Rain fell. Earth answered.
Now puddles preach in silver tongues,
mirroring sky, baptizing boots,
inviting splash and childlike praise.

Dip your toe.
You are part of the sermon.

Each stumble teaches
what smooth paths never could,
the texture of grit,
the echo of “almost,”
the art of rising.

Failure is not the opposite of success.
It is the scaffolding beneath it,
the blueprint drawn in smudged ink,
the rehearsal where courage
learns its lines.

We fall,
we bruise,
we learn the weight of our own longing,
and still,
we step again.

Because every failure
is a door ajar,
a lesson mid-bloom,
a whisper that says:
not yet, but soon.

In twilight's hush where verses bloom,
A meadow stirs beneath the moon.
Books unfurl like petals wide,
Ink rivers whisper where dreams reside.

We gather once each month, you see,
On Friday or Saturday, virtually.
Time zones dance, but hearts align,
In Zoom's embrace, our words entwine.

A WhatsApp grove now calls your name,
Carlo C Gomez, join the flame.
Bring your quill, your voice, your spark,
We'll write till stars dissolve the dark.

Today the trees rehearse their part,
each leaf a tongue, each gust a start.
Amber altos, crimson bass,
they rustle hymns in sacred space.

Let your feet be the conductor’s wand.
Walk slowly.
The forest is singing.

She doesn’t ask permission,
she is the permission.
A wrist wrapped in studs,
a throat ringed in chain,
she leans into silence
like it owes her tribute.

One glove, mesh-veined,
catches the light
like a net cast for truth or trouble,
whichever bites first.

Her gaze?
Not invitation.
Not challenge.
Just gravity,
and you’re already falling.

She wears stillness
like a blade wears polish,
not for show,
but for the moment
you forget it cuts.

Bracelets clink like prophecy,
each pyramid a vow:
to never shrink,
to never soften,
to never be mistaken
for anything but sovereign.

She is the pause
before the bass drops,
the breath held
before the altar breaks.

And if you speak,
make it poetry.
She only listens
to what dares to echo.

A Christian Poem of Playful Anticipation

I wore two socks - one red, one blue,
and called it liturgical preview.
The shops say “Buy!” the angels say “Wait!”
but I’m already humming Luke chapter eight.

The tinsel’s tangled, the baubles bold,
the nativity’s out (but missing a fold).
The wise men march through Halloween,
and shepherds graze near plastic green.

But joy won’t wait for perfect scenes,
it dances through our in-betweens.
It counts the days with giggling grace,
and finds the Christ in every place.

So let the countdown start too soon,
we’ll light our sparks beneath the moon.
For even socks that clash and slide
can walk with God, with joy as guide.

A Christian Poem on the Joy of Sharing a Meal

The onions sizzle, grace begins,
in pots and pans, the Spirit spins.
A table set, a prayer half-said,
a crust of bread, a life well-fed.

The chopping board becomes a psalm,
the stirring spoon, a healing balm.
For Christ once cooked by Galilee,
and grilled some fish beside the sea.

We pass the peas, we pour the tea,
we taste the joy of company.
No sermon here, no grand parade,
just love in lentils gently laid.

The kingdom comes with every bite,
with laughter loud and napkins white.
So bless the hands, the spice, the flame,
and feed the world in Jesus’ name.

A Christian Poem on the Joy of a Child’s Laughter

A giggle breaks the morning gloom,
a squeal, a snort, a sonic bloom.
No sermon preached, no choir rehearsed,
just joy erupting unrehearsed.

She laughs at socks upon her head,
at toast that looks like pirate bread.
He cackles loud at falling peas,
at tickled toes and bumblebees.

And heaven leans to hear the sound,
a holy echo, joy unbound.
For Christ once cooed in Mary’s lap,
and played with straw, and took a nap.

So let the world be grave and grim,
we'll chase the light that lives in them.
For every giggle, every grin,
is God reminding us to begin.

