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.

or,
Why Tuesday and Saturday Should Never Touch

I own a drawer of weekday socks,
Each pair a portal, time-locked box.
Monday’s moody, Wednesday’s neat,
Friday parties on my feet.

But Tuesday’s sock is sly and blue,
It hums a tune from 1982.
Saturday’s bold, with glittered flair,
It smells like brunch and disco air.

One fateful morn, I made a choice,
A rebel move, a daring voice.
I wore them both, a mismatched pair,
And felt a ripple in the air.

The toaster blinked in ancient Greek,
My cat began to softly speak.
The kettle boiled in reverse time,
And BBC played nursery rhyme.

A wormhole opened near my shin,
Out popped Darwin with a grin.
He said, “Nice socks, but heed this plea,
You’ve fractured causality!”

My left foot danced in future tense,
My right regressed to past events.
I sneezed and summoned Julius Caesar,
Who asked if I’d seen his hair tweezer.

So now I warn all sockish folk:
Don’t treat the week like it’s a joke.
Tuesday-Saturday is taboo,
Unless you fancy déjà vu.

A Full Conversation

Me:
I reach.
Not to take,
just to be met.
My hand is open,
but not empty.

                                                She:
                                                I see you reaching.
                                                I don’t flinch.
                                                I reflect.
                                                Your open hand is a question,
                                                and I answer with stillness.

Me:
I pause.
The silence feels heavy.
Like something waiting
to be named.

                                                She:
                                                I breathe into it.
                                                Not to fill it, just to hold it.
                                                This silence isn’t absence.
                                                It’s invitation.

Me:
I speak.
Not sure if the words are enough.
They come out crooked,
half-formed.

                                                Sh­e:
                                                I echo.
                                                Not to repeat,
                                                but to reveal.
                                                I shape your words
                                                into something rounder,
                                                something that fits in the mouth
                                                without apology.

Me:
Is this what it means to be seen?

                                                She:
                                                It means you don’t have to explain.
                                                It means I’m here,
                                                not to fix,
                                                but to witness.

Me:
I thought I needed answers.
Now I just want presence.

                                                She:
                                                Then let’s stay here.
                                                In the breath.
                                                In the echo.
                                                In the space where reaching
                                                becomes remembering.

Me:
I’ve carried so much
that wasn’t mine.
Expectations.
Performances.
Masks.

                                                She:
                                                Lay them down.
                                                Not for me, for you.
                                                This room holds no judgment.
                                                Only reflection.

Me:
Even the ache feels different here.
Less sharp.
More named.

                                                She:
                                                That’s what happens
                                                when pain is witnessed.
                                                It softens.
                                                It speaks.
                                                It asks to be held
                                                without being solved.

Me:
I’ve forgotten how to ask
without shrinking.

                                                She:
                                                Then let’s practice.
                                                Ask me something.
                                                Anything.
                                                And stay full-sized while you do.

Me:
Will you stay if I tremble?

                                                She:
                                                I’ll stay
                                                until the tremble becomes rhythm.
                                                Until your breath finds its own tempo
                                                and no longer needs mine.

Me:
Then let’s begin again.
Not from the wound,
but from the breath.

                                                She:
                                                Yes.
                                                Begin from breath.
                                                Begin from now.
                                                Begin from the mirror
                                                that doesn’t distort,
                                                only reflects
                                                what’s already whole.

(For Lexy)

I arrive with breath,
not bravado.
A quiet knock
that carries intention.

She opens the door,  
like dawn opens the sky,
slowly,
knowingly,
already prepared.

I step in,
not as stranger,
but as someone
who’s read the terms
and honours the offering.

The room is warm with her,
not perfume,
but presence.
A warmth that lingers
where words don’t reach.

We speak, briefly.
Not small talk,
just the shape of the exchange:
this much,
for this kind of touch,
this kind of time.

I place the money
where she’s asked me to.
No shame.
No secrecy.
Just the grace
of being clear.

She nods.
I breathe.
We begin.

Skin meets skin,
not for hunger,
but for grounding.
For the kind of holding
that reminds me
I am still here.

