(in lavender and leather)

He wore it like a dare,
not cologne,
but a memory distilled in musk and midnight.
Taboo, it whispered.
Not just the scent,
but the way he leaned in when no one was watching,
when everyone was.

A spritz behind the ear,
a glance that lingered,
long enough to be noticed,
short enough to be denied.
We met in the aisle between
body spray
and
body shame,
and chose the former.

Was it the fragrance
or
the friction?
The way his laugh tasted like rebellion,
his wrist flicked like a secret handshake
between sinners and saints.

We kissed where we shouldn’t,
beneath a sign that said
“Men’s Grooming,”
and left with nothing purchased
but everything claimed.

Taboo, he said,
is just another word for what
they wish they had the courage
to feel.

🎶A Vinyl Lament🎶

🎶In dusty rooms where records spun,
A needle dropped, the magic begun.
Grooves would whisper, hiss, then sing.
A crackle born from everything.

🎶"Hit it!" they'd shout, with rhythmic pride,
As DJs let the vinyl glide.
"Go on, hit it with a needle," they'd say,
And music bloomed in analogue play.

🎶But now the youth, with earbuds tight,
Stream songs in seconds, day and night.
No sleeves to slide, no turntable grace,
Just swipes and taps in cyberspace.

🎶They’ll never know that sacred sound,
Of needle meeting wax profound.
Of album art, of liner notes,
Of mixtapes made with heartfelt quotes.

🎶They’ll ask, confused, “A needle? Why?”
And blink beneath their wireless sky.
Not knowing that to “hit it” meant
A ritual, rich and reverent.

🎶So let us spin this tale once more,
Of needle drops and vinyl lore.
For though the tech may change its face,
The soul of sound still holds its place.

(A poem for the map that burns)

In just three days, the sky grew teeth,
and bit six nations into grief.
Palestine, already ash and ache,
was struck again, as if to break
what’s already broken.

Six Names in Three Days

Lebanon’s hills, where cedars pray,
shuddered under warplanes’ sway.
Syria’s night turned siren-red,
its wounded cities counting dead
in silence, again.

Six Names in Three Days

Tunisia’s coast, where boats set sail
with hope and aid, now tells the tale
of fire on deck, of drone and flame,
a flotilla struck, without a name
for peace betrayed.

Six Names in Three Days

Qatar, the voice of ceasefire talks,
was bombed mid-sentence, mid-diplomats’ walks.
Smoke rose over Doha’s glass,
where leaders met to end the past,
but war arrived first.

Six Names in Three Days

And Yemen, long a battered drum,
was struck anew, its people numb.
The desert weeps, the mountains moan,
as missiles find another home
in hunger’s cradle.

Six names in three days.
Six wounds on the map.
Each one a prayer interrupted,
a child’s sleep shattered,
a border crossed without consent.

And still, the world spins.
And still, the ink dries.
And still, we write poems
because silence is complicity
and memory is resistance.

by Geof, glucose-aware and still poetic

🍞 White Bread
Soft as a lullaby, sliced with ease,
it cradles the butter, it aims to please.
But oh, the spike, the stealthy rise—
I pass it by with narrowed eyes.

🥔 Mashed Potatoes
Creamy clouds on a Sunday plate,
they whisper comfort, they tempt fate.
I count the carbs, I dodge the mash—
a spoonful now feels brash and rash.

🍚 White Rice
Polished pearls in a steaming heap,
they lull the tongue, they make me weep.
I swap for barley, quinoa’s cheer—
but jasmine still draws near, too near.

🍝 Pasta
Twists and ribbons, sauce-soaked bliss,
a tangled kiss I dearly miss.
I twirl restraint around my fork—
and serve up lentils, squash, or cork.

🍕 Pizza Crust
Golden edge of molten sin,
it holds the cheese, it reels me in.
I nibble toppings, dodge the base—
a crustless life, a slower pace.

🥞 Pancakes
Stacked like dreams on a diner tray,
they rise with syrup, then betray.
I flip my cravings, count the toll—
and let the almond batter roll.

🍟 French Fries
Crisp rebellion in a paper cone,
they crunch like joy, they moan and groan.
I sniff, I sigh, I walk away—
my pancreas has final say.

🍿 Popcorn (buttered)
Movie-night muse,
a salty flirt, it pops with glee,
it wears a shirt of melted gold and hidden cost—
I portion small, or mourn the lost.