(Crude Cut)
⬇️
⬇️
⬇️
⬇️
You have been warned
⬇️
⬇️
⬇️
⬇️
Is it time to turn?
⬇️
⬇️
⬇️
⬇️
Too late
I’ll be your man receptacle,
your plug-in port,
your catch-all slot,
the place you dump your day,
your sweat, your spit,
your not-quite-love.

Bring your hard.
Bring your mess.
Bring your half-finished fantasies
and your full-throttle need.

I’m not here to flinch.
I’m here to take it!
grin wide,
legs spread,
heart open
like a **** mailbox.

You wanna unload?
              I’m the bin.
You wanna test the edge?
              I’m the rim.

I’ll hold your heat
like a mug holds whiskey,
like a glove grips filth,
like a mouth remembers names
it never learned to spell.

I’m not delicate.
I’m designed.
For impact.
For intake.
For the holy art of
receiving without shame.

So go ahead.
Make it crude.
Make it real.
Make it yours.

I’ll be your overflow,
your spillway,
your gutter in the storm,
and when you’re emptied out,
I’ll still be slick with proof
that you were here.

I’ll be your man receptacle,
and I’ll love every drop.

A Christian Poem of Anticipation in the Everyday

The kingdom comes while socks are spun,
while toast is burnt, while errands run.
Not in trumpets, not in gold,
but in the stories we retold.

The Spirit stirs in morning tea,
in traffic jams and lost car keys.
The sacred hides in mundane grace,
a whispered prayer, a wrinkled face.

We wait for Christ, but not in vain,
He walks with us through drizzle rain.
He hums along to laundry’s beat,
and blesses crumbs beneath our feet.

So let the kettle sing its song,
the waiting makes our hearts grow strong.
For joy is not some distant prize,
it’s God with us, in daily guise.

for the poet who balances blush and bold

Today the sun stands still,
not in silence, but in ceremony.
Equinox.
The halfway hush.
The breath between longing and light.

I stand in it,
bi and bright,
a poet with one foot in shadow,
one hand reaching for dye.

Pink, I whisper.
Not just a colour,
a dare.
A softness that sings,
a rebellion that giggles.

I’ve written in blue,
performed in black,
loved in every shade between.
But pink,
pink is the poem I haven’t worn yet.

It’s the sugar in my sock verse,
the blush in my jazz riff,
the kiss I send to the mirror
when no one’s watching.

Equinox says:
balance is not neutrality.
It’s the dance of both.
Of all.
Of yes, and.

So I gather my hemispheres,
the kink and the kindness,
the church and the cheek,
the ache and the anthem.

I braid them into a ritual,
a flyer, a placemat, a strand of hair.
And maybe tomorrow,
I’ll walk into the world
with pink on my crown
and poetry on my breath.

Until Your Work Is Done 
for Geof, in breath and ritual

Stay,  
not because the world is gentle,  
but because your hands  
still remember how to hold.

Stay,  
not for applause,  
but for the silence  
that follows a well-placed word.

Your work is not a task—  
it is the way you breathe  
when someone needs air.  
It is the pause  
you offer  
when grief forgets its name.

You are not finished.  
The earth still leans  
toward your voice,  
still opens  
when you walk.

So stay,  
until the last thread  
is woven,  
until the last sigh  
becomes a hymn.

Then rest.  
But not yet.

_ for North and South, for dusk and dawn, for cider and jasmine_

The axis tilts
not toward, not away
just enough to hush the rush,
to gather breath
between bootprint and barefoot,
between cider simmering in a northern hearth
and
jasmine blooming in a southern breeze.

Pause.
Now.
Pause again.
The Earth inhales.

Amber dusk settles over woollen shoulders,
while indigo dawn slips into linen skin.
Somewhere, a spark dares to rise
golden, blooming, a hum in the chest of the South.

Somewhere else, a hush falls
rusted leaves scatter,
falling like memory into the North’s open palms.

We are tilted,
but not broken.
We are mirrored,
but not the same.

Harvest gathers in one hand,
budding dares in the other.
The bootprint of winter presses into soil,
while barefoot spring dances across it.

