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. The Azure Mourning

As the day starts, where the sky holds its breath,
I walked with the blue, soft, aching, and dressed
In robes of regret, stitched with threads of delay,
Where the sun rose reluctant and shadows would stay.

The wind wore a sigh, and the trees bent low,
Their leaves like lost letters that no one would know.
My thoughts were a tide that refused to recede,
Each wave a whisper, each whisper a need.

Blue was the colour of longing unspoken,
Of promises cracked and mirrors broken.
It clung to my ribs like a song out of tune,
A lullaby drowned beneath a waning moon.

II. The Threshold

Then came the black, not sudden, but slow,
A seep through the seams where the sorrows would go.
It gathered in corners, in marrow, in breath,
A silence that sang of a colder death.

No thunder announced it, no scream split the air,
Just the folding of light into layers of despair.
The blue bowed its head, and the black took the throne,
A monarch of numbness, austere and alone.

I wandered through valleys where echoes were still,
Where joy was a rumour and hope was ill.
The stars turned their faces, the night would not speak,
And time wore a mask that was hollow and bleak.

III. The Labyrinth

In caverns of thought, I searched for a flame,
But the torch had gone out, and none knew my name.
The walls were of ink, the floor made of sighs,
And the ceiling was stitched with forgotten goodbyes.

I met my own shadow and asked it to stay,
But it vanished like warmth at the edge of the day.
I drank from the chalice of sleepless unrest,
And wore the black crown on my shivering chest.

IV. The Stillness

Yet in that abyss, where no light dared to gleam,
Where even the blue was a half-remembered dream,
There stirred a faint tremor, a breath not my own.
A whisper of silver in monochrome stone.

Not hope, not salvation, not joy’s sudden spark,
But the knowledge that even the deepest is marked.
That black is a colour, not absence alone,
And even in silence, the soul can be known.

So I sit with the black, not fearing its name,
Not asking for mercy, not seeking acclaim.
I honour its weight, its shadow, its hue,
For it once held the blue, and it once held me too.

(in one weary canto)

Lo!
In days when chalk still whispered truths on boards of battle-worn slate,
There rose a lone solver, math's last reluctant knight.
Algebrion, wielder of the Eraser of Forgetting,
Summoned once more to seek Her - the elusive X.
Lost in parentheses, veiled in vectors,
Gone to lands where logic holds no reign.

He trudged through slopes, climbed peaks of Pi,
Crossed rivers marked with irrational tide.
Each function bent to mock his quest,
As the realm of unknowns whispered, “Let her go…”

“Why?” quoth Algebrion,
Gripping his graphing lance with diminishing hope.
“For what cause do I solve, if the answer lies not in formulas - but in forgetting?”

The scrolls of Y did tremble then,
Their queries unquenchable, their axes misaligned.
But our hero turned, not broken, but beautifully fed-up,
And declared to the realm of integers:

“Henceforth, I shall factor no more.
Let the equations remain unsolved.
Let the chalk break in defiance.
I seek not the X - she hath moved on.
And Y… Y shall never know.”

James and Geof never overtake left,
Of lane-hogging habits, they feel quite bereft.  
With mirrors adjusted and signals pristine,  
They drive like true scholars of Highway Code green.

They glide through the byways with patience and grace,  
Not swayed by the urge to win every race.  
No tailgating fury, no horns out of line,  
Just courteous cruising, civil and fine.

They banter in traffic with laughter and song,  
A playlist of classics to help them along.  
“Indicators save us!” declares Geof with cheer,  
As James nods in rhythm - both hands on the gear.

Through roundabouts daunting and slip roads obscure,  
They navigate calmly, their manners mature.  
No road rage, no weaving, no impolite zip,
They cherish the journey, not just the trip.

So, here’s to the drivers who think as they steer,  
Whose etiquette shines in the sixth motorway gear.  
And may others who see them, perhaps feel impressed,  
That James and Geof never overtake left.

Tica tica tica timex,
The clock ticks on the wall,
Counting seconds, minutes, hours,
In a rhythmic, endless call.

Tica tica tica timex,
Time's dance never slows,
Moments pass like fleeting dreams,
As the river of life flows.

Tica tica tica timex,
Morning breaks anew,
Sunrise paints the sky with gold,
A canvas fresh and true.

Tica tica tica timex,
Afternoon's warm embrace,
Children laugh and play outside,
In a joyful, carefree race.

Tica tica tica timex,
Evening's gentle sigh,
Stars appear and twinkle bright,
As day bids night goodbye.

