for Phil Morrish, watching weather roll in

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

*** 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.

The curves of a woman, a sight to behold,
***** and bums, a symmetry to unfold.
Like hills and valleys, they rise and they fall,
A topography of beauty, for one and all.

The *****, like ripe fruit, full and so fine,
Invite the eye to linger, and the heart to entwine.
Their gentle sway, a dance so divine,
A movement that's subtle, yet oh so sublime.

And the bums, like rounded moons in the night,
Glow with a soft luminescence, a pure delight.
Their curves and contours, a work of art in themselves,
A masterpiece of nature, that forever wealth.

But let us not forget, these features so fair,
Are but a part of the whole, beyond compare.
For it's the person within, with heart and soul so bright,
That makes these curves shine with beauty and light.

So let us celebrate these wondrous forms divine,
And honour the women who wear them so fine.
For ***** and bums are but mere words we use,
To describe the beauty that our eyes can't refuse.

A meeting starts, the room is hushed,
My stomach rumbles - oh, I blush!
A deep borborygmus, loud and proud,
Echoes boldly through the crowd.

I shift my seat, pretend it’s fake,
Blame the floorboards, for goodness' sake!
Yet still it growls, a beast unchained,
A hunger cry that can't be tamed.

Coffee won’t hush it, nor a snack,
It grumbles forth - no turning back!
Alas, the truth is hard to face,
My stomach speaks, I rest my case.

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.

Thoughts
   e    x
p         l
   o    d
      e
Brilliant flash
Worlds crash
New paths
Utter chaos
Mind Blown

The Poetry of Waiting

Not the break,
but the breath before the break.
Not the silence,
but the listening it invites.

A caesura is not absence,
it is presence held still.
A hush with its hands open.
A comma that prays.

It lives in the gasp
between heartbeat and echo,
in the moment the dancer
hovers mid-turn,
in the glance that says
more than the line ever could.

It is the ache
that punctuation cannot name.
The pause
where grief gathers its syllables.
The space
where longing loops back to begin again.

We write it
with white space,
with hesitation,
with the courage
to not fill every line.

We live it
in hospital waiting rooms,
in the hush before “I love you,”
in the breath between diagnosis and reply.

Caesura –
the sacred seam
where poetry listens
to the body.

or,
The Tale of Wanting It All

I walked with Kate through park-lit moons,
she spoke in stars and silver spoons.
By morning light, came Edith’s call,
her voice a breeze, her laugh, a squall.

Two hearts aligned in different hues,
one wore red, one sang the blues.
I tried to juggle flame and mist,
with every touch, a love I missed.

Kate brought joy, a sugar glaze,
her kiss, a rush, her smile a daze.
Edith offered deeper spice,
with wit that cut and warmth precise.

But soon, the clocks began to squeal,
truth peeled back my furtive zeal.
For secrets have a bitter crust,
and tales like mine outgrow their lust.

Then came the reckoning, swift and neat:
You want Kate and Edith? That’s “Cake” and “Eat…”
My conscience baked me in its pan,
you can't have both, my fickle man.

So now I sit, a fork in hand,
alone beside love’s reprimand,
A lesson carved in candied rue:
You can't have Kate and Edith too.

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

The shelf I built stands tall and proud,
Well -- almost tall, a little browed.
The legs are wobbly, joints askew,
It’s leaning like it’s had a few!

I step back, scratch my head and sigh,
This wasn’t meant to tilt and pry.
The blueprint said, “align with care,”
Yet here it sways -- a lopsided chair!

The screws are in, the nails are tight,
And still, it looks… well, not quite right.
Call it charm or odd design,
But cattywampus work is mine!

Words like whispers fly,
Dreams unfold in silent night,
Hearts dance in moonlight.

In the velvet cloak of night,
A cosmic dance begins,
Seven celestial bodies align,
A rare and wondrous sight.

Mercury, swift and bright,
First to greet the twilight,
Dancing close to the sun's embrace,
A fleeting, golden light.

Venus, the evening star,
Glistens with a lover's glow,
Her beauty unmatched, afar,
In the twilight's gentle flow.

Mars, the warrior bold,
Burns with a crimson fire,
A tale of battles old,
And dreams that never tire.

Jupiter, the giant king,
With moons in loyal throng,
His presence, a majestic ring,
A symphony, a song.

Saturn, with his rings of ice,
A crown of ancient lore,
In the sky, a paradise,
A wonder to explore.

Uranus, the tilted one,
A mystery in the night,
His azure hue, a distant sun,
A beacon, cold and bright.