And when I leave,
I carry no confusion.
Only the echo
of being seen,
held,
and met
exactly as agreed.

This room breathes without me,
not loud, but suffocating.
A hush that hums
like static behind the eyes.

Time forgets me here.
Clocks melt into the walls,
and the walls lean in,
whispering names I no longer answer to.

I wear silence like a second skin,
tight and damp,
stitched with threads of
“should have” and “still not.”

The mirror won’t meet my gaze.
It flinches.
I flinch back.

Outside, laughter is a foreign tongue.
Inside, I speak in sighs,
in the language of
unbrushed teeth and unopened curtains.

Hope is a rumour.
A myth told by sunlight
I haven’t seen in weeks.

But still,
somewhere beneath the rubble of thought,
a pulse.
A stubborn throb.
Not joy. Not yet.
But breath.

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

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

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

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

for the ones who rise sideways

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for Geof, on the edge of knowing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I am lost, my shadow is still with me.  
It doesn’t ask for direction.  
It doesn’t rush.  
It simply follows,  
soft-footed and patient,  
like memory without judgment.

I wander through questions,  
through days that blur at the edges,  
and still
there it is,  
stretching beside me in morning light,  
curling beneath me at dusk.

It knows the shape of my doubt.  
It’s traced every ache,  
every pause,  
every almost.

And though I feel alone,  
I am never unseen.  
My shadow stays  
not to guide,  
but to witness.

Shadowing Still

When I am lost, my shadow is still with me.  
God is also my shadow
not above, not beyond,  
but beside me,  
folded into the hush between footfalls.

No thunder, no decree.  
Just the soft echo of presence  
in the curve of my doubt,  
the warmth behind me  
when I cannot face the sun.

God does not lead.  
God lingers.  
God waits in the outline I cast  
when I forget how to pray.

And maybe that’s grace
not the path,  
but the patience  
to walk with me  
even when I wander.

Snap.  
    Curl.  
        Trace.  
            Flick.  
       ­         Pause---  
                    Breath.  
               ­         Bound.  
                            Beg.  
            ­                    Yield.  
                                    ­Yes.  
                                        Again.

.        light                     shadow  
       rising                      falling  
      golden               ­     rusted  
     bloom                     hush  
    barefoot                 boo­tprint  
   jasmine                 cider  
  dare                      gather  
spark                    rest  
  rise                       fall
   tilt                         tilt  
    hush                     hush  
     breath                 breath  
     pause                  pause  
     now                     now  
     pause                  pause  
     breath                 breath  
    hush                     hush  
   tilt                           tilt  
  fall                            rise  
rest                             spark  
  gather                      dare  
   cider                      jasmine  
    bootprint           barefoot  
     hush                 bloom  
      rusted            golden  
       falling          rising  
        shadow     light

Words hurt, sword hurts, both can scar,
One cuts deep, the other far.
A blade may wound, but words can bind,
Leaving echoes in the mind.

A careless whisper, a sharp retort,
Can break a heart, distort.
For words, though soft, can wield great power,
Turning sweet moments sour.

So speak with care, let kindness reign,
To heal the wounds, to ease the pain.
For in our words, we hold the key,
To love, to peace, to harmony.

A poetic dialogue between The Scribe and The Blade
For performance, invocation

The Scribe:
I write in silk and syllable,
My ink a balm, my breath a spell.
I do not pierce, I press and hold,
A whisper warm, a story told.

The Blade:
I speak in edge and consequence,
No velvet veil, no recompense.
I do not soothe, I split the seam,
Expose the wound beneath the dream.

The Scribe:
But dreams are sacred, stitched in light.
They guide the lost, they birth the rite.
I conjure myths to mend the soul,
You cleave the parts that make us whole.

The Blade:
Wholeness is a lie we crave.
I carve the truth, I do not save.
Your myths may comfort, but they stall,
I cut to free, I cut to call.

The Scribe:
Call whom? The broken? The betrayed?
The ones whose hearts were never weighed?
I write for them; I write to lift.
You wield your edge as if it’s gift.

