In a hall where buns abound,
A Bun Dance party can be found.
With pastries piled up to the sky,
And doughnuts dancing, oh my, oh my!

The buns wore hats of icing sweet,
With sprinkles dancing at their feet.
Cinnamon rolls spun round and round,
While jelly-filled buns bounced on the ground.

The croissants did a graceful twirl,
While bagels gave a whirl and swirl.
Muffins marched in a tasty parade,
And scones in a conga line were made.

The air was filled with sugary cheer,
As buns and rolls all gathered near.
With laughter, joy, and crumbs galore,
The Bun Dance left them wanting more!

So if you crave a sweet romance,
Join the fun at the Bun Dance.
Where buns and rolls in abundance play,
And dance the night (and crumbs) away!

In the heart,  
Grievances take root,  
Tangled vines of resentment.  
But forgiveness,  
A gentle gardener,  
Unwinds those tendrils,  
Releases the thorns,  
From both the wounded  
And the wounder.

A breath, deeper than any before,  
Fills the soul,  
As anger dissipates like morning mist.  
Eyes that once burned with ire,  
Now softened by understanding,  
Find peace in letting go.

The forgiver, unburdened,  
Feels a weight lift,  
An invisible chain broken.  
In the act of releasing,  
Their own spirit soars,  
Freed from the grip of past pain.  

Steps lighter, smiles brighter,  
For in relinquishing the past,  
They reclaim the present,  
And hope blooms anew.

The forgiven, too, feel the touch,  
Of compassion’s tender hand,  
But it is the one who forgives,  
Who finds the greatest relief,  
The most profound freedom.

Forgiveness, a quiet act of courage,  
Transforms hearts,  
Heals unseen wounds,  
And weaves a tapestry,  
Of newfound peace.

Take my life and let it be,
A vessel pure, Lord, use me.
Each moment, in Your grace, I'll stand,
Guided gently by Your hand.

Take my hands and let them move,
At the impulse of Your love.
In service, humble and sincere,
Spread Your light both far and near.

Take my voice and let me sing,
Praises to my Heavenly King.
Every word and every note,
A testament of faith, devote.

Take my mind and let it think,
On Your wisdom, let me drink.
In Your truth, my thoughts align,
To seek Your will, and make it mine.

Take my heart, it is Your own,
Make it pure, Your loving throne.
From doubts and fears, let it be free,
In Your presence, peacefully.

Take my soul and let it soar,
In Your spirit, evermore.
Through joy and sorrow, day and night,
I'll walk by faith, and not by sight.

Take my life and let it be,
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
In Your service, let me grow,
And Your boundless love to show.

In the hushed hours before dawn,
When the world holds its breath,
A silent echo lingers,
Reverberating through the stillness.

Whispers of forgotten dreams
Intertwine with the shadows,
Dancing in the corners of memory,
Unseen, but felt deep within.

Time suspends its relentless march,
Pausing to listen,
To the unspoken truths,
In the quiet spaces of existence.

Silent echoes of laughter,
Of sorrow, of love,
Resonate through the corridors of the heart,
Leaving imprints, invisible yet indelible.

In the solitude of night,
When the world is wrapped in silence,
The echo of a sigh,
Of a thought unvoiced, softly resounds.

It is in these moments,
Between the ticking of seconds,
That the soul finds its voice,
In the silent echo of its being.

A reflection of life’s essence,
Captured in the stillness,
An echo that speaks,
Without uttering a sound.

Silent, yet profound,
It spins a web of emotions,
In the spaces where words fall short,
An eternal echo in the void.

Morning breath, hush – it stirs, it speaks,
A gift not taken, one that leaks.
Not to keep, not locked away,
Pass it forward, let it play.

Moses - what’s that in your grip?
Just a staff? No, watch it flip.
It carves the sea, it clears the way,
Not by chance - He made it stay.

A word, a hand, a glance, a beat,
Not small, not lost, not obsolete.
It tumbles, crashes, rings aloud,
A ripple tearing through the crowd.

