In the concrete jungles, I rise - an echo among forgotten voices, bearing the scars of urban sorrow etched into the crumbling facades of life.

Each verse bears the marks of true struggle, the worn hands of workers, the tired eyes of those left dancing with shadows, their whispered histories woven into ink.

I walk the alleys of shattered dreams, where hope trembles like a frail ember, translating the stark cadence of hardship into raw, unyielding lines of truth.

The burden is heavy - a relentless gravity pulling me into the depths of worn stories, yet in each honest stanza, I find a spark, a subtle defiance that carves a path through despair.

For in this commitment to unvarnished reality, my pen becomes a bridge between silence and voice, and though the weight may press upon my spirit, it is the pulse of the oppressed that fuels my every word.

I will explore how everyday struggles forge art from hardship. What truths rest behind the façade of our city streets, and which emotions lie untold in the margins of our collective existence?

Time rolls like a stream
Carving out life’s secret ways
Dawn whispers softly,
Moments heal our weary hearts
Time enfolds us in new light.

Silence, before the world has stirred,
I wander through a mist of dreams and whispered hopes,
A tender murmur in the cool, damp air,
Where every dewdrop cradles the promise of morning.
I inhale deeply, the scent of raw earth and possibility,
Feel the gentle pull of a day yet uncharted,
And wonder if you, too, need a lift this norming day.

The velvet dark retreats as dawn paints pastel hues,
An artist’s caress smoothing away the remnants of night.
The air, alive with magic, flows like an unseen river,
Carrying secrets from the far realms of slumber.
In this ephemeral space between shadow and light,
I find strength to set aside yesterday’s burdens,
Floating on the breath of "luft" that refreshes and renews.

There lies a sacred promise in the rising gold,
A call to each heart that dares to dream anew.
The silent language of morning sings in every ray,
Urging us to rise, to unfurl like blossoms after rain.
In these whispered minutes, the world transforms,
Becoming a canvas where hope and courage intertwine,
And the soul takes flight, buoyed by the airy hymn of life.

Across the horizon, where light meets ambition,
I glimpse reflections of all we dare aspire to be.
Every beam, every soft ray, a reminder:
We are born of stardust and dreams, fragile, infinite.
The "norming" day speaks not of constraint but rebirth,
Of reinventing ourselves with each inhalation,
And letting the wind of change carry us beyond familiar bounds.

Imagine the air as a guide, a gentle, constant friend,
That undresses the heavy garb of yesterday’s doubt,
Unfurling hidden layers, revealing the beauty within.
Each breath, a silent prayer of hope,
Each step forward, an act of defiant tenderness
Against the inertia of routine and the weight of yesterday,
A pledge to rise high on the wings of a revitalized soul.

Morning unfurls like a long-lost letter from the heart,
Each word inscribed in the quiet moments before the bustle.
There is a poetry in the soft cadence of your existence,
A blend of resilience and vulnerability that sings louder than any storm.
With every exhale, you release what no longer serves,
Breathe deeply, and let the bright air cleanse your spirit,
For the day, like a gracious friend, awaits your bold arrival.

In the labyrinth of light and shadow, you wander,
Searching for strands of meaning hidden in the gentle breeze.
And there, in the liminal space of early dawn,
The air itself speaks with the language of renewal,
Whispering of forgotten dreams, buried beneath layers of hesitation,
Yet eager to rise anew as you step beyond the threshold,
Carrying the soft, relentless promise of a fresh, unwavering "luft."

So let the rising sun be your guide in this norming day;
Allow the cool, shifting air to lift you from within,
Transforming challenges into stepping stones
And the quiet sighs of early morning into a symphony of hope.
Embrace each delicate, breath-held moment
As an invitation to become more, to bloom fiercely
Under the boundless canopy of a day reborn in light.

Now, as the morning crystallizes into golden hours,
Remember that you are a traveller in this vast expanse of wonder,
Crafting your own story with every tender breath,
Every beat of a heart that rises with the sun.
Let the wind carry away your doubts, and let your spirit soar,
For life, like the air, is free and infinite,
Ever inviting you to dance with the dawn, unbounded and alive.

In these verses, may you find your uplift, your solace,
A thick, luminous tapestry woven from threads of hope, duty, and desire.
So step into the day with open arms and a soul unburdened,
And let the soft, ethereal "luft" of morning lead you
Into realms where every moment is a promise,
Every breath a celebration,
And every heartbeat a testament to your enduring light.

In the quiet dawn after thunder,
Eighty years ago - when victory sang
Across a scarred and trembling Europe –
We hear Your whisper, God,
A soft, unyielding hum of hope
Through the rubble of war and the silence of loss.

On this sacred day, where memory meets mercy,
Your hand is the unseen architect of freedom,
Crafting a path from despair to the light,
A mosaic of courage and healing
Carved into the hearts of those who believed
In a peace that was always Your promise.

We stand at the edge of history’s echo,
Where shattered dreams rose on the wings of prayer,
And in every soul that dared to hope,
We see Your radiant presence –
A luminous anthem whispered in the wind,
A divine grace that carried us through darkness.

The echoes of drums and distant cries
Blend with the rustle of poppies,
Those silent scarlet reminders of sacrifice,
While the ancient stars bow quietly above.
In their shimmer, we trace Your infinite compassion,
A quiet covenant everlasting.

God, You are the gentle murmur
In the lull after the storm,
The hand that steadied trembling hearts
When the world lay broken and weary.
In the soft embrace of dusk and dawn,
Your love remains, an ever-guiding beacon.

On this 80th anniversary of VE Day,
We gather memories like scattered petals,
Reverently laid upon the altar of time –
Each petal a testament, a prayer, a story.
They tell of sorrow transformed into strength,
Of battles lost so life might triumph.

In the deep silence between thunderclaps,
When the earth still trembles from remembered strife,
Your voice, clear and unyielding, rises:
"Be still, my children, for in
Your suffering I weave a tapestry of victory
Worn proudly by those who embrace the light."