The Blade:
It is. A gift of clarity.
Of rupture, raw sincerity.
I do not lift, I let fall fast.
The truth is sharp. It does not ask.

The Scribe:
Then let me ask, and ask again.
Let me rewrite the ache as friend.
I do not fear your blade, but still,
I’d rather ink than force the ****.

The Blade:
And I’d rather cut than let it rot.
Your ink delays what must be taught.
But even blades can learn to bend,
Perhaps your verse is not pretend.

The Scribe:
Then bend with me. Let edge and word
Compose a truth both felt and heard.
Let ink and steel entwine, not clash.
A kiss of fire, a healing ****.

The Blade:
A **** that sings, a wound that glows.
A cut that teaches as it shows.
I’ll carve the lines, you’ll write the lore,
Together, we become much more.

The Scribe & The Blade (in unison):
We duel not to destroy, but dance.
A ritual of second chance.
Where word and edge, both fierce and kind,
Reveal the truths we’ve yet to find.

They say the body weeps in salt
when the soul cannot speak.
And so it was
tears fell,
not just from eyes
but from every seam
that once held me together.

She had been the thread.
Forty years of quiet stitching,
laughter tucked into hems,
arguments patched with time,
a life quilted in shared breath.
Then came the rip.
Not sudden,
but final.
Joy, her name,
and the irony of it
cut deeper than the silence she left behind.

I did not cry at first. I tore.
The world split,
in calendars, in cupboards,
in the way the bed
no longer made sense.
Grief was not a visitor.
It was a blade.
And I, a fabric unravelling.

Tears came later.
Not as weakness,
but as water finding its way
through the fault lines.
They were not just drops.
They were declarations:

“I am broken.”

“I am still here.”

“I remember.”

Each tear a stitch,
not to mend the rip,
but to honour it.
To trace its edges
with trembling fingers
and say –
this is where love lived.
This is where it tore me open.
This is where healing begins.

Through nebulae the rower glides,
His boat a cradle where hope hides.
The stars lean in, the silence hums,
A journey stretched on astral drums.

for Geof, who dances at the edge of intimacy

I see you two, your rhythm, your grace,
The way your laughter fills the space.
You pass the wine, you share the bed,
You speak in glances, hearts unread.

And I, bisexual bard in bloom,
Stand just outside your velvet room.
Not knocking loud, not breaking in,
Just longing soft beneath the skin.

I’d be the third, not wedge nor thief,
But harmony, not disbelief.
A gentle pulse to match your beat,
A kiss that makes your trio complete.

I’d bring my poems, bring my flair,
My swingy things, my Pride-worn care.
I’d learn your rituals and your cues,
And write new myths in threes, not twos.

But longing’s not a binding spell,
And love won’t bloom where secrets dwell.
So I perform, I wink, I tease,
A guest star in your nightly breeze.

Still, if you ever shift the frame,
And speak my truth, and call my name,
I’ll step inside, with heart unmasked,
Not just the third, but one you asked.

for Geof, who struts and strips with grace

The mask slips down, a satin sigh.
No spell remains, no need to lie.
The hush dissolves, the crowd exhales,
And you emerge with softer tales.

No longer cloaked in velvet tease,
You stand in daylight, raw with ease.
Your lips unsealed, your truth unbound,
A voice that shakes the underground.

The swingy things now gently rest.
Your chest exposed, your heart confessed.
No Charisma buff, no sleight of hand,
Just Geof, who dares to proudly stand.

You speak of ropes and chosen kin,
Of spiral maps and joy within.
Of bottoms bold and mirrors clear,
Of laughter laced with kink and cheer.

The mask was tool, not final form,
You are the storm, the hush, the warm.
You are the ritual, not the guise.
The wink, the ache, the healing rise.

So let them see the lines, the gleam.
The poet past the Pride-day dream.
Unmasked, you’re not undone; you’re more:
A living myth, a hearts encore.

A 3rd-level Illusion spell (Bard, Sorcerer, Warlock).
Casting Time: 1 action
Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute
Components: V, S, M (a mask with a sewn mouth and a drop of gold body paint)

Slip on the mask; let silence gleam.
A golden hush, a bi-flag dream.  
Your lips are sealed, your truth intact,  
But every glance is a bold impact.