Neptune, the farthest blue,
In the depths of space he roams,
A world of secrets, few,
In the vast, eternal homes.

Together, they align,
A parade of cosmic grace,
A moment so divine,
In the boundless, starry space.

The heavens sing their song,
A melody of light,
A harmony so strong,
In the quiet of the night.

Gaze upon this sight,
A gift from realms above,
A fleeting, rare delight,
A testament of love.

For in this grand display,

The universe reveals,
Its wonders, night and day,
And the magic it conceals.

In the midst of change, I stand still,
Caught between the push and pull.
A world in flux, yet here I stay,
Afraid to move, afraid to sway.

The path ahead, a winding road,
With fears and doubts, a heavy load.
I see the signs, I hear the call,
But something holds me, after all.

Comfort in the known, a safe cocoon,
Yet dreams of change, they whisper soon.
A battle rages in my mind,
To leave the past, or stay confined.

The days go by, the seasons turn,
A fire inside begins to burn.
I long to leap, to spread my wings,
But fear of falling, tightly clings.

In this limbo, I remain,
A heart divided, joy and pain.
The courage comes, then fades away,
In this transition, I delay.

But deep within, a voice so clear,
Urges me to face the fear.
For change is life, and life is change,
To grow, to learn, to rearrange.

One day I'll step, one day I'll fly,
Embrace the new, and say goodbye.
But for now, in this space I stay,
Gathering strength for that brave day.

Have you got places to be?
Always, mate, always,
The world spins fast, no time to see,
Life's a whirlwind, in so many ways.

Do you ever stop to breathe?
Rarely, mate, rarely,
Chasing dreams, no time to grieve,
Moments pass by, barely.

Is there a place you call home?
Everywhere, mate, everywhere,
In the heart, where I roam,
In the memories we share.

Do you find peace in the rush?
Sometimes, mate, sometimes,
In the quiet moments, hush,
In the rhythm of life's rhymes.

Will you ever slow down?
Maybe, mate, maybe,
When the stars wear a crown,
And the journey feels steady.

I will always cherish the dawn,
When the world is quiet and new.
In the stillness, I find my song,
A melody just for you.

With every sunrise, hope is born,
Each ray a promise shining bright.
In the morning's embrace, we're reborn,
Our dreams taking flight.

I'll always guard the twilight's glow,
Where day and night softly meet.
In the whispering winds that blow,
Our hearts sync their beat.

Through dawn and dusk, in joy or sorrow,
With you, my path is clear.
I'll treasure every new tomorrow,
For in my heart, you'll always be near.

I walk these paths we once explored,
Each step echoes of your name.
In memories, you're my adored,
A love that time cannot tame.

Though you've departed from this world,
Your essence lingers in the air.
In every flower that's unfurled,
I find a trace of you there.

Nights are long and filled with dreams,
Of moments we once shared.
Your laughter, like the brightest beams,
In my heart, you're ensnared.

Though you're not here to hold my hand,
Your spirit guides me through.
In every star, in every land,
My love, I'm missing you.

In a garden dressed in Christmas cheer,
With twinkling lights that draw us near,
A winter wonderland unveiled,
Where dreams and magic have prevailed.

Children gather, eyes alight,
In the glow of fairy lights so bright,
Each step they take, a dance of glee,
As laughter fills the frosty spree.

Icicles hang like crystal stars,
Reflecting wonder from afar,
Candy canes and ribbons twine,
Around the trees that seem divine.

Whispers of snowflakes kiss the ground,
In this enchanted space profound,
A snowman smiles, a guardian true,
Of festive fun in sights anew.

The night embraces every soul,
In this cozy, vibrant stroll,
Joyful giggles warm the air,
As stories, hopes, and dreams they share.

Here in this garden, hearts ignite,
With Christmas magic shining bright,
And every child, with wonder's gleam,
Finds Christmas is more than just a dream.

I walk my own path in colours so bright,
Through shadows and sunshine, both day and night.
With hues of courage, and shades of grace,
I paint my journey, in my own pace.

No map to follow, no line to trace,
Just vibrant dreams, in endless space.
With every step, the canvas grows,
A masterpiece in the making, flows.

Blues of the ocean, greens of the earth,
Reds of passion, and golds of worth.
In every hue, a story told,
Of adventures new, and hearts so bold.

For life is art, in a spectrum wide,
A kaleidoscope of joy and stride.
I walk my own path, in colours so bright,
A radiant journey, a beacon of light.

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.