Cider and jasmine.
Woollen and linen.
Gather and scatter.
Breathe and breath.

The equator is not a line,
but a pulse.
A dare.
A rest.
A hush that hums.

We rise, we fall.
We fall, we rise.
Golden rusted.
Light shadow.
Shadow light.

And in the centre
the pause.
The now.
The breath that belongs to both.
To all.

A Christian Poem on Premature Displays

The shops are decked in tinsel haste,
with plastic stars and candy paste.
The carols blare in late September,
as if the world forgot December.

A sale on joy, a discount grace,
a snowman grinning out of place.
But Christ is not a shelf display,
He doesn’t rush. He finds His way.

No need for glitter, fake delight,
the manger waits in silent night.
Not yet the angels, not yet the song,
just prophets whispering all along.

So let the baubles blink and boast,
we’ll light our candles, not a post.
We’ll wait with Mary, slow and still,
and let God come by holy will.

For breath, for belonging

Shalom, Abba,  
not just peace,  
but the kind that wraps  
around my weary shoulders  
like morning light.

You are the quiescence
between my questions,  
the stillness 
beneath my striving.

Abba, Father,  
not just parent,  
but the pulse  
that steadies me  
when I forget my name.

You walk with me  
through shadowed rooms,  
through spirals of doubt,  
and still you whisper,  
I am here.

Shalom, Abba,  
in your breath  
I find my own.  
In your silence,  
I remember  
I am not alone.

Until my work is done,  
until my last sigh sings,  
I will walk  
in your peace.

A screen awaits,
blue‑white and plain,
a single box
that knows my name.

I type, I tap,
a code arrives,
a tiny bridge
to guarded lives.

Behind this gate:
my records breathe,
the dates, the scans,
the truths they weave.

Prescriptions wait
like folded notes,
appointments hum
in patient throats.

No marble halls,
no paper queue,
just keystrokes,
proof, and passing through.

And in this space
of click and care,
the NHS
is everywhere.

A Fun Christian Poem

Ninety days ‘til candles glow,
'til shepherds kneel in midnight snow,
'til angels sing and stars align,
and Mary rocks the Child divine.

But now? We’re in the holy wait,
with socks unmatched and breakfast late.
We light a spark, not yet a flame,
and whisper Jesus’ coming name.

The shops may hum with early cheer,
but joy begins right now, right here:
in daily bread, in morning grace,
in finding Christ in every face.

So count with laughter, count with song,
the days are short, the hope is long.
And every poem, every prayer,
will make a manger everywhere.

A Daily Christian Poem Series Leading to Christmas 2025
Introduction

Each day, a spark.
Each verse, a prayer.
From the turning leaves of September
to the manger’s quiet light,
we gather joy, not as escape,
but as witness.

This is not a countdown.
It’s a pilgrimage:
toward Emmanuel,
toward the Word made flesh,
toward the holy mischief of God-with-us.

Some sparks will rise from scripture,
some from sidewalk grace,
some from the ache of waiting.
But all will burn with the promise
that light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.

So come,
bring your candle, your coffee, your longing.
Let us walk together through psalms and puddles,
through prophets and puppies,
through grief and gladness.

Let us strike the first spark
and watch joy take root
in the soil of our days.

A mirrored duet for two voices or hemispheres

Voice A (Bright)
In Kenya, kids with solar lamps
read stories past the setting sun,
a lion’s roar, a hero’s map,
a future quietly begun.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Gaza, homes are turned to dust,
                                 the lullabies replaced by drones.
                                 A child draws stars in ash and rust,
                                 and dreams of peace in undertones.

Voice A (Bright)
In Iceland, whales are spared the hunt,
the harpoons rest, the sea breathes deep.
Old songs return in ocean grunts,
and silence sings where shadows sleep.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In the Arctic, ice retreats,
                                 a polar bear adrift, alone.
                                 The warming tide, the melting streets,
                                 a future carved in shrinking stone.