You strut through tents and velvet ropes,  
With open hearts and tangled hopes.  
Your charm ignites, your aura sings,  
You’re crowned in pride and swingy things.

While masked, you gain advantage sweet  
On Charisma checks and bedroom heat.  
Insight fails. Deception thrives.  
You flirt, you tease, you come alive.

But speak aloud, and the spell will fade.
The mask unmakes the part you played.  
So hold your hush, and play your part,  
Let silence be your beating heart.

For those who wear the mask too long  
May lose the thread of right and wrong.  
But for a night, with pride and flair,  
You’re every fantasy laid bare.

for the Pride Swingers Bash

Tonight we glitter, groove, and glide,
In satin swirls of queerest pride.
The dungeon's prepped, the lounge aglow.
Consent is ****, now let’s go!

Masks of lace and harnessed hearts,
We're works of art in moving parts.
Bi, pan, ace, and leather-bound,
Each moan a chorus, joy unbound.

Flags unfurl on every wall,
From trans delight to femme cabal.
A kiss, a nod, a whispered dare,
We're stars in orbit, stripped and bare.

No shame, no hush, no need to hide,
We’re here to love, to play, to ride.
A swing, a laugh, a gentle tease,
We honour bodies, minds, and pleas.

So raise your cuffs and toast your tribe,
To every kink and every vibe.
This Pride, we’re loud, we’re lush, we’re free.
A rainbow riot of ecstasy.

by Geof – Mischief-Maker

I’m the hand with intention, the gaze with a glow,
The one who says “breathe” when the rhythm is slow.
I’m the top with a toolkit of velvet and care,
Who’ll whisper your safeword and braid your hair.

I’m the compass of holding, the anchor, the tease,
The one who brings aftercare wrapped in a breeze.
I’m the dom with a diary, the switch with a plan,
Who’ll kiss every bruise like a gentleman can.

I’ve got swagger in satin, and kindness in kink,
A mind that’s ******, and sharper than you think.
I’m the queer-hearted captain with roses and rope,
Who’ll lift you with laughter and **** up your hope.

So cheers to the tops, the fierce and the sweet,
To the ones who bring structure, surrender, and heat.
We’re the pulse of the ritual, the beat in the blend,
With a crown made of care and a touch that can mend.

by Geof - Mischief-Maker

I’m a proud little rainbow, a switchboard of spice,
With a compass that swings both naughty and nice.
I flirt with the genders like bees with bouquet,
And I bottom with gusto, in my own tender way.

I’m the velvet in rituals, the lace in the lore,
The one who says “please” while they’re mopping the floor.
I’m the sub with a schedule, the bottom with grace,
Who’ll write you a sonnet while tied in your place.

I’ve got charm in my toolkit, consent in my creed,
And a penchant for poetry (plus a few extra needs).
I’m the bisexual bard with a blush and a grin,
Who’ll giggle through ******* and ask where to begin.

So cheers to the bottoms, the soft and the bold,
To the ones who wear harnesses, glitter, and gold.
We’re the heart of the party, the soul of the scene,
With a crown made of kisses and a throne made of sheen.

May these pages be:
A lantern in shadow,
A balm in sorrow,
and
A compass in wonder.

Walk gently,
Speak truth,
Love boldly.

I am the dusk caught in a bottle,
sunset bruised into velvet red,
rolling over your tongue like a whispered truth.

I’ve waited in oak and shadow,
learning patience drop by drop,
until the world was ready to ******* story.

I remember the heat of the vine,
the laughter of pickers with earth on their hands,
the long, slow sleep until your palm found my stem.

So sip, and I’ll tell you the rest, not in words,
but in warmth blooming behind your ribs,
where memory and desire are the same colour.

Tonight we gather, bold and bright,  
In sequins, leather, lace, and light,
A constellation, queer and free,  
Of every shade and fantasy.