Let life burn bright, not shrink, not fold,
Pass it down - red, fierce, bold.
It spreads, it climbs, it runs, it flies,
Lights up faces, splits the skies.

Every move, each step, a pull,
A voice that rips, that won’t grow dull.
And listen - hear that hum, that call?
“Encore,” He says – take it all.

I write for the dreamers, lost in thought,
For every soul that battled and fought,
For those who wander in search of light,
And for the hearts sparked by the night.

I pen my words for the broken and mended,
For stories untold and lives suspended.
For whispers of love across the air,
And moments we share, beyond compare.

For the past that shapes, the future that gleams,
The valleys of sorrow, the peaks of dreams.
For the eyes that seek, and ears that listen,
In every tear, in every glisten.

I write for the silence, the voices unheard,
For passions ignited by the simplest of words.
For friends and foes, for strangers anew,
In every line, my heart rings true.

For kings and queens on thrones of gold,
And politicians with their stories told.
For children’s laughter, for parents’ pride,
For brothers and sisters, side by side.

In ink, I find the bridge to connect,
To amplify joys, to reflect and inspect.
But most of all, across all seas,
I write, my heart, I write for me.

Leg ends on the road, they wibble and wobble,
Dancing in the moonlight, they giggle and gobble.
They chase the shadows, hop and skip,
With a flip-flop, they never trip.

Wiggly-waggly, to and fro,
Leg ends travel, where do they go?
Through fields of jelly and pudding hills,
They sing with glee and joyful thrills.

Tickling tulips and teasing trees,
Leg ends float on the evening breeze.
Munching on moonbeams, sipping stars,
They journey far in flying cars.

In a land where the silly meets the sweet,
Leg ends on the road never miss a beat.
With laughter loud and smiles so wide,
Their nonsense dance is a magical ride.

And as they wander, tales unfold,
Leg ends transform to legends bold.
A misheard word, a laugh it sends,
When "leg ends" are heard in place of "legends."

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.

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.

In the realm of skies and fleece,
The weather dances wild and free.
The sun shines bright, the rain does pour,
Changing moods forevermore.

Yet there stands the humble wether,
In pasture fields, through all weather.
Calm and steady, in the breeze,
Amidst the storm, amidst the peace.

When lightning strikes and thunder roars,
The weather shows its fearsome force.
But still, the wether stands its ground,
With silent strength, without a sound.

The weather shifts with every day,
A symphony in nature's play.
The wether, though, remains the same,
A steadfast soul, without acclaim.

Both weather and wether teach us well,
Of life's great ebb and flow to tell.
In ever-changing skies and land,
Find balance, grace, and understand.

For in the world of earth and sky,
We learn to live, we learn to try.
Like weather's whim and wether's grace,
We face our storms, we find our place.

In a world where science would meet,
A woman with bionics so neat,
Jaime Sommers, so strong,
Fought for right, against wrong,
With a heart that never missed a beat.


Her limbs were of steel, oh so fine,
Her strength and her senses, divine,
She'd battle and fight,
With all of her might,
A hero in every design.


With Oscar and Rudy, her mates,
She'd tackle the most dangerous fates,
In justice's quest,
She stood out the best,
In the hearts of fans, she relates.

In the wake of new dawn, in a world so grand,
Where silicon and circuits danced hand in hand,
Rose a beacon of brilliance, in tech's vivid scheme,
The ZX Spectrum, a digital dream.

Born from the mind of Sinclair's bright flair,
A machine to empower, to educate, to dare,
With rainbow stripes and keys of rubber,
It sparked a revolution, igniting the cyber.

In living rooms and bedrooms, its presence was felt,
As young minds discovered the power it dealt,
Loading with tapes, with a screech and a whirl,
They entered new realms, as the code would unfurl.

From simple lines of BASIC, they crafted their art,
Creating worlds of wonder, from the depths of their heart,
Jet Set *****’s antics, and Manic Miner’s plight,
The Spectrum brought magic, day and night.

With colours and sounds, it lit up the screen,
A marvel of pixels, where gamers convene,
From Dizzy’s adventures to text-based quests,
The ZX Spectrum was truly the best.