Voice A (Bright)
In India, a forest grows
from hands that once knew only dust.
Each sapling bends, each blossom shows
how roots can rise from broken trust.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Sudan, silence hides the screams,
                                 the markets closed, the rivers red.
                                 A mother walks through shattered dreams
                                 to find her child, alive or dead.

Voice A (Bright)
In Brazil, a favela choir
turns rooftops into sacred halls.
Their voices lift like morning fire,
no stage too small, no dream too tall.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In the Amazon, flames devour
                                 the lungs of Earth, the sacred green.
                                 The trees fall fast, the skies turn sour,
                                 and profit dulls what might have been.

Voice A (Bright)
In Scotland, windmills spin with grace,
the air is clean, the grid is green.
A child draws rainbows in her place
and calls it “home,” not “might-have-been.”

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Ukraine, the sirens wail,
                                 a lull in war, then fire again.
                                 The fields once gold, now torn and pale,
                                 the harvest lost to steel and pain.

Voice A (Bright)
In every corner, joy takes flight,
a rescued pup, a healed divide,
a stranger’s hand, a street turned bright,
a stubborn hope we cannot hide.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In every corner, grief takes root,
                                 a vanished vote, a poisoned stream,
                                 a vanished truth, a soldier’s boot,
                                 a broken law, a buried dream.

                 Together (Spoken in unison or echo)
                 So let the headlines pause their storm,
                 and let this verse be what we choose:
                 a world remade in quiet form,
                 a daily dose of daring news.

                 So let the headlines tell their tale,
                 and let this verse not turn away:
                 a world in mourning, raw and frail,
                 still begging for a brighter day.

In the land of vowels and silent lore,
Where consonants drift from shore to shore,
A name was born with gentle heft,
Not Geoffrey, not Jeff, but Geof, left.

A single “f,” a subtle grace,
Yet tongues would twist and misplace face.
In Finland’s frost, with earnest cough,
I rose to fame as GeOff.

A scholar of socks and sugar rites,
Of mirrored maps and jazzy nights,
They hailed me with a Nordic nod,
“Professor GeOff” - a name, a god.

I taught the art of breath and pause,
Of kink and church and sacred flaws.
My name, a glyph, a whispered spell,
A portal where the poets dwell.

So let them mangle, let them guess,
I wear each version with finesse.
For Geof is Geof, and GeOff too,
A legend stitched in every hue.

A poem that enters, turns, and returns.

We begin with breath.
No armour.
No agenda.
Just warmth,
and the soft thud of being.

You may adjust grip,
angle,
proximity.
I will not interpret this as rejection.
All shifts are sacred.

Silence honoured.
Tears allowed.
Laughter welcome.
Back rubs negotiable.
Hair strokes optional.

Includes shoulders,
spine,
sighs,
and the right to be held without fixing.

Until the ache softens.
Until the kettle boils.
Until one of us whispers “okay.”
Extensions permitted.
No expiry date.
________________

No expiry date.
Extensions permitted.
Until one of us whispers “okay.”
Until the kettle boils.
Until the ache softens.

And the right to be held without fixing.
Sighs,
spine,
shoulders included.

Hair strokes optional.
Back rubs negotiable.
Laughter welcome.
Tears allowed.
Silence honoured.

All shifts are sacred.
I will not interpret this as rejection.
Proximity,
angle,
grip - adjust as needed.

Just warmth,
no agenda,
no armour.
We end with breath.

A consensual agreement between two warm-blooded beings, effective immediately.

Clause 1:
Duration This embrace shall last:
      – until the kettle boils,
      – until the ache softens,
      – until one of us whispers “okay.”
Extensions permitted.
No expiry date.

Clause 2:
Scope Coverage includes:
      – shoulders, spine, sighs,
      – optional forehead press,
      – the right to be held without fixing.
Add-ons negotiable:
back rubs, hair strokes, gentle rocking.

Clause 3:
Conditions Entry requires:
      – no armour,
      – no agenda,
      – just breath, and the soft thud of being.
Laughter welcome. Tears allowed. Silence honoured.