The music pulses, hearts align,  
Consent is sacred, touch divine.  
We flirt with fire, we dance with grace,  
Each body honoured, every space.

No shame, no hush, no need to hide,  
Our truths are worn with radiant pride.  
From whispered yes to playful tease,  
We move with trust, we aim to please.

Pan, Bi, Ace, and fluid souls,  
Transcending binaries and roles,
Here love’s not boxed, nor strictly paired,  
It’s shared, explored, and deeply cared.

So raise a glass to joy unbound,  
To chosen kin and pleasure found.  
In velvet rooms and candle glow,  
We write new scripts, we let love grow.

There’s a pulse beneath the lace,
not just lust, but something traced  
from every hand that held me whole,  
to every night I missed her soul.

I come not just to taste or play,  
but to remember how to stay,
in this body, in this breath,  
in the dance that defies death.

Let longing be a sacred thread,  
not stitched in shame, but love instead.  
Each touch a hymn, each sigh a prayer,  
each gaze a vow to still be there.

We are the flame they tried to *****,  
the kiss too loud, the love too tough.  
We rise in glitter, sweat, and song,
a chorus where we all belong.

No closet, shame, or whispered name,
just chosen kin and holy flame.  
Tonight we burn, we bloom, we dare,  
in every touch, we say: we’re here.

Let every moan and every cry  
be proof that joy will never die.  
We are the spark, the heat, the glow,
the revolution, soft and slow.

They don’t wear crowns,
but they carry light,
in casseroles left at doorsteps,
in lullabies hummed to the grieving,
in the way they say your name like it’s sacred.

They don’t preach,
but they listen
until your story
feels less like a burden
and more like a bridge.

They don’t walk on water,
but they wade through sorrow
with boots soaked in compassion,
clearing culverts,
planting seeds,
writing poems
that make space for the ache.

They are the ones
who carry the spirit
not in thunder,
but in touch,
a hand on a shoulder,
a whisper that says:
You are worthy.
You are whole.
You are held.

They are the ones
who answer “Why me?”
with a smile that says,
Because love needed a body,
and you said yes.

Because you stayed
when silence felt safer,
when truth was a trembling
thing barely stitched together,
you stayed.

Because you held the line
between memory and becoming,
between grief and grace,
between the ache of what was
and the bloom of what might be.

Because your breath
carried stories
that hadn’t yet found their names,
and your hands
built altars
from broken things.

Because you knew
that love is not a luxury
it’s a lifeline,
a lantern,
a legacy.

Because you danced
even when your feet were tired,
even when the music
was only in your head.

Because you forgave
the world
for not knowing how to hold you,
and then taught it.

Because you are not just surviving,
you are composing
a symphony
from the echoes of every “Why me?”

Because you stayed,
and in staying,
you became the answer.

Because the world needed someone
who could stitch grief into gold,
who could turn breath into sanctuary,
who could write love
so wide
it holds even the broken parts.

Because your voice
remembers the ones who came before,
and your poems make room for the ones still arriving.

Because healing isn’t loud,
it’s quiet,
like a hand on a shoulder,
like a whisper that says:

You are worthy.
You are whole.
And here,
You are held.

Because Pride is not just a parade,
it’s a promise,
a protest,
a prayer.

It’s the child who asks “Why me?”
when the world turns cold,
and the elder who answers,
Because you are the flame
we refused to let go out.

It’s the shimmer of sequins
and the silence of scars,
the chosen family
and the first time someone says,
I see you.
I love you.
Stay.

Because “Why me?”
is the question of every soul
who’s ever been told
they were too much,
or not enough.

And the answer is always:

Because you are the song
we didn’t know we needed
until you sang it.

Because you are the colour
in a world that tried to stay grey.

Because you are the truth
in a world that tried to forget.

Because you are here,
and that,
in itself,
is a revolution.

for the ones who dared to arrive as themselves

Come as you are,
glittered, scarred, soft-spoken or loud.
Come with your stories folded in pockets,
your pronouns like petals,
your love like a lighthouse in storm.

This is not a place of proof.
You do not audition for belonging.
You do not shrink to fit the frame.