In the hands of hobbyists, it sparked a new age,
Of homegrown creations, their talents engaged,
From coders to players, a community strong,
Their passion for pixels, a resonant song.

Through trials of loading, with patience and care,
They battled the glitches, with will to spare,
The Spectrum stood resilient, a titan of play,
A legend in computing, to this very day.

Though decades have passed, and tech has evolved,
The spirit of the Spectrum remains unresolved,
A testament to vision, to dreams and to skill,
The ZX Spectrum, remembered still.

Restless night lingers,
Moonlight whispers secrets soft,
Eyes wide, dreams adrift.

The room is quiet, thoughts take flight,  
In the stillness of this gentle night.  
Pen to paper, words flow free,  
Creating worlds for all to see.

No distractions, just the calm,  
Where ideas bloom like a soothing balm.  
Characters and plots come into play,  
In the magic of this writing day.

Lines and verses, stories spun,  
A writer's joy, second to none.  
In this space, with time to dwell,  
Each word a story, each thought a spell.

So here I sit, content and bright,  
In the pure delight of writing’s light.  
For inspiration comes in its own way,  
Making this a truly good writing day.

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.

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.

In the annuls of rock and roll, a thunderous sound,
The Who emerged, breaking ground.
With power chords and a rebel's cry,
They soared to fame, reaching the sky.

Pete's guitar, a windmill's spin,
Roger's voice, a lion's din.
John's bass, a thunderous beat,
Keith's drums, wild and fleet.

"Tommy" told a tale so grand,
A rock opera that took a stand.
"Who's Next" and "Quadrophenia,"
Albums that shaped rock's criteria.

Their live shows, a force of might,
Smashing guitars, a thrilling sight.
From "My Generation" to "Baba O'Riley,"
Anthems that echo, timeless and wily.

Off the stage, their antics wild,
Keith Moon, a rock 'n' roll child.
Driving cars through hotel doors,
Throwing furniture, breaking floors.

Banned from inns, their legend grew,
Moon's wild ways, the stories true.
From poolside dives to wild nights,
Their off-stage tales, rock's wild rites.

They challenged norms, they broke the mould,
In rock's great story, their tale is told.
Their impact vast, their legacy clear,
The Who's roar, we still hear.

In faith, O Lord, we find our strength,
In hope, we trust Your guiding hand,
With love, we walk the endless length,
And joy, we seek in Your grand plan.

When trials come, our faith won't fade,
Your light, our path in darkest night,
With hope, each step is calmly laid,
In love, we rest, our hearts held tight.

In joy, we praise Your wondrous name,
Each day, a gift from heavens high,
Through faith, and hope, and love's warm flame,
In joy, our spirits soar and fly.

he s̷p̷ea̷k̷s̷       in      th-th-the hush                        b̷e̷f̷or̷e̷ c͟o͟m͟m͟a͟n͟d

bɑ̶r̶e̶-̶c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ // b̷r̷a̷c̷e̷d̷                 f͝o͝r͠ the̴ se͞n͞t͞e͞n͞ce͞                     to                        L̸̡̫̮͊̿͠͝Ą̵̜̥̎̾N̷̦̳̤͝ͅD̷̳͚̈̐͌

h͎i͍s͍ ͔n͎a͔m͍e̳                      cu̸r̷l̷s̷                 b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ their     t̶̵̻̻e̴̞̼̻͐̽e̸͖͒͜ẗ̶͈̲́̓h̴͝­̳͓̓

a wreck—                 soft                     r̸e̴a̷d̴y̷                        f̶or͞             c̷ol̷lis̷i̷o̶n̸_

they move                     like               thund̴e̶r̷—holding—                 back

drawn       tight         į̵͈͔̫̄̈́̈́͝n̵̦̺̼̄t̴̢͉̪̥̽í̴̯̈́m̴̙͊a̶̞̙̕ẗ̸̛̼̬́͂͐e             d̷̞͗̍̈́e̷̪͈̫̬͊ḻ̸̘͒̅i̷͈̖̖͊̈́̒b̶̯͔̥̹͝e̷̡̛͎̳̥̔͠r̴͓͐ą̴̛̅͘­̡ţ̸̂̓e̸̼̞̎̓͘