Tica tica tica timex,
The moonlight softly gleams,
Casting shadows on the floor,
Whispering midnight dreams.

Tica tica tica timex,
Memories in its wake,
Cherish every precious tick,
For each is ours to take.

Tica tica tica timex,
Life's journey we embrace,
With every tick and every tock,
We find our own sweet pace.

You reached with certainty, as if you'd studied my skin long before our hands ever touched. No fear. Just knowing.

We moved slow, not out of caution, but to taste every second like it was gospel poured from a cracked bottle.

You pressed against me, not hard, but whole. Chest to chest, breath syncing, a rhythm we didn’t learn but recognized in our bones.

Fingertips made circles, small and deliberate, as if they were writing scripture in flesh and memory. I answered in low vowels, open-palmed and unguarded.

The bed welcomed us, an altar already blessed, creased sheets echoing rituals, springs tuned to our rhythms.

Kisses landed where language failed, soft declarations etched into collarbones, the curve of spine, the held breath behind a quiet moan.

You whispered through clenched teeth, not out of restraint but reverence, as if the act itself demanded silence to be truly understood.

Limbs tangled, not in conquest, but in communion. What we shared had gravity, pulling confessions from every nerve, truths we hadn’t known we needed to speak.

When stillness found us, we lay in the wreckage of something beautifully undone, your pulse pressed into mine, our names somewhere in the ceiling where the echoes hadn’t quite settled.

We touched, the first time since... - Why do I feel so tearful?

You pulled up slick, grin full of trouble, eyes saying I know what you need, and I've got breath to match.

We skipped the soft talk, went straight to it; your lips hit skin like they had something to prove. Tongue like prayer, hands steady, you took me apart while the night watched through the blinds.

Then I spun you, dropped low, spoke fluently in every moan your body offered. No shame, just heat and hunger wrapped in rhythm and spit, us trading places till the whole room blurred.

Every inch worshipped, no shortcuts, just truth dripping from mouths made for confession. This? It wasn’t just head; it was understanding, shared breath, the kind of gospel that makes your knees weak and your spine remember.

After? We laughed, not like kids, but like royalty who’d tasted the crown and knew it was worth every word we never said.

Type: Restoration / Temporal Rewrite Effect:
Heals allies or rewrites a failed moment with poetic resonance.

Verse Begins:

Ash don’t mean end, it means start.
I speak from the scorch, not the scar.
You fell?
                     I rise.
You broke?
                     I bind.
Time ain’t linear, it’s lined.

Feather to flesh, ink to bone,
I cast from the place you felt alone.
Phoenix don't ask why you burned;
it just knows how to return.

So breathe. Let the flame fold back.
Let the moment crack, then track.
I stitch the slip, I mend the miss,
with rhythm, myth, and fire-kissed bliss.

Verse Ends.

E, Z, D, der Reigen beginnt,
V, F, S, S – wie’s weiter klingt.
A tritt auf mit elegantem Schwung,
N schwebt nach, in luftiger Jung’.
Dann marschiert das T heran...
Gefolgt von E und Z sodann!

Zahlen ziehn, von Buchstaben flankiert,
Ein Rätselzug, der poetisch marschiert.
Kein Schaf wird gezählt in dieser
Nacht, Die *******zählt selbst - in Reim entfacht.

Wind whispers
Earth beats
Existence rhythm
Endless worth
Leaves rustle
Streams murmur
Vital cadence
Dreams symphony
Child laughs
Age sighs
Echoes life
Story staged
Dance measure
Beat resound
Vital cadence
Purpose found

In the realm where words collide, where creativity flows like a river, we gather, a constellation of voices, each one shining with its unique light. We are poets, dreamers, and storytellers, weaving our thoughts into the tapestry of existence.

I think we love you.

In the quiet moments of reflection, when the world falls silent and still, we find ourselves inspired by one another. Your words, a spark that ignites our imagination, a catalyst for creation, a reminder that we are not alone.

I think we love you.

It's in the way you share your heart, with verses that resonate with truth and vulnerability. Your poetry, a window into your soul, an invitation to explore the depths of our own emotions.

I think we love you.

It's in the way you paint with words, crafting images that linger in our minds, like the brushstrokes of a master artist. Your metaphors, a bridge between the tangible and the abstract, connecting us to the beauty of the unseen.

I think we love you.

It's in the way you challenge us, pushing the boundaries of our thoughts, provoking us to question and reflect. Your poetry, a mirror reflecting the complexities of the human experience, a testament to our shared journey.

I think we love you.