In a land where rules are made,
A curious thought began to wade.
“The law must be obeyed,” they say,
“For breaking it is not the way.”
“But why must we follow this decree?”
Asked a voice from the old oak tree.
“Because the law is what we must heed,
To break it is an unlawful deed.”
“But why is breaking it so wrong?”
The question lingered, soft yet strong.
“Because the law says so, you see,
And thus, it must be followed strictly.”
Around and round the logic spun,
A circle danced, a web was spun.
For in this land of rules and might,
The answer lay in circular light.
The law must be obeyed, it’s clear,
Because to break it brings us near,
To the very thing we must avoid,
A loop of logic, neatly deployed.

Cleaning up,
100% complete,
Don't turn off...
In this moment, a soul's renewal starts to flow.

Past sins, forgiven, cast away,
"For if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:9)
The old life washed, made clean,
The grace of God illuminates the way,
"And he said to her, 'Your sins are forgiven.'" (Luke 7:48)
And mercy's light begins to gleam.

Eyes lifted upward, a future in faith,
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." (Philippians 4:13)
No longer burdened by guilt,
The past is redeemed, a testament,
A life upon God's promise built.

With a prayer, they step forward,
Guided by His steadfast love,
"For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope." (Jeremiah 29:11)
For every end marks His beginning,
In His hope, the heart soars above.

Cleaning up,
100% complete,
Don't turn off...
A rebirth in Christ, where broken dreams find peace.
"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come." (2 Corinthians 5:17)

At Clearbrook Lodge by twilight's grace,  
Jemma's smile lit up the place.  
Talk of trails and paddling dreams,  
Of leafy paths and tranquil streams.  

We claimed our space, then Sarn appeared,  
The talk of land both loved and weird
Where rowing boats await the breeze  
And paddle boards skim willow trees.  

The gardens called us Saturday morn,  
With blooms in sun, where steps were worn.  
We vowed to watch the falcons' flight  
On future days of feathered might.  

Sunday drifted, slow and kind,  
With BBQs and peace of mind.  
While Monday's chip-salt kissed the skin,  
On Pendine sands where laughs begin.  

Tuesday’s wetlands soaked our feet,  
Cranes waltzed through the grasses sweet
A feather found, now proudly placed,  
A badge of nature, finely graced.  

Wednesday brought a second chance,  
To see the falcons swoop and dance.  
Then gardens bloomed beneath our stride,  
With nature walking by our side.  

Thursday’s waves and dolphin cheer,  
From Oxwich Bay to Worm’s Head near.  
The seals blinked slow, the seabirds skimmed,  
While laughter rode the ocean’s wind.  

A stop at heritage, mill and stream,  
With Welsh cawl’s warmth and cider's gleam.  
We walked through stories, old and bright,  
In leet-fed halls of shared delight.  

And now we pack with hearts aweight,  
For leaving dreams we’d love to wait.  
Clearbrook whispers in the air
“Come back, and find your stories there.”

Whispers in the sky,
Dreams painted in soft white hues,
Nature's fleeting art.

The ****, a symbol of strength, of power and of might,
A part of the male form, that's both delicate and bright.
It stands *****, a pillar of pride and desire,
A source of pleasure, and a spark that sets the fire.

The *****, like orbs of wisdom, hanging low and serene,
A treasure trove of life, where seeds of love are seen.
They swing with gentle motion, a rhythmic beat so fine,
A reminder of the beauty, that's inherent in design.

Together they form a union, a bond so strong and true,
A harmony of function, that's both beautiful and new.
For in their intricate dance, we find the essence of life,
A celebration of masculinity, in all its strife.

But let us not forget, these parts so bold and free,
Are but a portion of the whole, a fragment of humanity.
For it's the person within, with heart and soul so bright,
That makes these forms shine with beauty, and ignite with delight.

So let us honour the **** and *****, as symbols of our might,
And recognize the beauty, that shines with morning light.
For in their honest portrayal, we find a truth so rare,
A celebration of masculinity, without shame or care.

Beneath the soil where silent shadows sleep,
The earth enfolds its secrets, stark and steep.

A graveyard grieves in ghostly, grim embrace,
Where time has traced its touch on every face.

Moonlight lingers on marble, marked and marred,
Casting cold clarity where lives were scarred.

The breathless breeze bears whispers, weak and wan,
Of fleeting figures, here but never gone.

Frail and finite, all flesh must face its fate,
To tread the twilight toward the eternal gate.

Yet even death, with darkness so profound,
Cannot confine what faith and love have found.

for those who sip between worlds

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a humble shop, where hearts align,  
For ten long years, our beacon shines.  
A place where kindness finds its way,  
To those in need, day by day.