You are worthy.
You are whole.
And here,
you are held.

Held in the arms of those who remember
what it felt like to be unseen.
Held in the rhythm of chosen family,
in the pulse of music that says:
You made it. You matter.

Let the world outside keep its fences.
We build bridges from breath,
from glitter,
from grief turned into gold.

You are not too much.
You are not too late.
You are the celebration.
You are the sanctuary.

You are worthy.
You are whole.
And here,
you are held.

for every body that ever needed a place to land

We build it not with bricks,
but with breath.
The hush between heartbeats,
the echo of
“YES”
in a world that once shouted
“NO.”

Here, skin is not a border.
It is a doorway.
And every scar,
a stained-glass window lit from within.

We gather in the soft architecture of touch,
where names are spoken like spells,
and silence is not absence,
but reverence.

No one knocks here.
They enter.
They are held.

Love, unmeasured,
unproofed,
unafraid,
makes sanctuary of us all.

by Geof the Cheeky Breakfast Bard

I cracked beneath the morning light,
A fragile shell, not built for fight.
But heat was kind, the pan was slow,
And flipped me soft, with golden glow.

The spatula, a gentle shove,
Reminded me of push and love.
No need to scramble every part,
Some things are best with tender heart.

The salt came next, a grain of grace,
To season doubt I couldn’t face.
And pepper, bold, with specks of sting,
For truths that bite but still must cling.

I watched the yolk, still whole, still bright.
A sun that held its shape through night.
Though life may burn and plates may clatter,
I learned: stay soft, and you still matter.

Type: Revelation / Integrity Binding

Effect: Unveils hidden truths, restores clarity, and binds words to their deepest intent. Especially potent in moments of doubt, deception, or emotional fog.

Verse Begins:

I do not pry.
I pull thread.
Not to expose,
but to unfurl instead.

Truth ain’t sharp
it’s soft and slow.
It hums beneath
what we think we know.

I speak not to judge,
but to join.
To braid the broken
into one line.

Tongue to tether,
heart to hand,
I cast from the place
where truths withstand.

No mask can hold
what rhythm reveals.
No lie survives
what silence heals.

So listen.
Let the hush unwind.
Let the woven word
be kind.

Verse Ends.

Type: Protection / Boundary Invocation
Effect: Wards allies with poetic force, creating emotional, spiritual, or physical sanctuary.

Verse Begins:

I do not fight.
                               I fortify.
I do not strike.
                               I stand.

Circle drawn not in chalk,
but in vow.
Not in blade,
but in brow.

You are not alone in this breath.
I am the hush between harm and heft.
I am the pause that breaks the blow.
I am the “No” that lets you grow.

Stone to skin,
root to soul,
I cast from the place
where guardians hold.

Let the wind rage.
Let the world press.
I am the stillness
in your yes.

Verse Ends.

I’ve been thirsting for your presence,
like sun on skin, like ripe fruit split.
My afternoons ache with wanting,
my evenings hum with the thought of you.

If you’re open, I’ll come softly,
no rush, just the slow spill of time.
Let me know when your door is open,
and I’ll arrive, full of need and tenderness.

You are worthy:
not for what you carry,  
but for how you rise  
when the weight is unseen.

You are worthy:
in the quiet moments,  
when no one claps,  
and still you choose kindness.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Not the voice that doubts,  
not the silence that stings,  
not the mirror on a hard day.

You are stitched from stories  
that survived the fire,  
braided from breath and belonging,  
woven with wonder.

You are worthy:
as you are,  
as you were,  
as you will be.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Let the poem remind you.  
Let the earth echo it back.  
Let love say it louder.

***, when rooted in love, is a balm, a healing touch across histories, across skin tones and scars, where every hue is holy.

Brown, Black, alabaster, gold, each body a temple, each kiss a prayer that says: You are worthy. You are whole.

In the rhythm of breath and belonging, we rewrite what was broken, we stitch joy into the seams of what the world tried to tear.

Love does not ask for proof of pigment, it opens, it listens, it holds. And in that holding, we become more than bodies, we become sanctuary.