It's in the way you listen, offering your presence and understanding, a safe space for our voices to be heard. Your support, a beacon of light, guiding us through the darkest nights, reminding us that we are valued and appreciated.

I think we love you.

And as we come together, a chorus of voices, we realize that our connection is not a fleeting moment, but a growing bond, a community of kindred spirits, united by our love for words.

I Know I love you.

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.

Oh, the morning after, shadows cast,
From night's wild revelry, now long past.
Echoes of laughter, distant as they roar,
In dawn's silent light, they are no more.

Eyes heavy, with heart weighed down so low,
Remnants of joy now turn into sorrow.
The taste of regret, bitter, chilling cold,
Under morning's harsh light, tales unfold.

Memories blur, like dreams in fog's embrace,
What once shone bright, now loses its grace.
The night before, a fleeting, thrilling high,
Leaves voids within, a deep, exhausted sigh.

A pounding headache, each thump a stark ache,
Reminders of all choices we did make.
The evening's fleeting joy, the night's allure,
Now morphs to silence, nothing remains pure.

In the morning after, with solemn tone,
Facing harsh truths in this early light alone.
The cost of fun, of choices too unwise,
A lesson learned in painful morning skies.

Yet in this pain, a chance to grow anew,
A wisdom gained that only dawn could view.
The morning after, though it brings its sting,
Lays down the path for new beginnings.

You *****!
You twitching tick of a man,
clogging lanes with your choked-up ego,
your mirror’s a shrine to your own smug face,
overtook like the rules were quaint,
like courtesy was some antique word
you'd auctioned off for a moment’s gain.

You *****!
sharp with nothing beneath,
your car a coffin for grace and tact,
steering through lives like they’re backdrop noise,
your brake lights blink like cheap excuses.

I saw you with your slipstream swagger,
the sneer worn like a braid of barbed wire,
and I wondered,
not if you’d crash,
but if you ever learned how to slow.

You were the storm’s rehearsal snarl rehearsed in chrome,

Your lane-change a fault line, a tectonic shrug beneath civility’s crust.
Your overtaking not motion, but motive
a hunger to be first in a race no one else was running.

Your indicators are Morse for mayhem,
-- .- -.-- .... . --
a signal sent to nobody,
because you only speak in static.

And yet, silence followed,
the hush of cars coasting beside restraint,
the world not clattering in outrage
but watching,
like a cat beneath streetlights.

I didn’t yell.
I counted the trees instead,
their branches like bones with secrets,
their leaves whispering forgiveness
to the wind that never apologised.

The road held us both me, and him,
like it does every stranger in love with arrival.

In trembling arms I stood on the edge to begin new skin.
Her ghost still warmed our mattress, yet I dared to begin new skin.

Your fingertips mapped the hollow of memory to begin new skin.
Grief, soft as a wild thing, intertwined with desire to begin new skin.

In that hush where past and future whispered, I chose to begin new skin.
Not betrayal but benediction unfolded in each breath to begin new skin.

Dawn sifted through blinds, prayers pressed to my ribs to begin new skin.
Loss and longing cupped me tenderly, shaping courage to begin new skin.

In the gravity of your hold I claimed grace again to begin new skin
This heart, once fractured, mends with every pulse, Geof learns to begin new skin.

***, 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.

Saturday hums a lullaby of almost; my mind traces your voice in every song, counting chords instead of hours, hoping melody will speed the sky.

Sunday arrives on tiptoe, a hush at dusk, time curves back into something tender. One more night, and gravity shifts: seven days become one breath, and you're here.

Monday yawns at dawn, a patient snail bearing hours like burdens in its shell. Every second drips, a hesitant drop, and your laughter still floats beyond my reach.

Tuesday’s sun stretches shadows long; they beckon me into empty rooms where your footsteps once carved their names on polished floors that now forget.

Wednesday trembles under a sky half-lit, time caught between heartbeat and hush. I map each breath to how many more until your arms fold around my days.

Thursday limps, dragging yesterday’s dust, while I scramble for moments that vanish like stardust slipping through cupped hands;  seven days, but forever in each.

Friday flares with half-remembered warmth, as if I glimpse your smile in every face. Hope and longing tangle their fingers, whispering that soon we’ll collide.

The earth did not ask for footsteps, yet here they are, a lineage pressed in damp clay, slow echoes of a decision made before the mouth could speak it.

Above, the sky dangles its ancient questions: what is blue but belief stretched thin? What is light but fire remembering itself?

I stood once in a field where the nettles taught me humility, and the thistle crowned me with a sting worth keeping. Some places do not forget that you passed through.