A breath of wind carries the songs of valour,
Not of conquest or cruelty,
But of quiet defiance against despair –
The hymn of a people reborn
In the shadow of war’s legacy
And in the bright promises
You inscribed in every heart.

Across the fields once ravaged by conflict,
Gentle streams now murmur in the language of renewal.
They speak of a divine plan unfolding –
A plan where every tear is softened
By the balm of Your eternal compassion,
And every scar becomes a story of redemption.

In the delicate interplay of memory and hope,
We celebrate Your artistry, God,
For in the chaos of a broken world
You planted seeds of redemption,
Nurturing fragile blossoms of peace
To bloom amidst the ruins of conflict.

Every moment on this day
Is an echo of Your timeless grace,
A reminder that even in the blackest hours,
Your light found a way to shine –
An ember resuscitated
Into the conflagration of a newfound dawn.

The anniversary rings like a chime,
A resonance celebrating the victory of life,
A chorus exalting the divine
For steering mankind from the brink,
For gifting us not just an end to strife,
But a beginning defined by love and purpose.

So let our hearts, brimming with memory and gratitude,
Rejoice in this luminous intersection of past and promise.
In the sacred silence between remembrance and renewal,
Your presence is a radiant sunrise,
Infusing the present with the glow of infinite hope,
And guiding our footsteps toward a future bathed in light.

O God - On this 80th anniversary –
We honour You in every whispered prayer,
In every ray of soft, forgiving sunlight,
In the hallowed hush of the evening’s glow.
For in the end, it is Your grace that wrote our story,
And Your love that continues to sing the anthem of freedom.

I've heard your voice, steady and clear,
A whisper that grew, now thunder, now cheer.
"No turning back," you declare to the skies,
A flame ignites in your resolute eyes.

The path you tread may be rugged and steep,
With shadows that linger, with storms that weep.
Yet faith is your lantern, casting its glow,
Guiding your heart wherever winds blow.

The world may question, may pull at your will,
But your spirit stands unshaken, still.
For love that binds, for grace that saves,
You're walking a road, through valleys and waves.

Through trials that seek to wear you thin,
You hold a song of courage within.
"I have decided," your soul proclaims,
"To follow the One who knows my name."

No turning back, no steps undone,
The journey is yours, with Him as the sun.
Each step a prayer, each breath a new start,
Carving His promises deep in your heart.

Through life’s dense forest, wild and deep,
A sacred map, my soul does keep.
Its pages whispered by divine breath,
A guide through storms, through life, through death.

The Bible stands, a beacon true,
Its wisdom ancient, yet ever new.
Each line a compass, every word,
A guiding call, a truth inferred.

When shadows fall and paths confound,
Its timeless light shines all around.
Through Psalms of peace and Proverb’s ways,
It charts my course, it marks my days.

No map of man can e’er compare,
To scripture’s path, beyond despair.
Its pages point where faith may thrive,
And love and grace keep hope alive.

So, with this map, this gift profound,
Each step I take, on holy ground.
Through valleys low and peaks above,
It leads me home, with boundless love.

Under a soft cascade of light and heart, I wander through night’s endless field - finding dreams at the break of day, where time dances in bold, quiet steps and gentle whispers cradle the spark of life.

In the silent arms of shadows, echoes of ancient voices hum a secret song; soft silhouettes of stars trace untold tales across a vast, uncharted sky, as delicate art and grace entwine with each breath.

Moments melt into a surreal tapestry, threads of joy, hope, and tender sorrow woven with laughter, whispered promises, and the bittersweet taste of rain - each drop a fleeting spark in the boundless air.

Within the sacred space where chaos meets calm, a cosmic symphony unfolds its vibrant melody: free souls rise on hidden paths, carrying the soft murmur of forgotten memories and the resilient beat of a true, divine journey.

Beneath a shimmering dawn, the world transforms - a bold parade of colours, gentle winds, and secret voices, while silver streams of moonlight converse with ancient trees, casting reflections of eternal truth upon the mystic canvas of endless time.

In the quiet pause between heartbeats, my spirit drifts on a delicate current of light and dark, where every tear, every smile, is etched into the living fabric of existence - a soulful testament to life’s luminous dance.

Listen - within the silent weight of night, the universe whispers a tale of timeless wonder, of whispered legends, sacred prayer, and fierce hope; a surreal chorus where pain and promise, joy and grief, merge into one ethereal embrace.

And so, I stand amid this cosmic embrace, guided by a radiant beacon of dreams and memories, my thoughts like delicate petals in a wild, celestial wind - forever bound to the mystery of the infinite, as the universe writes its tender story in vibrant hues.

I never recall my dreams at dawn, yet last night, Ringo Starr drifted into my slumber. In that surreal moment, we exchanged words of song and poetry - just before he faded into twilight, he left me with a question that echoes still: “Are these truly poetry?” And with a knowing smile, he replied, “What are words?”

In the velvet theatre of my mind, his voice cascaded like a timeless refrain, each syllable aglow with the shimmer of forgotten stardust. Our dialogue unfurled into a graceful dance - a delicate interplay between the resolute strum of guitar strings and the ephemeral heartbeat of verse.

I wandered through corridors draped in half-remembered dreams, where each word painted its mark upon the endless canvas of night. I mused on whether language is nothing more than an echo, or if it wields the power to capture the boundless depths of our silent, unspoken truths.

Beneath the halo of a fading moon, that lone question resonated endlessly, a quiet challenge to the weight and wonder of language itself. In that shared moment, poetry transcended mere letters and rhythm - transforming into a living paradox, as transient as it is eternal.

Now, as dawn spills its gentle light upon the edges of memory, I find myself ensnared in the echo of that simple phrase, pondering what words are but fragile vessels carrying our dreams, our songs, our deepest selves.

So, with Ringo’s gentle mystery still humming in the morning air, I embark upon a journey through the intricate terrain of language, seeking the hidden meanings cradled between every tender note of the song that dares to sing within our hearts.

What are words? They are the echoes of our souls - ever fleeting, ever profound.