he / d̷̲̝̖ͅo̵̢̘̠̰e̶̼̤s̴̮̤̰̳n̴̢͔̼̹’̶̢͍͕̦t̴͇̹̦ / run         he   r̴̨̯̯̋͝i̷̩̟̠̯͘s̵̲̼̖̾̊͌ė̴̢̺̩̞̅s̸̘̜̬̐̎̋

not broken       b̴̡̮̎̓e̶̳̮̓͝n̶͎̞̿̓t̶̺͒͘         toward          becoming…

To hear,
Catch sound
In flight.
A whisper,
A hum,
Day or night.

Listening digs,
Heart's core.
Empathy blooms,
Understanding soars.

---

Hear is
Catching sound,
Fleeting, clear.
Listening’s connection
Truly sincere.
Paths diverge,
Surface-bound,
Listening dives,
Truths found.

Casting a net through life's quiet streams
Reflecting dreams in waters below
Amid whispers where serenity gleams
Pondering truths in the gentle flow

In the dance of highs and lows, my mind spins its own rhythm.

They ask me where it comes from,
It comes from all around,
The other day it hit me,
As I was walking into town.

It's in the bustling city,
The quiet countryside,
The murmur of a gentle stream,
The ocean's mighty tide.

It's in the laughter of a child,
The tears of a goodbye,
From the dawning of a new day,
And the twinkling stars up high.

It's in the pages of a book,
In the rhythm of a song,
From the beauty of a moment,
To the memories of lifelong.

They ask me where it comes from,
It's everywhere, I say,
In every breath, in every beat,
In the journeys of each day.

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.

In a quiet corner, an old man sat,
A pint of beer, a worn flat cap.
The crossword before him, ink-stained and neat,
A puzzle, a riddle, a mental feat.

His glasses perched on the bridge of his nose,
A furrowed brow, as his mind arose.
With every sip, a memory stirred,
Of days gone by, of stories unheard.

The pub around him buzzed and hummed,
But in his world, all was numbed.
The clinking glasses, the lunchtime cheer,
Muffled sounds, far yet near.

His pen hovered, a moment’s pause,
Lost in thoughts of forgotten cause.
A chuckle escaped, a clue made clear,
In that moment, time disappeared.

The crossword, a canvas of black and white,
A dance of words, a silent flight.
Each answer a piece of his history,
Each blank space, a whispered mystery.

In his solitude, he found delight,
In the simple joys, in the midday light.
A life well-lived, reflected in ink,
In the corner, he'd ponder, he'd think.

As the afternoon aged, the crowd thinned out,
The crossword completed, without a doubt.
The old man smiled, a gentle sigh,
Content and peaceful, he closed an eye.

In that quiet corner, he’d sit once more,
A pint of beer, a mind to explore.
For in the puzzles, he found his peace,
A tapestry of life, a sweet release.

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.

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?

In the heart of a bustling city,  
Where time seemed still, so pretty,  
A library stood, small and quaint,  
With scents of books, ink, and paint.

But this was no ordinary place,  
It held a secret, a magical grace.  
At midnight’s chime, it came alive,  
Books would whisper, stories thrive.

Characters stepped from pages bright,  
Wandering aisles in the moonlight.  
A young girl named Lily, pure and keen,  
Found this library, like a dream.

She loved to read, her heart’s delight,  
And on that special, starry night,  
She saw the books with a gentle glow,  
Curiosity sparked, she had to know.

She touched a book, and to her surprise,  
Was pulled into a world before her eyes.  
A forest magical, creatures grand,  
Talking animals, a wondrous land.

A wise old owl, with feathers gray,  
Guided her through the forest way.  
He spoke of magic, stories’ might,  
And the library’s secret, hidden in light.

Lily explored, her heart so light,  
Meeting characters, day and night.  
Learning lessons, brave and true,  
In worlds of wonder, skies so blue.