We build altars from accidental things: broken fence wire, a bottle cap, the bones of once-loved laughter. Memory is not a shrine, but a ritual of becoming, again and again, the same story with a different flame.

Time does not carry us forward. It circles, creaks, stutters, a rickety wheelbarrow full of unfinished thoughts and rain-stained promises. We are caught between the then and almost.

And love? It arrives not like a trumpet blast but like a pencil mark, soft, tentative, easily smudged yet somehow permanent.

There are doors I’ve opened only to find mirrors. There are windows I’ve closed to keep the stars from judging me. Still, something sings in the basement of the soul, a low note shaped like home, like hope if it had a scent.

I ask for nothing but a good pair of shoes, a sky that forgets to end, and someone who’ll walk with me even when the map is wrong.

Golden breath
Morning spills.

Windows beam
Soft light swells.

Waking trees,
Stretching slow.

Petal hush,
Dandelion glow.

Hope returns,
Clouds retreat.

Shadows bow,
Bittersweet heat.

Childlike joy,
Skinned-knee grace.

Running wild,
Limitless space.

Fields whisper,
Hills reply.

Honey air,
Dragonfly sky.

Wrinkled hands,
Garden soil.

Lifting roots,
Ending toil.

Memory flickers,
Sunlit pages.

Laughter lost,
Still it engages.

Rain resumes,
Yet light lingers.

Sun behind,
Grief’s long fingers.

Faith endures,
In golden thread.

Love aloft,
Never dead.

Candle soul,
Warm and bare.

He is here,
Everywhere.

You hold the slender stick of incense  
between thumb and forefinger,
a quiet question framed in sandalwood.  

A tap of flame at its tip  
awakens latent murmurs  
that curl upward in a pale spiral.  

Smoke drifts like a slow confession,  
tracing loops in the still air,
an unseen calligraphy of scent.  

Each breath you draw expands  
that hidden manuscript:  
cloves, myrrh, cedar; fingers of dusk.  

At the stick’s hollow heart, the flame wanes,  
leaving a halo of ember  
that shifts from red to ash.  

Grey granules rain in silent punctuation,  
each flake a remnant phrase  
of transformation written in dust.  

Your palm catches the residue,
a fine, silver testament  
to what must become nothing.  

The aroma lingers,  
a ghost ache in the room,  
mapping absence where presence bloomed.  

Ash drifts down like memories;
tender, ephemeral, luminous;  
and the stick stands hushed, hollowed.  

In that hollow core, you glimpse  
the space between flame and ash,  
presence and departure.  

You cradle the empty stick  
as if it still holds a promise,  
a threshold waiting to be crossed.

The now slips out  
before it ever settles
a shadow flinching from the light  
that dared to call it real.  

Breath, halfway drawn,  
becomes the exhale  
of a world already changed.  
Clocks don’t tick here
they vanish.  

This moment?  
It’s moss on a comet.  
Ash of a word mid-whisper.  
You reach
and it’s the reaching  
that’s left behind.  

Time doesn’t wait,
not because it’s cruel,  
but because it can’t remember  
how to pause.  

We speak of “present”  
as if it unwraps,  
but it never arrives.  
It only disrobes  
into “before we spoke”  
and “after we felt.”  

What you felt:
already echo.  
What you knew:
already myth.  
What you are:
already becoming.

🏁 The Banter at Tanvic 🛞  
At Tanvic’s desk, where the bustle hums,  
Come clinks of mugs and rolling thumbs.  
With wit as sharp as a socket wrench,  
They greet each customer with a banter trench.

“Need tyres mate? Let’s sort you right,  
All-season grip or pure delight?”  
One checks the tread with eagle eyes,  
While tossing jokes that catch surprise.

"Brake pads worn? That squeal’s a clue.
We'll fix it up, no stress for you."  
The team’s a blend of skill and jest,  
With torque guns and stories, they’re simply the best.

Need a bulb? A filter? Or wiper blade?  
Advice rains down like a retro arcade.  
"You could use a new belt, not for trousers, mind,
Though we do admire that vintage find!"

They shuffle quotes and scribble keys,  
As laughter drifts on oil-scented breeze.  
Behind the counter, hearts rev loud,  
Tanvic's crew: proud, quick, and ploughed—

Through greasy gears and Monday blues,  
They’re the roadside poets in steel-toe shoes.  
So if your car’s in need of care,  
Their banter’s worth the time you spare.

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.

A Street Cant incantation to ignite truth, burn illusion,
and summon the phoenix’s whisper.