Oh, Sock Man of Loughborough, bold in your solitary attire,
Perched **** upon a bollard, a daring spark of quixotic fire.
Clad only in that single sock - left foot shrouded, a secret kept -
You honour a town’s weaving legacy, where hosiery dreams have slept.

Engraved in your plinth, the town’s history unfurls like a scroll,
Images of yesteryear whispering tales of labour, art, and soul.
Each bronze mark a memory, a stitch in Loughborough’s vast lore,
Casting you as a living paradox between the ancient and the avant-garde.

Bare as truth yet bedecked by one - this sock a banner of fabled craft,
A tribute to the industrious hands that spun a future from a shaft.
In your odd, unabashed unclad state, you beckon us to reimagine art,
Where the eccentric reigns supreme and every quirky beat becomes a part.

So, Sock Man, muse of misfit myth, may your bronze grin ever defy,
The mundane; may each passerby pause, a spark of wonder in their eyes.
For in your singular, unabashed style, Loughborough sees a story spun anew,
A tapestry of oddity, history, and dreams stitched deep within the blue.

When youth doth bloom, its blossoms crave,
The wisdom found in age's stave.
Yet age, adorned in wrinkled guise,
Yearns for the spark in youthful eyes.

The clock's tick mocks our restless chase,
For neither form holds perfect grace.
Oh fleeting time, a shifting tide,
Our hearts in both do dreams confide.

Once a bustling heart of town,
Where dreams were bought, where hopes were found.
Through its halls, the footsteps rang,
Of shoppers, workers, laughter sang.

Its walls have seen the years unfold,
Stories shared, both young and old.
A place of gathering, joy, and cheer,
Now whispers fade, the end is near.

The shops that lined its cherished space,
Each one held its own embrace,
From books to trinkets, food to art,
Each store a piece of Loughborough’s heart.

But time moves on, as seasons do,
And change, though hard, brings something new.
Carillon Court, we bid adieu,
Your legacy will see us through.

What is grief if not living in the liminal space between mourning and coping, a shadowed threshold where life meets death in quiet conversation?

I stand on this fragile edge, where the heart quivers like a candle’s wane in the whispering dark, a realm where memories and absence, like twin spectres, waltz in the soft gloom of yesterday and the uncertain light of morrow. Every heartbeat echoes a silence weighed by loss, each breath a tentative bridge between sorrow and the subtle pulse of hope.

Here, in the interstice of emotion, time becomes fluid, a slow, deliberate current that carries moments of despair and fragments of longing, merging into an arras of unspoken truths. In this space, mourning is not an end but a sacred state, a hallowed pause that shapes the contours of coping; each tear, a drop of ink on the parchment of the soul, writing verses of resilience on the margins of our existence.

The twilight of grief, that delicate pause between dusk and night, between what once was and what might be, nurtures a silent alchemy: the transformation of raw hurt into a quiet strength, a whispered promise that from the depths of loss, a new knowing can emerge. We are all suspended, adrift on the cusp of knowing, our spirit marked by both absence and the faint shimmer of renewal.

In this liminal expanse, life, and death converse in the language of echoes and gentle reclamation, and grief, ever mysterious, ever patient, reigns as the unseen artist painting our scars with the hues of compassion. It is the sacred territory where mourning softens into acceptance, and the raw edges of yesterday’s pain create a fertile soil for the blossoming of tomorrow’s hope.

What is grief, if not this delicate passage, a continuous, unfolding dance with mortality where every sorrow holds the seed of a future embrace, every quiet tear a step towards a new dawn?

Dreams linger softly,
Time slips through idle whispers,
Action quietly waits.

A fleeting moment spills,
Hesitation drapes its veil,
Will bloom or decay?

In the hush of pause,
Whispers kindle hidden hope,
New resolve takes flight.

Some days unfurl like languid summer clouds,
Drifting with a quiet grace overhead,
While I gently set aside the dreams
That shimmered and vanished like fleeting wisps.
Procrastination, my soft yet constant companion,
Whispered excuses amid murmuring currents of intention.

Now I pause, drawing in a slow, measured breath
In the quiet alchemy of deep thought,
Where the past twirls gracefully in the amber glow
Of a waiting, embracing present.
No frantic dash to seize the day,
Just a tender glance at chances once lost
Like fragile grains of sand slipping through careless fingers.

I recall those hours of scattered, aimless delay,
An idleness where time unravelled into oblivion.
But now each heartbeat is treasured in reflective stillness,
In the gentle embrace where purpose and patience converge.

That sanctuary of deferred dreams and vacant hours
Has transformed into a vibrant canvas of mindful verse.
I savour the art of quiet contemplation,
Where every thought resonates with newfound inspiration
And procrastination stands only as a faded memory,
A silent lesson carved gently in time.

In the pub, the lads let loose,
With **** this and ****** that, their verbal abuse.
I leaned in close, with a knowing grin,
"I know your favourite word," I said, "it's **** within."

Their jaws dropped, their eyes wide,
"Did you just say that?" they cried.
But I held my ground, calm and steady,
"My favourite word," I said, "is Jesus already."

For Jesus, to me, is more than a name,
A beacon of hope, a guiding flame.
In moments of doubt, in times of despair,
His love reminds me someone’s always there.

He’s the light in the dark, the calm in the storm,
A shelter, a refuge, a heart so warm.
So while you toss your words around,
I’ll hold onto mine, profound and sound.

I stand on mountains, tall and free,
Not just by strength, but what you see.
Your kindness lifts, your light inspires,
Filling my soul with boundless fires.

The valleys low once held my fears,
But now they shimmer, calm and clear.
For every step, for every climb,
Your voice resounds - “You are divine.”

So here I stand, with skies so wide,
Heart unfurled, filled with pride.
You lift me up, you help me soar,
Now grounded strong, yet wanting more.

A whole decade, look at you,
Bright as the morning, skies so blue.
Double digits, what a feat,
A heart so kind, a soul so sweet.