As dawn approached, with gentle grace,  
She found herself back in the place,  
Holding the book, still softly bright,  
Her heart aglow with pure delight.

From that day on, each night she’d go,  
To the enchanted library, where stories flow.  
Adventures endless, wonders vast,  
In the world of books, her love would last.

In the land of tea and crumpets, where politics is a game,
The voters cast their ballots, but the outcome was quite tame.
Labour claimed a victory, with cheers and loud applause,
Yet the vote count barely shifted, leaving many to pause.

“How did they win?” the pundits cried, “With numbers so petite?”
“Did the Tories take a holiday, or just admit defeat?”
The headlines screamed of triumph, a red wave on the rise,
But in the voting booths, it seemed, there was no such surprise.

The leaders took to Twitter, with hashtags and with glee,
“Democracy has spoken!” they declared for all to see.
But whispers in the corridors, and murmurs in the halls,
Spoke of a quiet victory, with margins thin and small.

So here’s to the election, where the numbers stayed the same,
Yet somehow Labour triumphed, in this curious political game.
For in the world of politics, where logic often bends,
A win is still a win, my friends, no matter how it ends.

Silent tears fall,
Heart feels heavy,
Mind in turmoil,
Darkness surrounds,
Hope seems distant,
Lost and alone,
Searching for light,
Fighting the shadows,
Strength within,
Rising again.

In the vast expanse of space, where stars gleam bright,
A tale unfolds of bravery, in the dead of night,
Blake and his seven, a rebel force so bold,
Against the Federation's grip, their story told.

Roj Blake, a leader with courage and might,
Fought for freedom, against the dark's fright,
With Avon, Vila, Cally, and Jenna by his side,
Their loyalty and struggles, through space they’d ride.

On the Liberator, their star ship grand,
They battled oppression, a ragtag band,
With Orac’s wisdom, and Zen’s guiding light,
They journeyed through dangers, from planet to flight.

Avon, the cynic, with a mind so keen,
Vila, the thief, with wit often seen,
Cally, the telepath, with heart and grace,
Jenna, the pilot, navigating space.

Through victories and losses, their spirits remained,
A quest for justice, though lives they strained,
Blake's 7, a legend that time won't erase,
A story of defiance, in the infinite space.

Echoes of their fight, in hearts will stay,
Blake's 7, heroes of a bygone day,
In the chronicles of sci-fi, their legacy set,
A saga remembered, we won’t forget.

In the dark night, they come, tiny vampires on silent wings,
seeking the warmth of human blood, their presence felt in the itch that stings.

A buzz, a hum, a fleeting dart, they land with stealth, a needle’s *****,
drawing life with every bite, leaving behind a mark so slick.

Oh, ****** mosquitos, bane of sleep,
your thirst insatiable, your bite so deep.
You dance in shadows, evade the swat,
a relentless foe, a nightly plot.

In the dark, I wage my war,
with claps and slaps, a futile chore.
Yet still you come, relentless, sly,
a tiny terror beneath the sky.

But in the dawn’s first light, you fade,
your reign of night, a brief parade.
And though you leave me marked and sore,
I’ll face you down each night once more.

For in this battle, small but fierce, I’ll find my peace, my sleep, my cheer.
And though you bite, and though you sting, I’ll rise again, a warrior king.

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.

Beer cures what ales you,
A clever twist on thirsty lore;
When life's too bitter, just imbibe a brew,
And let that lager lore restore.

A pint of humour in a frothy glass,
Where worries stir but soon subside;
In every sip, let troubles pass,
While malt and mirth provide a ride.

So raise your mug and toast the day,
For every brew brings laughter anew;
When life turns sour, don't rue the fray;
Just cheers, and let your spirit spew!

May your woes be whisked away by ales,
And your laughs as bold as foamy trails.

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.

Bare trees greet the chill,
Frosty breath on winter's morn,
Hello, still and cold.

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.

Time whispers through the ticking clock,
Its hands unyielding in their forward dance.
Moments slip through our grasp,
A river of seconds flowing,
Never retreating.