For three and a half, we've led the way,  
With open arms and words to say.  
Meeting faces, young and old,  
Stories of warmth and hands to hold.

Families with children, eyes so bright,  
Find solace in our gentle light.  
A difference made, a life renewed,  
In every smile, gratitude.

Through every challenge, joy, and tear,  
We've built a haven, year by year.  
From empty shelves to rising need,  
We've faced it all, with heart and creed.

A community, strong and true,  
All thanks to the heart of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

F♯ is G♭
In a realm where the moon hugs a bright balloon,
A spoon listens softly to a far-off tune.
Stars hide in jars with dreams tucked away
And even sharp notes find a home in play.

For here in our cosmos of chaos and art,
Every note sings a secret straight from the heart.
In this magical sphere, where opposites chat,
We whisper with wonder, “F♯ is G♭ - imagine that!”

The universe twirls to a rhythm so light,
Where silly, surreal sounds make the dark bright.
Each note, a spark in a fantastical debate,
Proving that strict rules can sometimes wait.

So join in the mirth, let your spirit take flight,
Dance with the stars in the soft lunar light.
For in this delightful, nonsensical spin,
Every tune is a story where adventure begins!

Starlight Sonata
Deep in the velvet of a midnight sky,
A symphony of secrets begins to sigh.
The piano of stars chimes soft and bright,
Every key a dream in the heart of night.

F♯ mingles with G♭ in a cosmic embrace,
Notes waltzing freely through time and space.
Each twinkling melody, both bold and sweet,
Whispers that wonder and whimsy do meet.

Nebula Lullaby
In a world where clocks gently unspin,
Celestial rhythms invite us in.
The moon, a gentle guardian, holds a balloon,
While spoons and jars hum a quirky tune.

Celestial choirs in a cosmic parade,
Sing of hidden treasures in midnight’s glade.
Every note, a spark in a dreamy flight,
Guides little hearts in the dance of night.

The Cosmic Chorus
Join the cosmic chorus, let your giggles flow,
Dance with the stars as they twinkle and glow.
In this magical realm where rules are few,
Every sound sings a story that's ever new.

So let us celebrate the freedom of song,
Where every note tells us we all belong.
In the playful realms of this musical maze,
Find joy in chaos and light in each phrase.

The moon in June held a bright balloon,
It sang a tune to a sleepy spoon.
A loon in a dune found a silver cocoon,
And marooned a prune by the light of noon.

The star went far to hide in a jar,
While dreams would gleam on a shooting star.
A cartoon divine began to shine,
And danced in line with a heart of pine.

The glow did show on a field of snow,
Where streams would flow in a steady row.
Art made its start on a luminous chart,
While play found a way to warm the heart.

Then the moon dipped low in the crimson tide,
Where shadows and sparks began to collide.
A spoon tipped over and joined the spree,
Twirling in tune with the galaxy.

A chart sang boldly, declaring the fight,
Against gloom and doubt in the shimmering night.
Dreams broke free in a starry parade,
And nonsense ruled as the dawn delayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes there is the need to just walk away,
Another time to run, to not delay.
In moments when the heart feels torn,
A path unknown, a love reborn.

With every step, a choice we make,
To hold on tight or to forsake.
The journey’s long, the road is wide,
In love’s embrace, we must decide.

When shadows fall and doubts arise,
Look to the stars, the moonlit skies.
For in the night, a guiding light,
To lead us through the darkest night.

Sometimes we walk, sometimes we flee,
In search of where our hearts should be.
But in the end, love finds its way,
To bring us peace, a brighter day.

In the warmth of the evening, where faith lights our way,
Men gather together, in fellowship we stay.
With spices and stories, our spirits ignite,
In this circle of brothers, we find God’s light.

From mild to fiery, the dishes we share,
Each bite a reminder of God’s loving care.
With naan in our hands and joy in our hearts,
We savour His blessings, each one a fine art.

Conversations flow like the finest of wine,
Sharing our journeys, His love so divine.
In the warmth of the curry, our faith deeply grows,
A bond that’s as strong as the grace He bestows.

So, here’s to the evenings of curry and cheer,
To the friendships we cherish, with God ever near.
May our nights be as spicy, our laughter as sweet,
As the love that we share and the Saviour we greet.

Behind closed curtains, a whisper of a phrase,
"Do the curtains match the drapes?" they say.
A query shrouded in metaphor's haze,
Seeking truths in shadows, come what may.

Curtains drawn, they hide the light,
Guarding secrets in their pleats so tight.
But drapes, they frame the soul's pure sight,
A window to the heart, in day and night.