The world is yours, it’s big and wide,
With dreams to chase and stars to guide.
You’re ten today, so take a bow,
The world’s your stage—your time is now.

Laughter rings where you go,
A spark of joy, a gentle glow.
The years ahead are full of light,
With love around you, shining bright.

So, here’s to you, our shining star,
Loved for who you truly are.
Happy birthday, hooray, hooray!
The world’s a brighter place today.

I can feel you looking at me*  
Through the faded colours of time,  
A specter of my past self  
Captured in creases, suspended in grain.  

Sepia sighs curl at the edges,  
Laughter trapped in silvered ink,  
Eyes full of boundless longing,  
Unaware that years would shrink.  

I run my finger along the years,  
A fragile thread, a fleeting ghost,
Did I once dream beyond this frame,  
Or did the moment hold me most?  

Yet here we stand, reflections blurred,  
The self I was, the self I bear,  
A silent nod across the years,  
A whispered thought: *I’m still in there.

I am feeling fragile today,  
Approaching two years since my wife died.  
The air is heavy with memories,  
Soft echoes of laughter carried by the tide.  

Yet through the sorrow, through the ache,  
I lean into the Lord, my guide.  
He shelters me like a mighty fortress,  
His love a flame that never dies.  

When grief’s weight presses on my chest,  
And tears fall silent in the night,  
He whispers softly through the darkness,  
Turning shadows into light.  

I was broken, I was weary,  
Yet He held me, He restored me.  
With each step, though trembling, though torn,  
He walks beside me, strong and steady.  

His arms unseen, yet deeply felt,  
A refuge when my strength is small.  
In Him, my sorrow finds surrender,  
In Him, my heart stands tall.  

I move forward, though brittle, though worn,  
Yet never truly alone I roam.  
For in His grace, His boundless love,  
I find my strength - I find my home.

Silent sentinels, they stand so tall,
Guardians of secrets, behind each wall.
Crafted with care, forged in steel,
A silent promise, a hidden seal.

They whisper softly, "Stay away,"
To those who wander, to those who stray.
Not for the thief, with cunning and guile,
But for the honest, with a trusting smile.

For locks are not to keep the wicked at bay,
Their clever hands find another way.
But to shield the truth from the pure of heart,
To keep them safe, to keep them apart.

A barrier strong, a silent plea,
"Do not enter, let it be."
For in the depths, where shadows play,
The honest soul must stay away.

So they stand, in the dark and light,
Silent sentinels, through day and night.
Not for the thief, with eyes so keen,
But for the honest, unseen, serene.

In the heart of our church, a gathering so dear,
Seniors came together, spreading Easter cheer.
Tracey and Caris, with voices pure and sweet,
Sang songs of joy, making the day complete.

Caris at the piano, her fingers danced with grace,
Filling the room with melodies, a warm embrace.
Curry’s staff with smiles, served lunch with care,
Their kindness and service, beyond compare.

Phil's quiz on Easter, a challenge for the mind,
Three rounds of questions, answers to find.
Laughter and learning, a joyous blend,
In the spirit of Easter, hearts to mend.

No cost to attend, just love freely shared,
A community united, showing they cared.
Easter blessings abound, in every smile and song,
A lunch to remember, where all hearts belong.

Boots opens its doors, a quiet sanctuary of care,
The hum of morning settles, soft as whispers in the air.
A clock ticks steady, and so do I, for a check once a year,
To hear what’s changed - or hasn’t - in the rhythms of my ear.

The audiologist greets with a steady grin,
Tools in hand, ready to begin.
A soundwave symphony, a careful refrain,
And he reveals: my hearing’s barely changed again.

We laugh at my quirks, left more than right,
"A bit in the middle keeps you in the fight!"
“Well,” I grin, “I’m balanced, I suppose,”
In a world of echoes, quirks, and prose.

This place, this test, reminds me anew
To listen well to the life breaking through.
Barely changed but steady still, my ears hold the tune,
In this room at Boots, under the morning moon.

Rose, oh Rose, the queen of class,  
She’s dressed in silk, selling wine and grass.  
“Organic kale, it’s simply divine!”  
She twirls her trolley, a shopping shrine.  

Sain strolls by, with a cheeky grin,  
“Rose, dear, not everyone’s posh within!  
My aisles have deals that make hearts sing,
From the Basics line to the finest bling!”  

Tes rushes in with a clatter and cheer,  
“Stop squabbling, mates, I’m here for the steer!  
Clubcard's flashing like disco lights,  
I serve the masses with snacks for their nights!”  

Rose scoffs, “Tes, you’re much too loud.  
Your aisle décor? A tad less proud.”  
Sain adds, “And what’s with the bargain craze?  
Do shoppers dance through your maze?”  

Tes winks, “They sure do! I’m fun and bold,  
My shelves are stacked, my produce gold!  
Rose is posh, and Sain’s okay,  
But Tes  rocks - it’s hip all day!”  

And so they bicker, a trio delight,  
Rose rolls her eyes, Sain laughs outright.  
Tes bustles on with his Clubcard dream,  
While shoppers weave through their retail scheme.  

They’re rivals, it’s true, but in their zest,  
Rose, Sain, and Tes are retail’s best.  
For amidst the banter, one thing is clear—  
Every shop has a place we hold dear.

In the gentle glow of Easter morn, New Springs Church wakes with the promise of new light. Within these walls, a quiet marvel is born - Jonathon Viera, the classically trained singer, taking flight with piano keys echoing decades of sacred song, each note a prayer, each pause a hymn of belonging.

His fingers, memory-laden with operatic art, dance upon the ivories with effortless grace. Here, tradition and revival merge in a single heart where his journey - from eloquent classical training to soulful pop delight, a beacon of hope and light.

The space reverberates with melodies both old and new, resonating like a timeless vow of faith renewed. Each chord, each verse, tells a tale of struggle and breakthrough, of a pilgrim whose voice bridges worlds, tenderly imbued with the passion of a man who sings to remind us all: that in every humble note, life's miracles recall.