Each dawn births new promises,
Yet, sunset swiftly claims the day,
A reminder that time’s passage
Knows no return.
No rewind,
No pause,
Just the ceaseless advance.

Footprints left in yesterday’s sand,
Fade beneath today’s relentless tide.
Memories linger, shadows cast
By light that was and will never be again.
We chase the echoes of our past,
Knowing each step propels us,
Irrevocably forward.

In the dance of seasons,
Spring to summer, autumn to winter,
We see the pattern,
Yet cannot step back.
Each heartbeat,
Each breath,
A testament to time’s unwavering course.

So we live,
Embracing the moment,
For time, in its infinite wisdom,
Teaches us the value
Of now.

Golden sun sets low,
Waves whisper secrets to shore,
Peace in twilight’s glow.

The temperature stands at zero,
A world wrapped in winter's embrace,
Frost glistens in the morning light,
Silent whispers fill the still space.

Icicles hang like crystal daggers,
Trees adorned in a silver sheen,
Footprints crunch on the frozen ground,
A serene, untouched winter scene.

Breath forms clouds in the chilly air,
Stars twinkle in the midnight sky,
Nature sleeps in a blanket of white,
As the cold night passes by.

My feet start dancing on their own,
A wild compulsion seeds where I roam.
The bed it calls yet the road sings louder,
Every step a rebellion, a freedom devoured.

No corners or confines can hold this heart,
For restlessness and wanderlust are never apart.
I pack my dreams, my humour, and a hat with flair,
Off I venture - leaving behind every chair!

If pavements could talk, they'd say, “There goes that spark!”
Chasing horizons, from sunrise till dark.
This curious urge defines my constant quest:
To roam the world and learn from each jest.

So here’s a salute to the wandering, wild and free,
For ecdemomania is not just a word;
it’s a key To unlocking life’s adventures, one silly step at a time,
A joyful pilgrimage filled with rhythm and rhyme!

At 7:59, before 8 o'clock,
The world begins to gently unlock.
The sunrise creeps, a bit earlier each day,
Casting gold hues in a subtle display.

The nights grow shorter, the mornings bright,
With each new dawn, more warming light.
The sun climbs higher, a welcome sight,
Chasing away the lingering night.

Birds begin their morning song,
Announcing that the day's not long.
With whispers of a new day's start,
In nature's rhythm, we take part.

So greet the dawn with open eyes,
A gift of light from morning skies.
As days stretch longer, and dark gives way,
To the earlier promise of each day.

Mad gym, my g dam.
Was it a rat I saw?

I kissed a girl, I kissed a guy,
Underneath the twilight sky.
With stars above and hearts so high,
We danced until the night passed by.
In moments shared, no need to lie,
Just pure connection, you and I.
With every touch, a gentle sigh,
A bond that words could not deny.
Through laughter, tears, and dreams that fly,
Together, we could reach the sky.
In love’s embrace, we both comply,
A perfect match, a sweet reply.

Better not drop these or I'll be shelling out for more,

Cracking jokes all day, it's an egg-squisite chore.

Sunny side up, life's a yolk-filled delight,

Scrambling for words, I'll whisk them just right.

Egg-straordinary tales, hatch from my mind,

Poaching ideas, I'm never in a bind.

Boiling with laughter, it's hard to ignore,

Egg-static moments, always wanting more.

Omelette you in on a secret, it's true,

Egg-spect the best, when I'm talking to you.

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.

Quiet moments still,
Peaceful breaths in twilight’s glow,
Rest renews the soul.

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.

Have I forgotten how lovely you were,
In the haze of anger, beneath the blur?
Your beauty once shone, a guiding star,
Now lost in shadows, distant and far.

Rage clouded my vision, distorted the view,
The warmth of your smile, the kindness you drew.
In the heat of the moment, I failed to see,
The grace and charm that once captivated me.

Have I forgotten the light in your eyes,
The laughter that echoed, the joy in our skies?
Anger consumed, it tore me apart,
But deep down, I knew, you still held my heart.

The storm has passed, the fury has waned,
And I remember the love we sustained.
In quiet moments, your memory's clear,
The beauty you were, forever held dear.

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.