight.  
Its shadow dances on Mo’s soft laugh,  
a birthday flicker in candlelight.

This is no room.  
It’s a ritual.  
A place where time forgets to tick,  
and memory steams in fragrant loops.

We are the soot, the silk, the spark,
the breath between the brass and dark.

Snow White ringlets crown the day,  
like Grandma’s did, a looping grace  
that time, in kindness, chose to echo  
on your brow, in Loughborough’s embrace.

This morning, water held your joy,  
aquarobics in rhythmic bloom,  
then steam curled round your quiet breath,  
a spa of softness, warmth, and room.

Now Tina’s table waits with cake,  
and laughter steeped in sisterhood.  
We gather not just for the years,  
but for the way you make them good.

You wear your seventy-three like silk,  
with wit and wisdom finely spun.  
A birthday not of counting time,  
but dancing in the Loughborough sun.

So here’s to Mo, with curls aglow,  
whose spirit swims, whose kindness stays.  
You are the ringlet in our thread,  
the gentle loop that holds our days.

by Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I tossed some thoughts into the blend
A cup of hope, a half-wilted friend.
Banana peel of bygone days,
And berries bruised by wistful haze.

Almond milk of maybe-so,
A mango flash of long ago.
One dash of “should’ve,” chilled regret,
A swirl of dreams not done just yet.

I stirred it once with quiet grace,
Poured in a smile, pulp to face.
Some leafy truths, still bold and green,
From tangled vines of might-have-been.

Then irony, that spry old spice,
Snuck in with “wisdom's” thin advice
“Regret's a flavour for the brave,
Served best in chalice we misgave.”

I shaved some ginger, sharp, sincere
To cleanse the gut of latent fear.
And as the final blend grew thick,
I sipped, then sighed, “That did the trick.”

Type: Restoration / Temporal Rewrite Effect:
Heals allies or rewrites a failed moment with poetic resonance.

Verse Begins:

Ash don’t mean end, it means start.
I speak from the scorch, not the scar.
You fell?
                     I rise.
You broke?
                     I bind.
Time ain’t linear, it’s lined.

Feather to flesh, ink to bone,
I cast from the place you felt alone.
Phoenix don't ask why you burned;
it just knows how to return.

So breathe. Let the flame fold back.
Let the moment crack, then track.
I stitch the slip, I mend the miss,
with rhythm, myth, and fire-kissed bliss.

Verse Ends.

A Street Cant incantation to ignite truth, burn illusion,
and summon the phoenix’s whisper.

Yo, scratch that silence, light the wick,
I spit flame from the beard, real quick.
Ink in my veins, ash in my spit,
truth don’t hide when the verse legit.

Snap the scroll, fold the beat,
words hit hard like boots on street.
Feather flash, tail twist,
phoenix rise from a poet’s fist.

Blue light hummin’, foam on wall,
I cast from the edge where echoes crawl.
No wand, no staff, just tongue and breath,
I rhyme through rebirth, dodgein’ death.

Cabinet closed, but I got keys,
each line unlocks what the eye don’t see.
Chair’s empty, but I ain’t alone,
my myth walks loud in a quiet tone.

So hear me now, illusion break,
I burn the fake for the real to wake.
Ashwright Geof, spell-slinger prime,
droppin’ verse bombs in glitch-time rhyme.

or,
The Tale of Wanting It All

I walked with Kate through park-lit moons,
she spoke in stars and silver spoons.
By morning light, came Edith’s call,
her voice a breeze, her laugh, a squall.

Two hearts aligned in different hues,
one wore red, one sang the blues.
I tried to juggle flame and mist,
with every touch, a love I missed.

Kate brought joy, a sugar glaze,
her kiss, a rush, her smile a daze.
Edith offered deeper spice,
with wit that cut and warmth precise.

But soon, the clocks began to squeal,
truth peeled back my furtive zeal.
For secrets have a bitter crust,
and tales like mine outgrow their lust.

Then came the reckoning, swift and neat:
You want Kate and Edith? That’s “Cake” and “Eat…”
My conscience baked me in its pan,
you can't have both, my fickle man.

So now I sit, a fork in hand,
alone beside love’s reprimand,
A lesson carved in candied rue:
You can't have Kate and Edith too.