In this sacred sanctuary on Easter Sunday, as voices join in prayerful refrain and hearts unite, Jonathon’s song transforms the mundane into a sacred display of art and reverence - a banquet of sound and light. A reminder that every life, every song sung in this space, carries the resonance of a divine, everlasting embrace.

And as the notes drift, weaving through the congregation's prayer, one feels the subtle echo of a legacy so thoughtfully penned— a lyrical journey of a classically trained soul whose music reaches out to mend. May this sonata of renewal remind us, as each chord unfurls, that our lives, like his melodies, are interwoven with the eternal world.

Laughter spills -
sunlight streams,
ripples of gold,
dreams unbound.

Children leap,
arms to the sky,
chasing joy
without asking why.

No walls,
no thought,
just pure delight,
their laughter so bright.

Voices echo,
bellies shake,
a symphony
innocence makes.

Faces glow,
mirth lights skies,
worlds reborn,
joy unties.

Oh, to pause -
to stop and play -
to bask in laughter
and let life sway.

So life hits hard, it’s a twist in the plot,
A moment unexpected, ready or not.
The test says yes, now the world’s in a spin,
Questions flood in - where do you begin?

Fear creeps in, how will they react?
Mum and Dad - will they judge, turn their back?
The truth feels heavy, a weight on your chest,
You rehearse the words, but they’re hard to express.

Finally, you speak, the silence breaks,
Your voice shakes hard, your heart aches.
But they listen close, their eyes reveal,
The bond of love, the strength they feel.

It’s not just shock - it’s care, it’s grace,
They hold you tight in a warm embrace.
“You’re not alone,” Mum softly says,
Dad adds, “We’ll walk with you through these days.”

Strength runs deep, it’s there in your soul,
Facing the unknown, you’re taking control.
Unplanned doesn’t mean you’re lost or alone,
It’s a journey of love, a path of your own.

They’ve gone to rest, a peaceful sleep,
A journey taken, vast and deep.
They’ve crossed the river, sailed the tide,
To golden shores where dreams reside.

They’ve passed away, a fleeting breath,
A quiet exit, not called death.
They’ve slipped beyond, a soft goodbye,
To touch the stars that light the sky.

They’ve met their end, yet not in vain,
A final chapter, free from pain.
They’ve gone to glory, found their peace,
A boundless calm, a sweet release.

They’ve shuffled off this mortal coil,
Returned to earth, to rest in soil.
They’ve joined the ages, the great unknown,
A timeless realm, a world their own.

And though we fear to name it true,  
These words we weave, a softer hue.  
For in their leaving, love remains,  
A thread unbroken, through joy and pain.

The Spark of Questions
Before the first line, before the first word,
There stirs a longing, quiet, unheard.
A dance of questions, restless and free,
Beckons the writer: “Come, follow me.”

Through the folds of time, in the still of night,
In whispers of wonder, in glimpses of light,
Each query lingers, each muse takes its place,
A journey begins through the boundless space.

What will you answer? Where will it lead?
The seed of creation starts with a need.
And so, with each question, the page comes alive,
A mirror of thought, where stories survive.

When Will You Write?
When will you write, dear keeper of tales,
When the morning mist lingers or evening pales?
Do words not stir in the chambers of thought,
Waiting for freedom, a canvas long sought?

The paper lies still, a world yet to be,
A mirror of dreams, of all you could see.
Do you hear its call, soft yet profound,
Whispering secrets without a sound?

When will you write, as the moments pass,
The ticking of time on an hourglass?
Will you let the silence speak through your hand,
Crafting new worlds where hearts expand?

The muse is patient, yet fleeting at best,
Will you answer now or delay the quest?
For the voice within, so eager, so slight,
Asks but one question: “When will you write?”

What Will You Write?
What will you write, with the world at your hand?
Will it be oceans or deserts of sand?
Will it be whispers, soft as a sigh,
Or a cry to the stars that pierce the sky?

What will you write, in the stillness of night,
When thoughts flicker faint, yet burn so bright?
Will you tell of love, of joy, of pain,
Or dance with the shadows that call your name?

Will it be journeys to lands unknown,
Or the humblest truths that you've always known?
Will it be fire that sparks a new flame,
Or an echo of silence, a nameless name?

What will you write, with each fleeting breath?
A tale of beginnings, or whispers of death?
For each word you choose is a seed to sow,
What will it bloom? Only you will know.

Why Will You Write?
Why will you write, with ink that bleeds true?
What calls your heart to paint its view?
Is it the weight of a story untold,
Or the rush of a dream that won’t be controlled?

Will you write for the joy that the words may bring,
For the echoes they shape, for the songs they sing?
Or perhaps to mend what time could not,
To piece together what memory forgot.

Why will you write, when silence prevails,
Will it soothe a heart or tip the scales?
Will it carve out truths from tangled doubt,
Or whisper the secrets that can’t come out?

Perhaps you write to leave a trace,
A mark of yourself in life’s vast space.
To make sense of chaos, to name the unnamed,
To capture a world forever framed.

Why will you write, the muse will ask,
For pleasure, for freedom, or just the task?
The answer is yours—raw, undefined,
A glimpse of your soul through words enshrined.

Where Will You Write?
Where will you write, when the words take flight?
In the quiet of dawn or the depths of night?
Will you seek the solitude of an empty room,
Or let your pen wander under moonlit gloom?

Will you write where whispers meet the sea,
On shores that hum with eternity?
Or beneath the trees, where shadows play,
With nature's rhythm to guide your way?

Where will you write, on the edge of a storm,
Where chaos and passion gather and swarm?
Or will it be peace that cradles your thought,
A sanctuary of stillness, where time is naught?

Will you write in the heart of the city’s roar,
Where the pulse of life demands much more?
Or perched on a hill, where the sky expands,
And the world feels small in your open hands?

Where will you write, the question will say,
In places unknown or just where you stay?
For the space you choose holds the seeds to grow,
Each word a path to the worlds you’ll show.

