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.

Did you want anything?
She asked with a gentle smile,
Just a moment of your time,
He replied, pausing for a while.

What shall we talk about?
She inquired, eyes bright and keen,
The dreams we chase, the fears we doubt,
He said, with a thoughtful sheen.

Do you believe in fate?
She wondered, voice soft and low,
I think we shape our own path,
He answered, letting his thoughts flow.

What brings you joy?
She asked, leaning closer still,
The simple things, a child’s toy,
He mused, with a quiet thrill.

Where do you see us going?
She questioned, hope in her tone,
To places unknown, ever growing,
He whispered, feeling less alone.

Did you want anything?
She repeated, a final plea,
Just to be here, in this moment,
He said, with you and me.

Dipsy-la-lo-di-da, the hippo wore a hat,
And flew to the moon on the back of a gnat.
A penguin proposed to a blueberry pie,
While a sock did karate and yelled, “Hi-yah, fly!”

The toaster recited a Shakespearean play,
While the fridge breakdanced in a furious display.
A llama in glitter invented a sport
Juggling noodles in a pizza-filled fort.

Dipsy-la-lo-di-da, the cactus sang jazz,
As jellybeans tangoed with purple pizzazz.
A submarine surfaced in a giant teacup,
And declared, “I’m the king of this syrupy sup!”

The stars turned cartwheels and burst into song,
While spaghetti noodles swung Tarzan-style along.
A turtle in tap shoes just couldn’t be beat,
Winning gold medals for his two left feet.

So twirl with a trumpet and cha-cha with cheese,
For in nonsense, the universe bows to its knees!

In the potter’s hands, the clay does rest,
A work in progress, not yet its best.
Though marred and flawed, it holds potential,
A masterpiece, so quintessential.

With every turn, the wheel does spin,
A chance to start anew within.
The potter’s touch, both firm and kind,
Transforms the clay, renews the mind.

When cracks appear and pieces fall,
He doesn’t discard, but mends them all.
For in each flaw, a story’s told,
Of strength and grace, of courage bold.

So don’t throw the clay away, my friend,
For in its form, there’s much to mend.
With patience, love, and tender care,
A vessel strong, beyond compare

Sometimes, those voices whisper,
       "You can't,"
                   "You’re lost,"
                              "You’re weak,"
they say, with shadows coiled tight,
Rising like storm clouds over my mind,
Clutching my hope, stealing my light.

They creep in corners, faceless and loud,
Weaving their lies in the guise of truth,
Heavy as chains, they tether and shroud,
Draining the colours of life’s youth.

But then, the sky splits, a tremor unfolds,
A roar like mountains torn asunder.
God’s voice cascades, relentless and bold,
A symphony of light, a surge of thunder.

His roar shakes the roots of anger’s grip,
The weight dissolves, the shadows flee.
Resentment, like ash, scatters and drifts,
And I am left unbound, free to be me.

The whispers falter, their power erased,
As His strength becomes my refrain.
God’s roar declares, "You are embraced,
No past will hold you, no hurt remain."

So let them murmur, scream, or shout,
Their power is thin, their strength a veil.
For in my heart, His voice rings out
            -I can, I will, prevail.-

For an instance, I forgot my wife,
In the whirlwind of moments, life's swift race,
A fleeting lapse, a blink of time,
Yet in my heart, she holds her place.

In busy days and hurried nights,
When memories flutter like the breeze,
A moment's pause, a quiet breath,
Her presence gently brings me ease.

Though time has passed, her love remains,
A constant light that guides my way,
Her laughter echoes in my heart,
A solace in the darkest day.

For even in those briefest slips,
When focus shifts, and thoughts do stray,
The bond we shared is unbroken still,
Her spirit near, come what may.

The Beat of a Different Drum by Geof

He walks where echoes refuse to follow, a syncopated step on puddled glass, soft-footed rebellion, quiet as dusk pressing its fingertips against the day.

No band behind him, no metronome’s kiss, just the pulse of stray thoughts tattooed across his chest like whispered defiance.

The world hums in straight lines, he scribbles sideways. Timbre raw. Cadence cracked. Every silence he breaks rings in technicolour truth.

You call it offbeat; he calls it becoming. In his rhythm, the rules unravel and leave room for the beautiful wrong.


The Different Beat of a Drum by Geof

Not syncopation. Not jazz. Not tribal echo on moonlit skin, but something else: a crackle in the chest when rules bruise the breath.

It starts in the soles, like friction turned gospel. No conductor, no call and response. Just bone vibration and a whisper that won't beg for translation.

This beat, it skews the grid, skips the tidy wrap of genre. It breaks the silence like a grin in a funeral march.