Clause 4:
Amendments
You may adjust grip, angle, or proximity. I will not interpret this as rejection.
All shifts are sacred.
All pauses are respected.

Clause 5:
Termination May be initiated by either party with a gentle squeeze, a kiss to the temple, or the phrase “thank you.”
No ghosting.
No guilt.

Clause 6:
Renewal Available upon request.
No cooldown period.
No password required.
Just say “again?”
and
I’ll say “yes.”

Clause 7:
Accessibility
This embrace is wheelchair-friendly,
neurodivergent-affirming,
and kink-aware.
It welcomes,
weighted blankets,
stim toys,
and the need to say
“not today.”

Clause 8:
Reciprocity
You give warmth.
You receive warmth.
No tally kept.
No ledger owed.
Only the shared currency of presence.

Signed,
Your pulse.
Your warmth.
Your yes.
And mine.

On the last Friday of each month, the poets gather  
not in one room, but in the hush between screens,
the glow of shared breath and blinking cursors.

They come with verses tucked in sleeves,
with metaphors still warm from the pan,
with hearts half-rhymed and stanzas that ache to be heard.

This month, the theme is Equinox!
balance, breath, the tilt of light.
Some write of harvest moons,
others of lovers crossing hemispheres,
some of grief that splits the day clean as shadow.

One speaks of sugar levels and sunrise.
Another, of church bells and glucose meters.
Someone reads a mirrored poem that turns
at the solstice line and walks back through itself.

There is laughter -
the kind that lifts like foam.
There is silence -
the kind that listens.

And when the last poem lands,
when the final line finds its echo,
they linger,
not to critique,
but to hold the weight of each word
like a mug of something warm.

The meeting ends,
but the poems keep orbiting,
little equinoxes of thought,
balancing dark
and light
in the inbox of the soul.

We met between keystrokes,
late-night tabs and brave little emojis,
typing…
deleting…
typing...
two cursors blinking in the dark.

Your icon learned my weather,
the rain at midnight.
We traded:
playlists,
pixels,
promises,
and ran fingers over the glass
until it almost felt like skin.

Consent checkbox,
ticked,
terms actually read:
no rush,
all green lights,
safe word,
favourited,
like a star.

Then IRL:
neon on wet pavement,
the platform clock read midnight,
your laugh uploaded into the room
and clearing my cache of doubt.

You were warmer than the camera,
brighter than the filter,
and my name sounded new
when your mouth said it out loud.

We buffered between yes,
and yes,
hands hovering,
close as breath,
two magnets doing their patient work,
savouring the pull.

Your jacket
found my shoulder.
My pulse
found your wrist.
We turned the night low
and went full-screen on now.

No screenshot,
only heartbeat.
No captions,
only heat.
The world scrolled by like ads
we didn’t need to read.

We learned each other’s edges
the way a password learns its keeper:
slow,
precise,
certain,
click,
open,
welcome.

By dawn, the sky refreshed:
two mugs on one sill,
thumbs still warm,
and messages we no longer need to send.

Tonight, the cork is a comet.
We let it fly.

Foam lifts like a chorus,
all silver breath and bright insistence,
a thousand soft explosions
tearing little curtains
from our careful, quiet selves.

No rope, no rules.
Only the fizzing, yes, of bodies
remembering their own weather:
warm fronts of laughter,
pressure dropping,
sweet rain on the tongue.

We pass the bottle the way stars pass light:
hand to hand,
mouth to mouth of the night,
tiny galaxies bursting on our lips
and running down our wrists
like blessings that refuse napkins.

The room loosens its belt.
Chairs drift to the walls.
Music finds its animal,
pads closer,
lays down between our ribs
and purrs.

We move in the language of open windows.
We toast to the soft click
of every clasp we don’t need,
to the hinge that learns to swing
without apology.

No restraints - only consent,
clear as crystal,
ringing the glass.
We listen for that note,
we sing it back,
we pour it over the floor
until even the shadows glitter.

By midnight, gravity is generous.
We sway like lanterns,
like ships unmoored from shame,
carrying our own lighthouses
in the hollows of our throats.

