I walked a road of thorn and stone,
Each step a weight I claimed alone.
The sky hung low, the air was tight,
And hope was but a distant light.

I bore my grief like burnished gold,
A gleam too sharp, too cold to hold.
It sang a slow, unyielding tune,
A winter sun that mocked the noon.

Yet in the hush between my fears,
A voice broke soft as falling tears:
“Release the chain, unbind the seam,
And step inside your waiting dream.”

The path grew wide, the thorns withdrew,
The air was clear, the sky was blue.
My heart, once caged, began to sing—
A song of root, of flight, of spring.

Now every road, though steep or far,
Is lit beneath one steadfast star.
For I have learned through night’s long test,
The journey ends in gentle rest.

Today, on the edge of the field,
I stepped out of my ritual,
not with dissent,
but with a kind of soft forgetting.

The wind did not ask where I was going.
It only lifted the hem of my certainty.

Behind me:
a trail of clenched gestures,
the echo of “should,”
a chorus of small silences
I had mistaken for peace.

A fear, unbuttoned,
turned its face from mine.
I did not chase it.

Instead, I listened.
The body spoke in heartbeats,
the breath in questions.
Even the grass seemed to murmur:

You are not your repetition.
You are not your ache.

I walked until the path unravelled.
Until the habit could not follow.
Until the sky,
unembellished,
welcomed me in.

(12 to 12)

In a room full of voices, I don’t raise mine
I’m not chasing shadows, I’m not reading signs
The crowd moves around me, like waves on the shore
But I’m not searching - I’ve found You before

No trumpet sounds, no thunder roll
Just quiet peace that fills my soul

From twelve to twelve, You walk with me
In every breath, in all I see
I don’t need proof, I don’t need light
You are my morning, You are my night

They speak of longing, of needing to know
But I feel Your presence wherever I go
No burning bush, no parted sea
Just love that lingers endlessly

Even in silence, I hear Your name
Even in stillness, You stay the same
I don’t have to find You, I don’t have to try
You’re in my heartbeat, You’re in my sky

From twelve to twelve, You walk with me
In every breath, in all I see
I don’t need signs, I don’t need proof
I’ve already found my truth in You

for the moment that never moved

I keep the photo of you,
not for your smile,
but for the memories behind it.
The way your collar curled
like a question never asked,
the light grazing your cheek
as if it knew
this was the last time
you’d be that exact version of you.

You are forever mid-laugh,
forever leaning just so,
forever unaware
that I would return
to this frame
like a pilgrim to a relic,
touching the edges
as if they could answer
what time refused to explain.

The world has spun
since that shutter blinked,
but you–
you remain
untouched by the turning.
No grief has reached you there.
No apology.
No change.

I keep the photo of you
because it doesn’t ask for anything.
It doesn’t age.
It doesn’t forget.
It simply holds
what I cannot:
the stillness of you,
before the leaving,
before the blur.

And in between heartbeats,
I visit you,
not to remember,
but to stay.

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5156835/three-things/
(a poem of presence)

I could be your echo,
soft and steady,
a voice to lean against
when your own feels tangled.
We’d sit with the mess,
name the knots,
and breathe through the “what now?”
No fixing - just listening
until the fog thins.

I could take one thing,
just one,
from your crowded shelf of “later.”
Sort the papers,
fetch the milk,
untangle the tech that won’t behave.
You rest.
I’ll be your hands for a while.

I could make you a pocket of peace:
a walk, a poem,
a playlist that hums (like your favourite socks).
No agenda, just joy.
Just the reminder
that you are allowed to feel good
for no reason at all.
And if you’d like,
I’ll hold your name in prayer,
not as a fix,
but as a quiet flame.
A breath. A whisper.
A way to say:
you are not alone.

They reshuffled the deck but the jokers stayed,
Same old faces, just freshly displayed.
Lammy’s got justice, Rayner’s got none,
Stamp duty scandal? Oh, what fun!

Starmer’s got vision - blurred at the edges,
Tough on boats, soft on pledges.
Angela’s out, the barracks are in,
Asylum seekers boxed like sardines in tin.

Farage is back with his Reform rave,
Shouting 'freedom!' from a taxpayer cave.
Vaccine deniers on conference stage,
Britannia’s lost it, swallowed the rage.

King Charles hosts Trump at Windsor’s gate,
A second state visit? Bit late, mate.
The blimp’s deflated, the pomp’s still loud,
We roll out red carpets for the wrong crowd.

Reeves says the economy’s not broke,
Just bent, dented, and wrapped in smoke.
They tax your toast, they tax your tears,
Then toast themselves with private beers.

Oi! You lot in suits and spin,
We’re not your pawns, we’re kin and skin.
We want truth, not polished lies,
Not budget cuts in glitter disguise.

So here’s to the punks, the poets, the proud,
To shouting back, not joining the crowd.
Let’s scribble our slogans on Number 10’s gate,
And dance through the chaos before it’s too late.

Standing with Marshal Gebbie

No trumpet sounds.  
No banner bleeds.  
Just the quiet hum  
of satellites watching  
what we dare not name.

Power does not sleep,
it drips  
from trade routes,  
from whispered sanctions,  
from the tremble  
of a diplomat’s hand  
hovering over the red phone.

We are not at war,  
but we rehearse it  
in algorithms,  
in tariffs,  
in the way maps  
shrink and swell  
without consent.

The empire is hungover,  
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,  
cloaked in plausible deniability.

And we,  
the breathers between borders,  
write poems  
on the backs of embargoes,  
sing lullabies  
in contested airspace,  
and pray  
that silence  
is not mistaken  
for surrender.