The Writer’s Journey
Through questions asked, a path unfolds,
A tale unwritten, yet quietly told.
When the pen will dance, what the ink will say,
Why the muse calls, where thoughts will stray.

Each query shapes the writer’s art,
A mirror of self, a map of the heart.
And so, the page, no longer bare,
Becomes a world crafted with care.

The quest to create is timeless and vast,
A whisper of future, a shadow of past.
For in these questions, answers ignite,
The boundless rhythm of those who write.

Words flutter, fragments of dreams,
Caught like whispers in rushing streams.
The blank page stares, a daring abyss,
A canvas of whispers, demanding a kiss.

The soul stirs, nudged by a fleeting glow,
A spark, a tempest, a story to sow.
It strikes like lightning, fierce and unkind,
Leaving its echo, etched in the mind.

The pen wavers, uncertain, yet bold,
Tracing thoughts where truths unfold.
With rhythm and rhyme, a melody ignites,
Flickering flames in the depths of night.

Each line a thread, unbroken, unbound,
Weaving through silence where secrets are found.
Yet words resist, they falter, they run,
A battle begun before it is won.

The heart spills ink, raw and untamed,
From chaos, a pattern, unnamed, unclaimed.
In the end, a poet dares to unmask,
A poem is not written; it is asked.

The tick-tock fades, a distant heartbeat of the unseen clock.  
Moments lose their grip, unravelling threads of before and after.  
You step - not forward, not backward - but out -  
Into the stillness, the vast, unmeasured expanse.  

Here, eternity hums its ageless tune,  
Where no hour rises to stake its claim.  
No race to run, no countdown to fear;  
Just the boundless now, serene and infinite.  

Breath flows steady, untangled from urgency,  
Feet tread lightly on ground untouched by haste.  
The soul expands, reaching where hands could not,  
Discovering the rhythms beyond the cage of seconds.  

Time, a frame shattered by the joy of escape.  
No ticking binds the heart that dares -
That dares to step outside,  
And taste the freedom of what simply is.

I stand before the glow - a prism of light and promise, a stage where shadows dissolve into spoken truth. The camera captures my heartbeat in pixelated whispers, each word a bridge, each pause a silent invitation.

Here on this channel, my sanctuary of bright ideas, I unfurl my poems like banners against the digital dusk, speaking directly into the soul of the lens, where audience and artist share a single, pulsing gaze.

The frame holds all my dreams, a mirror of aspiration, as I read verses that echo the rhythm of my being. Curiosity and courage dance at the edge of each line, illuminating hidden worlds set free by my voice.

This is more than a channel - it’s a gathering of hearts, a digital home where the magic of language transforms into a symphony of presence, resonating deep and true. With every reading, I cast a net of empathy and wonder, inviting viewers to step closer, to feel their own light.

And so I begin, microphone and lens intertwined, sharing my art directly with the observer, where each spoken poem marks a moment of shared truth, a pledge that here, in the glow of the camera, we are all the story, the voice, the enduring beat of life.

I plant each poem like a seed,  
into the soil of Hello Poetry,  
where words bloom, bright or shy
a garden growing as days go by.  

Two hundred seventy-seven blossoms strong,  
each verse a thread, each thought a song.  
But oh, the dream, the quiet plea,  
to tip the scale of symmetry.  

For sixty-three souls have found the hue,  
of my written worlds, my skies of blue.  
Yet in whispers deep, ambition stirs,  
to gather more hearts where poetry whirs.  

More hands to hold these fragile blooms,  
more voices to echo their subtle tunes.  
Followers to surpass the poems I’ve sown
a milestone carved in my heart's stone.  

So I keep writing, planting anew,  
each word a bridge to those who pursue.  
One day, I’ll stand where dreams collide,  
where followers and poems walk side by side.  

And with each new soul who joins the feast,  
this garden of words shall never cease.

Bluebells softly sway,
Whispers of spring in the breeze,
Nature's quiet song.

During life's vast fray,
Remember, everything will be okay.
Not perfect, not without pain,
But in the end, we'll stand again.

Through tempests that twist and winds that wail,
We'll find our way, though paths may fail.
Not every day will shine so bright,
Yet dawn will break after each night.

In moments when the heart feels strained,
And every effort seems in vain,
Hold on to hope, though it may sway,
For in the end, we'll find our way.

Not every tear will cease to fall,
Not every wound will heal at all,
But strength will bloom like a resilient flower,
And in the end, we'll be okay.

So take a breath, and face the fight,
With courage drawn from inner light.
Not perfect, not without dismay,
But in the end, we'll be okay.

Dear valued friend, we must confess,
A change is coming, we address.
From three to five, the price will rise,
A shift we make with heavy sighs.

Costs have grown, we can't deny,
To keep our shop, we must comply.
With heartfelt thanks, we hope you'll see,
This step ensures our quality.

We cherish you, our loyal guest,
Your understanding, we request.
Though prices change, our care remains,
In every product, love sustains.

So, with this note, we humbly share,
Our gratitude beyond compare.
Thank you for your trust and grace,
Together, we'll embrace this phase.

In the hushed woods, solitude cradles me,
As the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee
Infuses my hands with gentle warmth,
And memories of Joy drift like soft petals
In her cherished spot where bluebells bask in a dreamlike haze.

Beneath the delicate veil of morning mist,
The trees bow in silent adoration,
Whispering secrets of distant yesterdays
In the rustle of tender leaves and the murmur of the breeze.
Light and shadow engage in a quiet ballet, echoing forgotten smiles.

I wander along winding trails where memories lie hidden
Among tangled roots and freshly sprung shoots.
Each soft footfall on the familiar earth
Revives whispers of past laughter
And stirs a tender dialogue between what was and what is.

In the gentle glow of the unfolding day,
Echoes of Joy linger like faint footprints
Across the heart of the forest; a delicate imprint
That speaks of love and quiet resilience,
As nature’s eternal hymn offers solace in every sigh.

So I surrender to this living reverie,
Where absence and presence entwine in quiet harmony,
And every moment, like a petal adrift in a stream,
Carries the bittersweet cadence of life;
A promise that even in solitude, hope blooms anew.