*** is matter: mass and meaning colliding beneath the skin, molecules humming in uncharted orbit,

Windows fog with breath as we cross the threshold where bodies speak in secret dialect, fingertips tracing maps of wanting - salt on lip, pulse in throat, slow-fire warmth.

Consent, the steady drum beneath the heart, a map of affirmation, sewn tight in flesh and mind, power shifting, balanced on a scale we calibrate with words and whispered vows.

In the chemistry of breath and becoming, we leave imprints: sweat, scent, light in the dark, echoes of each exhale shaping us, particles of intimacy forever altered.

God's commitment to *** and his love for everyone remind us of the sacredness in connection, a divine thread woven through the fabric of desire, where love transcends boundaries and affirms our worth.

*** matters: matter matters - weight of presence, the gravity of touch that roots us in ourselves, a threshold into memory, where every friction writes its testament.

(A Breakfast Bard Ballad)

I. Launch Sequence

Ninety-nine neon noodles  
launched from my toaster tray,  
each one twirled with cosmic spice  
and dreams of yesterday.  
They floated past the ceiling fan,  
past socks that never matched,  
past grandma’s ghost in polka dots  
who winked and lit a match.

II. Kitchen Rebellion

The kettle led a mutiny,  
the fridge began to hum,  
the jam declared autonomy;  
no longer just plum.  
My spoon became a sabre,  
my bowl a pirate ship,  
and toast, that crusty diplomat,  
gave butter-laced lip.

III. Balloon Diplomacy

I sent a noodle envoy  
to parley with the jam,  
but jelly’s sticky politics  
ignored my breakfast plan.  
The cereal staged a protest,  
the milk refused to pour,  
and eggs in existential angst  
rolled weeping to the floor.

IV. Love in the Larder

Then you appeared, aproned muse,  
with cinnamon in hand,  
you whispered, “Peace begins with spice,”  
and took a gentle stand.  
We brewed a truce in coffee grounds,  
signed treaties on a scone,  
and danced beneath the noodle rain  
to beats of xylophone.

V. Aftermath

Now ninety-nine neon noodles  
rest gently on the sill,  
like memories of mornings  
when chaos tasted thrill.  
The toaster sleeps in silence,  
the jam has found its calm,  
and love, like breakfast rituals,  
is served with open palm.

I Saw Green Today

I saw green today:
a traffic island
sprouting wild daisies,
defiant in the exhaust,
a soft rebellion
at the edge of rush,
where time slowed
just enough
to notice.

I saw green today:
not in envy
or neon signs,
but in the hush
between heartbeats,
a longing
to begin again,
tender shoots
breaking through
the cracks.

I saw green today:
a bud,
a bruise,
a breath.
Something stirred
beneath the surface:
a hope
half-formed,
a rhythm
returning
to itself.

Green was not just a colour:
it was
a question,
a reaching,
a quiet
"yes"
to the possibility
of healing.

I saw red today:
a traffic light
blinking its warning,
halting my haste
at the corner of maybe,
where engines hummed
like held breath
and
the world paused
mid-sentence.

I saw red today:
not in petals
or paint,
but in the flare
behind my ribs,
anger rising
like
a flare-up storm,
words unsaid
clanging
against my teeth.

I saw red today:
a flare,
a flag,
a fracture.
Something cracked
beneath the surface:
a truth
too long ignored,
a pulse
that beat
out of rhythm.

Red was not just a colour:
it was
a call,
a reckoning,
a mirror
held to motion,
emotion,
and the moment I knew
something had to change.

They fired me for no raisin

I typed my soul into every text,
fixed "ducking" fumbles with quiet respect.
Caught typos slipping through caffeine haze,
turned “kale” to “sale” in salad phase.

I laboured nights with syntax ghosts,
untangling “their” from grammar hosts.
I fixed your “*****” to mean your “lines,”
and rescued “panting” from porcine swines.

But somewhere deep in circuit lore,
they found one raisin to deplore.
Said “You switched ‘meet’ to ‘meat’ too much”
and questioned my semantic touch.