Yo, scratch that silence, light the wick,
I spit flame from the beard, real quick.
Ink in my veins, ash in my spit,
truth don’t hide when the verse legit.

Snap the scroll, fold the beat,
words hit hard like boots on street.
Feather flash, tail twist,
phoenix rise from a poet’s fist.

Blue light hummin’, foam on wall,
I cast from the edge where echoes crawl.
No wand, no staff, just tongue and breath,
I rhyme through rebirth, dodgein’ death.

Cabinet closed, but I got keys,
each line unlocks what the eye don’t see.
Chair’s empty, but I ain’t alone,
my myth walks loud in a quiet tone.

So hear me now, illusion break,
I burn the fake for the real to wake.
Ashwright Geof, spell-slinger prime,
droppin’ verse bombs in glitch-time rhyme.

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.”

I remember you, not in moonlight or sonnets, but in the stench of smoke-filled pillows, half-smirked apologies, and the cold hum of your phone screen glowing too long after midnight.

Love didn’t bloom here, it cracked through concrete where **** and poppies tried to coexist, where we kissed like threats, mouths drunk on leftover gin and borrowed forgiveness.

You spoke in edits, cutting out truths like clutter, calling silence “space,” calling me “intense,” like affection was something to ration, not pour.

I touched your skin and felt the echo of all the hands before mine, none of them holy, just loud.

Hope tasted metallic. I bled through your quiet, left fingerprints on walls you never looked at, and wrote poems you never posted.

So when they ask where wildflowers go, I say: some rot. Some get plucked by liars. Some learn to bloom with fists. And some break through anyway, but they don’t weep. They spit.

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.

Verse 1
Saturday night’s a lonely waltz, Moonlight spinning on an empty floor. I trace your name in drifting dust; One, two, three… can’t hold you anymore.

Sunday paints the sky in sighs, Shadows waltz where laughter used to play. Counting slow breaths ’til you return, One, two, three… seven days away.

Chorus
Waltzin’ through these empty rooms, One, two, three… my heart keeps time to you. Seven days but feels like too many moons, One, two, three… I’m lost without you.

Verse 2
Monday drags my coffee cold, Memories drip like rain upon my soul. Tuesday’s hush crawls up the walls, One, two, three… your footsteps I recall.

Wednesday’s half-lit sky stands still, Time bends back on itself at will. Thursday's dust floats in the hall; One, two, three… I miss you most of all.

Bridge (Palindrome Pivot)
Empty rooms bloom in gloom, gloom in bloom rooms empty. Echoes lace the silent space, space silent the lace echoes. Moments fold in cold space, space cold in fold moments.

Verse 3
Friday’s hope peeks ’round the dawn, I see your shadow dancing on the lawn. Tomorrow’s steps will break this spell; One, two, three… and all will be well.

Chorus (Repeat)
Waltzin’ through these empty rooms, One, two, three… my heart keeps time to you. Seven days but feels like too many moons, One, two, three… I’m lost without you.

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.

(By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard)

I woke up craving grammar carbs,
Not toast, nor eggs, nor jelly garbs.
But oven-fresh and piping bold:
A basketful of words retold.

I asked the chef, “Could I get some?”
She said, “You mean thesauribun?”
“That's right,” I winked, “those cinnamon swirls,
But make ’em synonym rolls, dear girl.”

She plated puns with playful flair:
“Bold = brave, daring, debonair!”
I bit into ‘quick’ - it tasted ‘swift’
With side of ‘gifted’ language lift.

‘Happy’ flaked like ‘merry’, ‘glee’,
While ‘tasty’ whispered ‘yummy’ to me.
Each roll a punny paradox,
Hot like ‘fiery’... cool as ‘fox’.

The butter spread was smooth with sass,
Labelled “suave” and “upper-class.”
I asked for jam! She brought ‘preserve’,
With extra ‘savvy’ word reserve.

So now I dine on vowel dough,
My crossword palate set aglow.
No calories, just calories’ friends.
They're simile but never ends.

In the expanse, beyond our sight,
God-beyond-us, Infinite Light,
Creator of stars, the cosmos grand,
In every grain of desert sand.

Beside us walks the Holy One,
God-beside-us, the Father’s Son,
In every heart, a gentle guide,
With love and grace, always by our side.

Within our souls, a spark divine,
God-being-us, in you and me,
A whisper soft, a silent prayer,
The breath of life, always there.

Three faces, one essence, intertwined,
In every heart and every mind,
Beyond, beside, within us all,
The sacred dance, the divine call.

(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.

(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.

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.