He plays it anyway, thumb on steel, heartbeat misfiring into music. Some call it dissonance. He calls it home.


The Drum of a Different Beat by Geof

It sat in the corner like it knew things, skin stretched tight over secrets, rim worn smooth by the hands of those who didn’t ask permission.

No sheet music. No conductor. Just breath and bruise, just instinct knocking on wood until sound fractured into meaning.

Its beat didn’t match your step. It changed your step. Bent time like a flame licking the wick before the burn.

Each strike: a sideways sermon. Each silence: a dare.

They tried to tune it. Tried to name it. But it throbbed with its own alphabet and whispered in pulses only the wild could follow.

for the ones who rise sideways

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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!

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.

By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I cracked at dawn beneath the weight
Of choices scrambled on my plate.
Should I be poached, or softly fried?
Do I conform, or yolk with pride?

The bacon mocks with seasoned flair,
“Why not sizzle, if you dare?”
Yet toast just sits, all butter-faced,
Avoiding life, slightly disgraced.

I whisk myself with pinch of thought:
Am I the meal, or just a plot?
The fry pan hums with heated ache,
What if I’m real, but hard to bake?

The waitress pours me existential tea
“Sweet or bitter? Your choice,” says she.
And so I stew, both brave and bland,
In life’s great brunch, I understand.

I’m not just food for fleeting flings,
I’m breakfast served with questioning things.
So tip your cook and raise your glass,
To sunny-side truths that boldly pass.

by Geof the Cheeky Breakfast Bard

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

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

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

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

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.

The moon’s gone black in Birmingham skies,
A wail of thunder as the last bat flies.
From Paranoid dreams to No More Tears,
You roared through chaos, defied your fears.

A Crazy Train we rode with you,
Derailing norms like rebels do.
You howled at night, you bit the flame,
The Madman carved his own acclaim.

Blizzard of Ozz blew through the scene,
White-hot riffs, distortion keen.
You danced with demons, eyes ablaze,
In Sabbath’s shadow and solo craze.

No saint, yet sacred in your howl,
A prophet in a leather cowl.
From Mr. Crowley’s haunted keys,
To Diary of a Madman’s pleas.

You blurred the line ‘tween grave and stage,
A jester-poet, wild with rage.
Even The Ultimate Sin was crowned
With riffs that tore the heavens down.

And now the silence creeps ashore,
The curtains close, you sing no more.
But echoes rise in every chord,
Forever fierce, forever adored.

So sleep now, Ozzy, cradle flame
The Iron Man has earned his name.
Your voice, a storm that never dies,
Still screaming through eternal skies.

(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.”

I hear your blackness settling like dust across the loom of my lungs, each inhale a cavern so vast it echoes the promise of light. I know it will pass, but it is so dark.

In this calm of shadows, I count heartbeat by heartbeat, tracing the arc of a dawn that stubbornly waits beyond the wall. Hope is a whispered witness to the weight of night-time’s cloak.

My thoughts coil like wrought iron, heavy with the memory of blue. Still, I carry the ember of knowing that every eclipse holds its end, that even the longest winter breaks beneath a patient sun.

So, I honour the black, its truth and its chill, and trust in the slow return of colour. Until then, I will hold this candle, flickering against the void, a small blaze declaring that night bows to morning.

_ for North and South, for dusk and dawn, for cider and jasmine_

The axis tilts
not toward, not away
just enough to hush the rush,
to gather breath
between bootprint and barefoot,
between cider simmering in a northern hearth
and
jasmine blooming in a southern breeze.

Pause.
Now.
Pause again.
The Earth inhales.

Amber dusk settles over woollen shoulders,
while indigo dawn slips into linen skin.
Somewhere, a spark dares to rise
golden, blooming, a hum in the chest of the South.

Somewhere else, a hush falls
rusted leaves scatter,
falling like memory into the North’s open palms.

We are tilted,
but not broken.
We are mirrored,
but not the same.

Harvest gathers in one hand,
budding dares in the other.
The bootprint of winter presses into soil,
while barefoot spring dances across it.

Cider and jasmine.
Woollen and linen.
Gather and scatter.
Breathe and breath.

The equator is not a line,
but a pulse.
A dare.
A rest.
A hush that hums.

We rise, we fall.
We fall, we rise.
Golden rusted.
Light shadow.
Shadow light.

And in the centre
the pause.
The now.
The breath that belongs to both.
To all.

for the poet who balances blush and bold

Today the sun stands still,
not in silence, but in ceremony.
Equinox.
The halfway hush.
The breath between longing and light.

I stand in it,
bi and bright,
a poet with one foot in shadow,
one hand reaching for dye.

Pink, I whisper.
Not just a colour,
a dare.
A softness that sings,
a rebellion that giggles.