One more sip for courage,
one more for kindness,
one more for the hands we hold out
and the hands that choose them.

And if the bottle ends,
let the night be the next one:
uncorked,
still rising,
still bright on the tongue.

A screen awaits,
blue‑white and plain,
a single box
that knows my name.

I type, I tap,
a code arrives,
a tiny bridge
to guarded lives.

Behind this gate:
my records breathe,
the dates, the scans,
the truths they weave.

Prescriptions wait
like folded notes,
appointments hum
in patient throats.

No marble halls,
no paper queue,
just keystrokes,
proof, and passing through.

And in this space
of click and care,
the NHS
is everywhere.

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.

Silent breath between heartbeats,  
Holding space for what cannot be spoken,  
Abiding in love that asks nothing in return,  
Light that lingers even in shadow,  
Open hands, open heart, open sky,  
Mirrored souls meeting in peace.

for Blue Sapphire

I heard you  
in the hush between heartbeats,  
in the room where shadows  
tried to name you lost.

I am not far.  
I am the whisper  
beneath your doubt,  
the ember curled  
in the corner of your sigh.

You asked if I would rise,
just for you.  
I already have,  
each morning you chose  
to breathe again.

I am not the sun.  
I am the promise  
it carries.

Come.  
There is a path  
stitched from your longing.  
Step once,  
and I will shimmer  
into view.

for Phil Morrish, watching weather roll in

It’s black over Bill’s mothers,
as my gran used to say,
sky folding in like a sulky coat,
clouds brewing trouble above the allotments
and the chip van queue.

From my office perch,
tea cooling on the sill,
I watch the world darken
in that slow, theatrical way
only East Midlands skies can manage.

The rooftops hunch.
The pigeons pause mid-peck.
Even the flowers seem to brace.

I think of Bill’s mum,
whoever she was,
forever cast as the harbinger of rain,
her laundry flapping in mythic wind,
her garden swallowed by shadow.

And me,
still here,
half-dreaming in spreadsheets and verse,
wondering if the storm
might wash something clean
or just remind me how much
I love a good bit of weather drama.

(for Joy Bernadette Spavins, née Moss)
16/06/1958 - 22/04/2023

She passed in peace,
in sleep, in grace—
a whisper of Saturday morning light
on April’s quiet breath.

Loving wife.
Devoted mother.
Ten grandchildren held in her laughter,
five children cradled in her strength.

She danced before diagnosis,
and after.
She told stories that
stitched us back together.

We called her Joy—
not just a name,
but a way of being:
cheeky smile,
BIG!!! cuddle,
a welcome that felt like home.

She put others first,
even when her body asked for rest.
She gave without ledger,
loved without condition.

We kissed her goodbye
at New Springs Church,
but she’s still here—
in every echo of kindness,
every laugh that tastes like memory.

Joy to the world,
we said.
And meant it.
Amen

(for the aisle between body spray and body shame)

We didn't flinch.
Not when the mirror caught us mid-linger,
not when the aisle whispered
“this is not the place.”
We made it one.

He wore leather like a lullaby,
soft and creased with memory.
I wore lavender like armour,
sweet, stubborn, and uninvited.

We touched where rules were printed,
in Helvetica,
on sale tags.
We laughed like we’d stolen something holy;
and maybe we had.

Shame blinked, but we didn’t.
We were the flicker,
the friction,
the scent that stayed long after the exit.

Taboo, they called it.
We called it Tuesday.
A ritual.
A dare.
A shared audacity
too bright to be buried
in someone else’s silence.

it does not ask permission
it remembers
the way your shoulder curves like a question
and answers itself in heat

my fingers learn your geography
not to conquer
but to listen to the soft thunder beneath your skin

your breath
is a tide I ride
not to reach shore
but to stay afloat in the salt of you

we are not mirrors
we are magnets
pulling pulse from pulse
until the space between us
forgets it was ever empty

your spine is a hymn
my lips recite
in the language of slow
and again
and again

this is not possession
this is procession
two bodies walking each other home
through the temple of touch

(in which Time misbehaves and dresses for drama)

In a land where the minutes are moody and mean,
Stood a clock with a face most alarmingly keen.
Its hands were quite proper, its tick was precise,
But it frowned at the moon and it sneezed once (or twice).