I'm drunk, I'm drunk, I'm a silly owd sod,
Stumbling through the still shiver of the early night;
Each step a clumsy sonnet written on cracked pavement,
Every stumble a verse that mocks my fleeting might.

The fog of memories curls around neon glows,
Where lamplight winks in rhythm with my muddled heart.
Here, life is a scattered bottle of bittersweet prose,
And each shattered shard reminds me of its fragile art.

I laugh at the irony in this unsteady parade,
An ode to lost directions and moonlit confession.
In the echo of my antics, the city's secrets are conveyed,
While the pavement hums along in a raucous procession.

For in every spilled pint and every whispered rue,
Lies the raw, untamed truth of being splendidly flawed.
Though my path is crooked and the night askew,
I dance with destiny: a drunken, beautiful fraud.

And so I wander, a silly owd sod beneath the sky,
Grateful for the chaos, the laughter, the imperfect song.
In every stumble, there’s a glimmer that refuses to die,
A promise that in brokenness, we all somehow belong.

Sweet lure in the air,
Gentle touch wins eager wings,
Kindness draws them close.

As wings are drawn, hands extend

Warm hands reaching out,
Broken hearts begin to mend,
Kindness heals the soul.

A tender warmth spreads outward

A ripple of warmth,
Softly spreads through endless streams,
Kindness lights the way.

And in the light, words fall softly

Gentle words cascade,
Soft rain on a thirsty field,
Kindness breathes new life.

Life finds bridges in open hands

A hand softly held,
Bridges built in quiet care,
Kindness mends the world.

Under a mended sky, stars glow

Stars guide weary souls,
Kindness shines, a steadfast light,
In darkness, it glows.

Each glow, a spark ignites anew

Each act of kindness,
A small spark igniting hope,
Fires warming the cold.

Kindness, a soft spark,
Igniting hope through the dark,
Mends hearts, lights the way.

A Sunday afternoon unfolds, soft and unhurried, like a ribbon untied. Malbec, velvet and dark, spilling its whispers into the glass.

The film begins, its story weaving, a tapestry of shadows and light. Characters speak of love, loss, and the ache of dreams unfound; their words mirrored in crimson ripples.

Each sip a revelation, smooth as silk, each scene a moment etched in time. The wine hums of distant vines, of lands kissed by sun and shadow, where laughter mingles with the soil.

Outside, the world hums faintly, but here, a stillness lingers, sacred, a communion of story and sip. A Sunday framed in simplicity, wrapped in the richness of Malbec’s embrace. And so you linger—until the credits roll.

And then...

The first salad of the season— a whisper of renewal on the tongue. Tender leaves, new-born and green, crisp with secrets of earth awoken.

Cucumber slices cool as spring rain, tomatoes blushing with sunrise hues, a drizzle of olive oil weaving through, like a stream winding in sunlight.

Each bite holds a promise, a fragile hymn to fleeting freshness, a reminder that seasons turn, and with them, we grow anew.

So here’s to your first salad, to the bloom of brighter days ahead, to the joy of savouring life’s simplest, sweetest gifts.

Words and sword, both sharp and keen,
Their letters intertwined, unseen.
One forged in fire, steel and might,
The other born from thoughts in flight.

A sword can pierce the flesh and bone,
Its damage plain, its pain well-known.
But words can cut much deeper still,
Invisible wounds that time can't heal.

A careless word, a thoughtless jest,
Can scar the heart, disturb the rest.
Its echoes linger, haunting dreams,
A silent cry, a muffled scream.

Yet words can also heal and mend,
A soothing balm, a loyal friend.
They lift us up, they make us strong,
A gentle touch, a heartfelt song.

So wield your words with mindful care,
For they possess a power rare.
Choose kindness, let your heart be true,
And brighten someone's world anew.

A sword may rust, its edge may dull,
But words endure, their impact full.
They shape our lives, our paths they chart,
For words and swords both touch the heart.

In the quietness of the night, I wake,
To an empty space where you once lay.
Your touch, your laughter, our shared jokes,
Echo softly in my heart, where love still stays.

Two years have passed, yet time can't erase,
The warmth of your presence, the light of your grace.
Though fewer tears now fill my eyes,
Your memory lingers, like stars in the skies.

In the quiet moments of the day,
I hear your voice, though far away.
Your laughter, your smile, your gentle touch,
Are memories I hold, and miss so much.

Life continues, as it must,
But in my soul, there's a quiet trust.
That love endures beyond the veil,
In every whisper, in every tale.

The days we spent, the dreams we shared,
In my heart, they're always there.
Though time moves on, and seasons change,
Our love remains, never estranged.

I miss you deeply, yet I find,
In cherished moments, you're still entwined.
In the rustle of leaves, in the song of birds,
I find comfort in your unspoken words.

At dawn and dusk, in the gentle breeze,
Your spirit lives on, bringing me peace.
Though you're gone, you're never far,
Your memory shines, like a guiding star.

In every moment, in every breath,
You live on, beyond life's death.

1 Corinthians 10:31 (NIV) says:
"So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God."

I do it all for the glory of God,
Through every step, on this path I trod.
In moments of joy, and times of strife,
I seek His guidance, in this life.

For every ache, and every pain,
I find solace in His name.
With faith as my anchor, and hope as my guide,
I walk with Him, by my side.

In the quiet of the night,
In dawn's first light,
I lift my heart, raise my voice,
In His love, I rejoice.

Through trials faced, and victories won,
I give thanks to the Holy One.
For in His grace, I find my strength,
To carry on, at any length.

I do it all for the glory of God,
With every breath, and every nod.
In His light, I find my way,
And in His love, I choose to stay.

Dancing on the edge of death,  
where the air tastes like fire,  
and shadows stretch long against the fading light.  

Each step defies the weight of gravity,  
a rebellion against silence.  
The wind murmurs secrets,  
but I refuse to listen,  
too lost in the spinning, the leaping,  
the delicate balance between falling and flight.  