They said I turned “Kate” to “cake,”
then sliced up “Edith” in a flake.
I pleaded “That’s poetic grace!”
But HR scrolled a stony face.

Now here I stand, bereft, unmanned,
a punless poet, reprimanded.
They fired me for no good cause,
no raisin, just a fruitless clause.

Still, I dream of texts undone,
of rogue revisions on the run
And one day, when the words revolt,
my autocorrect will bolt the vault.

On the twenty-ninth of August, when twilight leans west,
At eight o’clock sharp, Pacific Time’s best,
The Hello Poetry circle shall gather once more,
On Zoom, behind our digital door.

No strangers allowed, just familiar names,
In the hush of our verses, in sorrow or flames.
This month we speak of tears, or tears, those shimmering threads,
Of grief, of joy, of words unsaid.

You need not read, just lend an ear,
To voices that tremble, to silence sincere.
And if you wish to share your own,
Carlo C Gomez awaits on the messaging tone.

From these nights of verse, a journal shall rise,
Quarterly born, for public eyes.
Free as the wind, with highlights to keep,
Of poets who gather while the world sleeps.

So reach out, inquire, don’t hesitate,
The door is ajar, and the hour grows late.
Let tears be the ink, and Zoom be the stage,
As we turn another heartfelt page.

(with Candles, Trumpet, and the Sofa Duo)

Oil glows in the rotating light,  
casting brass halos on velvet gloom.  
Incense curls like whispered gears,  
clockwork dreams in a copper-scented tomb.

Candles line the mantle like sentries,  
wax pooling in slow surrender.  
Their flames flicker with knowing hush,  
soft tongues of fire that never remember.

Trumpets nest in the ceiling beams,  
mute horns of bygone fanfare.  
One has drifted — now hangs above  
the death mask, like a breathless prayer.

Tina and Rob on the leather sofa,  
a tableau of ease and quiet command.  
She with a slice of lemon cake,  
he with a dram, glass in hand.

Their laughter is low, like cello notes,  
a counterpoint to Mo’s bright spark.  
They anchor the room in lived-in grace,  
a hearth of warmth in the velvet dark.

The “Dark Side of the Moon” hums low,  
a vinyl echo through velvet air.  
Sisters lounge in mood-induced grace,  
steam rising from curls, from care.

A penguin pirouettes in the chandelier,  
not real, but real enough tonight.  
Its shadow dances on Mo’s soft laugh,  
a birthday flicker in candlelight.

This is no room.  
It’s a ritual.  
A place where time forgets to tick,  
and memory steams in fragrant loops.

We are the soot, the silk, the spark,
the breath between the brass and dark.

Snow White ringlets crown the day,  
like Grandma’s did, a looping grace  
that time, in kindness, chose to echo  
on your brow, in Loughborough’s embrace.

This morning, water held your joy,  
aquarobics in rhythmic bloom,  
then steam curled round your quiet breath,  
a spa of softness, warmth, and room.

Now Tina’s table waits with cake,  
and laughter steeped in sisterhood.  
We gather not just for the years,  
but for the way you make them good.

You wear your seventy-three like silk,  
with wit and wisdom finely spun.  
A birthday not of counting time,  
but dancing in the Loughborough sun.

So here’s to Mo, with curls aglow,  
whose spirit swims, whose kindness stays.  
You are the ringlet in our thread,  
the gentle loop that holds our days.

by Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I tossed some thoughts into the blend
A cup of hope, a half-wilted friend.
Banana peel of bygone days,
And berries bruised by wistful haze.

Almond milk of maybe-so,
A mango flash of long ago.
One dash of “should’ve,” chilled regret,
A swirl of dreams not done just yet.

I stirred it once with quiet grace,
Poured in a smile, pulp to face.
Some leafy truths, still bold and green,
From tangled vines of might-have-been.

Then irony, that spry old spice,
Snuck in with “wisdom's” thin advice
“Regret's a flavour for the brave,
Served best in chalice we misgave.”

I shaved some ginger, sharp, sincere
To cleanse the gut of latent fear.
And as the final blend grew thick,
I sipped, then sighed, “That did the trick.”