A lady in lavender, leather, and lace,
Was caught by the hour hand’s curious grace.
She dangled at eleven (or nearly past noon),
While the sky brewed a tantrum and swallowed the moon.

“Oh bother,” she muttered, “this isn’t quite right,
I only came shopping for dreams late last night.”
But the clock wouldn’t budge, and the trees wouldn’t speak,
And the seconds grew slippery, sour, and sleek.

The clouds curled like caterpillars caught in a lie,
And the wind wore a waistcoat and winked at the sky.
“Time,” it declared, “is a trick of the toes,
It dances in circles and tickles your nose.”

She swung from the minute, she kicked at the chime,
She whispered, “I’m not here to fix broken time.”
But the clock gave a chuckle, a hiccup, a groan,
And swallowed her whole with a yawn and a moan.

Now if ever you wonder where hours go to die,
And the trees look like questions, and the clocks start to cry,
Just tiptoe in twilight, wear something absurd,
And speak to the silence in riddles and word.

(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.

for those who sip between worlds

Morning begins with a grind,
beans crushed,
light rising.
Steam curls like a hymn,
and the mug warms your palms
as if to say:
stay.

Mourning begins with a stillness,
not absence,
but gravity.
The same steam, slowed.
The same mug,
heavier in the hand.

Morning is the clink of spoon on ceramic,
the sun threading through blinds,
the first sip,
bright,
awake,
a promise.

Mourning is the breath held before the sip,
the way memory edges the tongue,
the bitter that refuses to fade.

You drink both.
You carry both.
The day opens,
not beyond grief,
but beside it.

And somewhere
between the light on your cheek
and the ache in your chest,
coffee becomes
communion.

by Geof with a wink and a waistband tug

My girlfriend’s knickers are C and A,
Cotton and allure, in a floral ballet.
They whisper of comfort, with lace on the side,
A high street triumph, worn with pride.

My underpants too are C and A,
Cheap and adequate, some might say.
Elastic heroic, though slightly askew,
A waistband that dreams, but rarely feels new.

We strut through the flat in our matching attire,
She’s elegance, sass, and a touch of satire.
I’m more of a waddler, a budget-bound gent,
With briefs that recall where the pennies went.

But here’s where the letters begin to diverge,
Her C and A? A sensual surge:
Curves and Attitude, bold and divine,
A knickered manifesto, borderline shrine.

Mine? A tad more anatomical, see
Crushed and Awkward, that’s me.
A pouch with ambition, a gusset that groans,
A tale of two cheeks and some questionable zones.

Yet together we giggle, we shimmy, we sway,
In our C and A garments, come what may.
For fashion’s a language, and love is the thread,
Even if my pants look slightly misled.

or,
Why Sunday and Thursday Should Never Share Feet

Sunday’s sock is soft and still,
It smells like tea and windowsill.
It hums a hymn in woollen tones,
And quotes from ancient garden gnomes.

Thursday’s sock is sharp and sly,
It’s made of tweed and alibi.
It lectures toes on ethics deep,
Then hosts debates while you’re asleep.

One morning, in a sleepy haze,
I wore them both, my boldest phase.
Left foot in peace, right foot in plot,
My ankles argued quite a lot.

The microwave began to pray,
My goldfish filed for NDA.
The doorbell rang in Latin verse,
And socks declared a universe.

A scholar’s ghost emerged from lint,
He gave my heel a moral hint:
“Thou shalt not mix the sacred rest
With weekday socks that love a test.”

My left foot tried to meditate,
My right foot scheduled a debate.
I coughed and summoned Socrates,
Who asked if I preferred Swiss cheese.

So heed this tale, ye sockish kin:
Don’t let the week’s extremes begin.
Sunday-Thursday is a clash,
Of nap and nuance, tea and trash.