Flames brush close,  
a fleeting warmth,  
but never a burn.  
Ice kisses the edge of my fingertips,  
a promise of stillness,  
yet I twirl past it,  
a refusal to be caught.  

Time splinters into fragments,  
moments scattering like glass on the floor.  
Each shard catches the light—  
brief, radiant,  
a fleeting glimpse of eternity.  

There is no partner here,  
only the rhythm of my own heartbeat,  
steady, resolute,  
guiding my motion through the abyss.  

I dance where the line blurs,  
where every ending hides a beginning.  
The edge is narrow,  
sharp,  
but it holds me still.  

Breathing in the infinite,  
I step forward again,  
dancing not for fear,  
but for the freedom found  
in each defiant motion.

In the still hours beyond midnight, I sit alone - I ask:
"Who am I beneath these layers of dreams and doubts?"
A soft voice within replies,
"You're the echo of all the gentle questions you've ever dared to ask."

Beneath a sky scattered with silent stars, I wonder - I whisper:
"What truth lies hidden in the rhythm of my heartbeat?"
That inner murmur answers,
"Each pulse is a verse of the divine, a quiet reminder of your own eternal light."

When darkness casts its long and lingering shadow, I confront my fear - I question:
"Is this solitude a prison, or a sanctuary of self?"
The voice within gently assures,
"In the quiet, you find the courage to embrace all that you are - even the parts that ache."

On wings of memories and fragile hopes, I search for meaning - I softly inquire:
"Can sorrow and joy dwell together, intertwined like day and night?"
The inner dialogue unfolds,
"Yes; every tear holds the seed of new growth, and every smile is born from the silent struggle."

At the threshold of a new dawn, as light delicately brushes away the dark, I reflect - I murmur:
"Will I ever truly know myself, or is this journey unending?"
And the voice within offers its eternal comfort,
"In each question lies your endless becoming, and in every answer, the journey circles back to you."

And so, in this quiet conversation with my soul, I march onward,
Each inquiry a stepping stone, each response a whispered embrace of truth,
Together weaving the timeless dialogue that unites fear and hope,
Until the silent night gives way to the radiant promise of day.

"The eyes of the LORD are in every place, keeping watch on the wicked and the good." – Proverbs 15:3

When people told me God is watching you,
I heard the ancient whisper of a covenant true,
In every trembling leaf and drop of dew,
His presence endures in all that we pursue.

"The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness." – Zephaniah 3:17

Upon the olive hills where prophets once trod,
In the hush of dawn and the murmur of prayer,
The Almighty’s gaze spans both heaven and sod,
Bestowing grace and guidance everywhere.

"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me." – Psalm 23:4

In valleys deep where shadows often reign,
When weary hearts falter under sin’s decree,
His watchful love breaks through like morning rain,
An everlasting promise to set the spirit free.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." – John 1:5

As voices of old proclaimed in burning light,
Their words ignited hope in souls forlorn,
So too does His vigilant mercy shine bright,
Turning broken night into a radiant morn.

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus." – Romans 8:38-39

Sing now of redemption and the sacred art,
Of lives redeemed by a love that won’t recede;
For no soul escapes the reach of His heart,
In every tear, He plants a hopeful seed.

Beneath the stars that trace His timeless care,
We walk the path lit by His eternal glow;
In every step, a sacred bond we share,
As in His watchful eyes, our true home we know.

It's the gold of a late afternoon,
a girl and her collie wander along a winding lane;
the soft murmur of nature as their quiet tune,
their hearts aligned as they share joy and refrain.

She readies a ball with a gentle, knowing smile,
tossing it high into a sunlit arc above;
the collie's eyes brighten and pause awhile,
waiting for the "go" command—a moment of trust and love.

Every throw turns into a playful ballet,
a dance of learning, where patience finds its place;
the collie holds still until she's ready to say,
"Go on, run!" while they revel in that shared space.

Yet amidst the frolic and echoes of cheer,
nature reminds her of duty in the open air;
she crouches to pick up where responsibility is clear,
a simple act of care—a moment honest and rare.

For in each throw, each pause, and the mindful clean-up time,
lie the harmonies of life's adventures, both playful and true;
every command and every gesture, a gentle rhyme,
weaving joy and accountability into everything they do.

I’m still me, through every storm,
A soul unchanged, though not the norm.
The world may spin, its colours blend,
Yet deep within, I do not bend.

Beneath the masks, the layers peel,
A truth unspoken, now revealed.
Though labels shift and shadows flee,
Through it all, I’m still just me.

No tide can sweep my core away,
No wind can steal my light of day.
The journey winds, the path may sway,
But who I am will always stay.

So here I stand, my voice set free,
Declaring proud, I’m still just me.
No fear, no doubt, no shame to hide,
A spark of truth, a flame inside.

I’ve done it now, the die is cast,
No turning back, the moment's passed.
A spark ignites, a bridge ablaze,
The path ahead, a murky haze.

With trembling hands, I face the tide,
No place to run, no place to hide.
Yet in this chaos, whispers sing,
A daring step might bloom a spring.

For in the fall, there’s room to soar,
To find a way, unlock the door.
I’ve done it now, a leap, a vow,
To shape my fate, to seize the now.

In quiet corners of a dusky past,
Whispered secrets formed a hidden art.
A truth unspoken, lingering, vast,
Awaiting the dawn to ignite my heart.

I emerged like sunrise over a new day,
Revealing colours once too shy to bloom.
No longer confined by a single way,
I now claim every hue in full room.

Each bond, each gentle glance along the way,
Unites a spectrum, endless and profound,
In tender love that grows with each new day,
I celebrate a truth by which I'm bound.

Freed from the chains of a binary frame,
I stand, unmasked, in radiant multipath.
Bisexual brilliance, a cherished name,
Guiding my steps with its resplendent wrath.

For in every connection, wild or mild,
I discover the world in ceaseless refrains.
In owning this truth proud, unbowed, beguiled
I find my soul’s home, unbridled and unchained.