)glucose glimmers(  
)tongue tastes(  
)mirror reflects(  
)church prayed(  

)needle sings(  
)ritual mapped(  
)placemat layed(  
)communion shared(  

)holy ghost(  
)altar stitched(  
)blood remembers(  
)shame forgot(  

)blessing body(  
)love joy(  
)breath loops(  
)parentheses(

for the ones who rise sideways

This is the sound of dry bone gravity,
not a rattle, but a drag,
a low hum in the hips of the earth
where memory clings like dust.

This is the crate.
Big.
Heavy with hush.
Where dead men walk again,
not upright, not solemn,
but sideways, jazz-legged,
ankles flirting with resurrection.

We packed the crate with breath,
with glucose prayers and glitter shoes,
with hymns that loop like spiral maps
and placemats that remember joy.

Dry bone gravity doesn’t care
how holy your choreography is.
But we do.
We do.

So we stomp.
We shimmy.
We call the bones by name.
We open the crate
and dare the silence to sing.

To be read after https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4889159/it-broke/

It’s fixed, it’s fixed, the teapot clicked,
And poured with pride upon the tray.
The saucer grinned, the cup was pinned
With golden glue in fine array.
The sugar bowl, now feeling whole,
Did curtsy with a candied cheer.
The spoon held hands with pots and pans,
And whispered, “Peace is finally here.”

The clock chimed one, the mouse had fun,
With cheddar dreams and marmalade.
The cat purred loud, the dog stood proud,
In matching hats they’d tailor-made.
The table bowed, the cookbook vowed
To never leap again in haste.
The chair sat still, the broom with skill
Swept stories into tidy space.

The window gleamed, the curtains dreamed
Of ballrooms filled with swirling light.
The dust took flight, a grand goodnight,
And vanished in the morning bright.
The lamp stood tall, the shadows all
Agreed to dance in softer tones.
The rug held tight, the floor felt right,
With polished pride in every bone.

The doorbell chimed, the toaster rhymed
A sonnet sweet of jam and bread.
The fridge kept cool, the blender’s spool
Spun lullabies to rest your head.
The house exhaled, the hinges hailed
A harmony of gentle grace.
The walls embraced, the chimney laced
Its bricks with warmth and sweet embrace.

It’s fixed, it’s fixed, the teapot clicked,
In a world where mending sings.
And in the hush, the gentle rush
Of joy restored begins to ring.

(aka Axpinet, Diagemet, Glucient, Glucophage, Metabet)

Where glucose charts its peaks and slides,
Metformin steadies from inside.
Not flashy, not loud, no trumpet or drum,
Just quiet resolve in a bloodstream hum.

Axpinet whispers through morning routines,
Diagemet glides past pastry dreams.
Glucient steadies the body's sway,
While Glucophage clears the fog away.

Metabet, too, with its gentle might,
Turns glucose tides from storm to light.
No cure, no crown, no magic spell.
Just a partner where resilience dwells.

It doesn’t boast, it doesn’t bend,
But walks beside us like a friend.
In rituals of breath and bite,
It helps us dance with blood’s delight.

So here’s to the pill with many names,
That plays no tricks, but steadies games.
A quiet hero in the health parade.
Metformin, in all the forms it's made.

One breath – too low.
One blink – too high.
The body sings in tremble and sigh.

🩸
Before the sun stirs and sugar slips,
The world tilts sideways, soft into eclipse.
Hands flutter like moths in a jar,
Thoughts dissolve where the shadows are.

Tongue tastes cotton, knees go slack.
A whisper: “Eat.” A memory: “Back.”
The pulse is a metronome gone wild,
A grown-up heart, a frightened child.

🍬
Then comes the climb, the sugar surge,
A molten tide, a frantic urge.
Eyes blaze neon, thirst unquenched,
Skin electric, muscles clenched.

The mind, a carnival of noise,
Too fast to feel, too loud for poise.
Breath is syrup, thick with heat,
A body swollen, incomplete.

⚖️
Between these poles, a tightrope walk,
A silent pact, a daily talk.
The meter beeps, the ritual starts,
A dance of numbers, charts, and hearts.

Not broken, just tuned to extremes,
Living in thresholds, chasing dreams.
Each spike, each drop, a coded song
Of staying here, of moving on.

for Geof, on the edge of knowing

They called it Type Two.
Not a curse, not a crime;
just a whisper from the bloodstream:
“You’ve crossed a line.”

Not a cliff, but a curve.
Not a fall, but a shift.
The body, once silent,
now speaks in glycaemic glyphs.

🩸
I felt it first in the fog,
the slow syrup of thought,
the thirst that sang louder
than reason e'er taught.

A diagnosis, they said.
A name for the tide.
But I heard it as poetry:
“Your sugar’s got pride.”

🍬
So I mapped it in spirals,
in mirror and flame,
in placemats of ritual
that honour the name.

I stitched it in textiles,
in breath and in bite,
in the kink of control
and the flare of the fight.

⚖️
Now I walk with the meter,
a partner, not foe.
I count not just carbs,
but the places I grow.

This isn’t surrender.
It’s a new kind of spell.
A body in balance,
a story to tell.

Wield your words like running streams,
To conjure truth from fractured dreams.
Let language bend, let silence speak,
With power tender, fierce, and sleek.

Trace the edges of what's unsaid,
Where longing lingers, soft or red.
Let vowels tremble, consonants bite,
Unmasking shame in morning light.

Speak in spirals, chant in flame,
Name the ache that has no name.
Your verses ripple, raw and wide,
A tide of pride we will not hide.

So wield your words, your sacred art,
To mend the cracks in every heart.
Let rhythm rise, let meaning swell,
And cast your spell where silence fell.