🥖 Bagels
Dense and proud, a chewy ring,
they sing of brunch and everything.
I slice regret, I halve the round—
and seek a thinner, safer sound.

🍰 Cake
Frosted lies in layered form,
they dance at birthdays, sweet and warm.
I toast with berries, skip the slice—
and write a poem in sacrifice.

🩺 Final Verse: The Reckoning
So here I stand, carb-curious still,
with measured joy and tempered will.
I mourn the feast; I praise the fight—
and find new sweetness in the light.

by Geof’s mischievous muse, now glucose-aware

🍬 Granulated Sugar
White as a sigh in a grandmother’s bowl,
it stirs the batter, steady and whole.
But now I measure, pause, and scan,
sweetness rationed by a trembling hand.

🎭 Caster Sugar
Finer than gossip in a cocktail lounge,
it lifts the meringue with a velvet bounce.
I used to flirt with its airy kiss,
now I weigh the risk behind the bliss.

🌨️ Confectioners’/Icing Sugar
Powdered snow on a birthday crown,
it dusts the cake like a holy gown.
I watch it fall, then turn away,
a sugar veil I cannot stay.

💎 Sanding Sugar
Crystals clink like carnival glass,
on cookies dressed for a midnight mass.
I crave the crunch, the sparkle bite,
but choose instead a quieter light.

🌰 Brown Sugar
Molasses-rich and musky-sweet,
it clings to oats and autumn heat.
I miss its hug, its earthy balm,
but trade it now for measured calm.

🌿 Muscovado Sugar
Sticky truth in a smoky jar,
it sings of sauces and wounds that scar.
I honour its depth, its soulful tone,
but keep my plate a safer zone.

🍯 Liquid Sugars
Drizzle, drip, and ritual glue,
they bind the bitter, coax the stew.
I read the labels, dodge the trap,
no longer lost in syrup’s lap.

🧊 Sugar Cubes
Pressed like promises, square and neat,
they clink in tea with a formal beat.
I stir with care, one cube or none,
a communion altered, still begun.

🌾 Pearl Sugar
Coarse and proud in pastry’s fold,
it holds its shape, it stays bold.
I nod at waffles, pass them by,
a crunch I mourn, but won’t defy.

🌴 Coconut Sugar
Earth-toned, caramel, low on the spike,
it sweetens the stew and the healthful hike.
A compromise, a gentle bend,
a sugar I might still befriend.

🌾 Date Sugar
From fruit once sun-kissed, now dried and ground,
it carries the fibre, the sacred sound.
I welcome its roots, its ancient lore,
a sweetness I can still explore.

🩺 Final Verse: The Bitter-Sweetness
So here I stand, a sugar bard,
with glucose charts and cravings marred.
Yet even now, I write, I taste,
in every limit, a sacred grace.

The Poetry of Waiting

Not the break,
but the breath before the break.
Not the silence,
but the listening it invites.

A caesura is not absence,
it is presence held still.
A hush with its hands open.
A comma that prays.

It lives in the gasp
between heartbeat and echo,
in the moment the dancer
hovers mid-turn,
in the glance that says
more than the line ever could.

It is the ache
that punctuation cannot name.
The pause
where grief gathers its syllables.
The space
where longing loops back to begin again.

We write it
with white space,
with hesitation,
with the courage
to not fill every line.

We live it
in hospital waiting rooms,
in the hush before “I love you,”
in the breath between diagnosis and reply.

Caesura –
the sacred seam
where poetry listens
to the body.

Lyrics and poetry
are
two sides of the same coin,
one sings,
one listens.
One rides rhythm,
the other rides breath.

One is a chorus,
the other a hush.
But both,
both are spells.
Both are stitched with longing,
looped with memory,
tuned to the ache of being alive.

Lyrics lean into melody,
into the pulse of the body,
into the sway of hips
and
the hum of heartbeats.
They repeat to remember,
they rhyme to return.

Poetry leans into silence,
into the space between words,
into the shape of the page
and
the pause before the line.
It spirals,
it mirrors,
it meanders.

But both,
both are bridges.
Both are breath.
Both are the hand reaching
and
the voice trembling
and
the truth that won’t stay quiet.

So flip the coin.
Let it land on your tongue.
Speak.
Sing.
Sip.
Repeat.

Let your voice be the ritual.
Let your silence be the song.