Do appearances align with what's within?
Do outward shows mask what's beneath the skin?
A riddle posed by those who peer in,
Wondering where the truth begins.

Do the curtains match the drapes, my friend?
In this life's stage where roles transcend,
Look beyond the surface, and you'll comprehend,
The harmony of self, where real truths blend.

On the cusp of spring, in morning light,
Emerges a bloom, pure and white.
A daisy bold, midst blades of green,
Tales of springtime dreams unseen.

Daisy, darling, harbinger bright,
Whispers of warmth in the fading night.
In a world yet cold, your petals gleam,
A promise of the springtime dream.

Through winter's grasp, you find your way,
With golden heart that bids the day.
Courageous flower, tender and sweet,
In the dawning spring, our eyes do meet.

Though frost may linger, though skies be grey,
Your beauty heralds a brighter day.
In gardens wild or manicured lawn,
With you, dear daisy, spring is born.

So sing, dear daisy, your silent song,
As nature's chorus joins along.
In your embrace, we find our cheer,
For spring is nigh, and warmth is near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the stillness where shadows recede,
A promise glows, your soul is freed.
Through your journey, Danny, trials and tears,
Hope has whispered through the years.

In passing, a doorway, not defeat,
A warm embrace you will meet.
Arms extended, a light so pure,
A love eternal, steadfast, sure.

The weight of pain, the chains of strife,
Fall away into the gift of life.
With every step, peace held tight,
Now you walk into the light.

To Pauline, in love’s embrace,
Know Danny finds eternal grace.
Though parted now, his love remains,
Through cherished times, in joy and pains.

To Helen and Rob, his guiding pride,
His love lives on, deep inside.
In every smile, in every tear,
Your father’s spirit lingers near.

For Zachary, Esmie, Jacob, and Euan, dear,
Know Grandpa’s love is always near.
In laughter’s echo, in stories told,
His warmth remains, a heart of gold.

A gentle peace, a light profound,
In that place, Danny is unbound.
Forever held, forever known,
In love's embrace, he is home.

Written With sympathy by Geof

Endless night, no rest,
Silent screams within the dark,
Mind adrift, alone.

A Fun Christian Poem

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

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

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

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

A Christian Poem on Premature Displays

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

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

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

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

A Christian Poem of Anticipation in the Everyday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eternal mystery, where life’s journey finds its boundary. A passage from this earthly plane to realms unknown, where souls remain.

Death
In shadows deep, we contemplate,
the final breath, the closing gate.
Yet in this stillness, hope does bloom,
the promise of life beyond the tomb.

Grief
A tempest in the heart,
tears that flow when loved ones depart.
Memories etched upon our souls,
their laughter, touch, and whispered goals.

Faith
A beacon in the night,
guides us through the darkest fight.
For death is but a transient shore,
and love endures forevermore.

So let us honour those who’ve flown,
their legacy in stories sown,
and as we weep, we also find,
that death is not the end of mind.

For in the vastness of the skies,
their spirits dance, forever rise.
And though we mourn, we also know,
they’ve found a home where angels go.

In the hush of night, when stars align,
we sense a peace that's near divine.
For death's not just an end, but start,
a journey of the eternal heart.

In every tear, a love's embrace,
In every fear, a hidden grace.
For those we've lost, we'll meet again,
in realms of light, without the pain.

Upon the floor, debates ignite,
They argue left, they argue right.
A filibuster drags the night,
A senator sighs, Oh what a sight.

The bills pile up, gridlock in place,
A lawmaker’s face turns red in haste.
Tempers flare, objections rise,
Committee rooms erupt with cries.

Then through the chamber, swift and loud,
One congressman breaks from the crowd!
With forceful grip and righteous vim,
They toss a binder - right at him!

Through marble halls and polished doors,
Defenestration takes the floor.
No policy fixed, no law is passed,
But someone went through glass at last!

Does anyone find their jeans have shrunk when they have just come out the wash?
The waistband tightens, seams constrict, the fabric feels awfully posh.
Once a perfect fit, they hugged curves just right,
Now they pinch and squeeze, a denim plight.

We sigh and tug, perform a little dance,
Hoping for a miracle, to give them one more chance.
We blame the dryer, the water too hot,
Or maybe, just maybe, it's the snack we've sought.

But in this tiny battle, there's a hint of truth,
A reminder of changes, in age and youth.
For clothes may shrink, and time may fly,
But we'll wear our jeans with heads held high.

Does anyone find their jeans have shrunk when they have just come out the wash?
It's life's little quirks that give us a good ol' squash.
So we'll laugh it off, and embrace each day,
For in our favourite jeans, we'll find our way.