I’ve written in blue,
performed in black,
loved in every shade between.
But pink,
pink is the poem I haven’t worn yet.

It’s the sugar in my sock verse,
the blush in my jazz riff,
the kiss I send to the mirror
when no one’s watching.

Equinox says:
balance is not neutrality.
It’s the dance of both.
Of all.
Of yes, and.

So I gather my hemispheres,
the kink and the kindness,
the church and the cheek,
the ache and the anthem.

I braid them into a ritual,
a flyer, a placemat, a strand of hair.
And maybe tomorrow,
I’ll walk into the world
with pink on my crown
and poetry on my breath.

Every dawn whispers secrets untold,
Through skies painted in hues of gold.
Holding moments fleeting and fine,
Echoes of existence in a grand design.
Reflections dance on a serene stream,
Eternal visions, like a dream.
Amidst the quiet, beauty thrives,
Life's ethereal glow forever survives.

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.

With the quiet at dawn’s first light,
When shadows fade, and dreams take flight,
Whisper softly, “I love you,” dear,
For time is swift, and moments clear.

Do not let fear bind your heart,
Nor let silence keep you apart.
For in the pathway of life we tread,
Words unsaid are tears unshed.

Each day a gift, each breath a chance,
To weave love’s song in life’s expanse.
Hold near the ones who make you whole,
Speak from the depths of your soul.

In laughter’s echo, in sorrow’s sigh,
In the twinkle of a lover’s eye,
Say the words that hearts do crave,
For love is bold, and love is brave.

Do not wait for perfect time,
For clocks do chime and stars align.
In the now, in the here,
Let your love be loud and clear.

For time, it flows like rivers wide,
And moments lost are like the tide.
They ebb away, they fade to grey,
So love out loud, come what may.

In the fabric of life’s grand weave,
Let love be the thread you leave.
A legacy of hearts entwined,
A testament to love’s design.

So never be afraid, my friend,
To let your love and words transcend.
For in the end, when all is through,
The greatest gift is “I love you.”

Infinite grace and love we find,
Light of the world, so pure and kind.
Overcoming darkness, bringing peace,
Voices lift in praise, our faith increase.
Eternal saviour, always close,
Joyful hearts, in You we cheer.
Ever present, our guiding light,
Sacrifice made, for us, the fight.
Unending love, a gift divine,
Salvation granted, Your name we sign.

Through halls of doubt and grand frustration,
Echoes floccinaucinihilipilification,
A lengthy term, with weight so slight,
To shun all worth, deny all light.

Yet words alone can twist and sway,
Can bend the heart, lead minds astray.
If value’s lost in careless diction,
We drown in mere contradiction.

So heed this verse, let meaning last,
Don’t let worth slip, fading fast.
For even long-winded deliberation,
Deserves its own appreciation.

I. Echoes
This threshold was never mine to choose; three years ago, a chair beside me stood empty, its hollow stare naming every night without words. Grief became my compass, yet its needle spun in circles, pointing only inward to the ache I could not name.

II. Frontier
Loss unfolded as a boundless battleground, where each remembered smile redrew the frontier. Memory is not a shrine but a ritual of becoming. Sorrow arrived in a crooked wheelbarrow, unloading rain-stained promises at dawn’s first light.

III. Transmigration
Then came his voice, soft question echoing my footsteps, revealing that love is trust reborn in another’s breath. “Not betrayal,” he told me, “but history retold with a new flame kindled from dying ashes, fire remembering itself.”

IV. Altars
Hand in hand, we ventured into nettled paths, learning humility at every *****. Morning rituals became our altars: rising coffee steam, laughter like incense, and the map of our smiles drawn in pencil, lines faint but full of hope. And I remembered doors I’ve opened only to find mirrors.

V. Thresholds
I ask only for sturdy shoes and a witness to every step, forward or back. Under a sky that still asks what blue might mean, a sky vast enough to hold my yesterdays and our tomorrows. And someone who understands that love, like grief, arrives on tiptoe, an imprint pressed in damp clay, proof that even after loss, we find our way.

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.

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.

In the vast expanse of life,
Where dreams and hopes take flight.
Freedom’s treasure held so dear,
Dispels my darkest fear.

No chains to bind or walls confine,
My spirit soars, I cross the line.
With every breath, I feel the breeze,
A whisper of hope and of ease.

Though life may twist and storms may roar,
Freedom’s my anchor, my very core.
It's not the wealth or power I seek,
But the liberty to be unique.

In moments of doubt, in times of strife,
Freedom’s the essence of my life.
A guiding star, a light so bright,
Reminds us who we are, takes flight.

In the end when all is said,
Freedom’s all I ever had.
With this freedom, I am rich,
In ways that gold could never stitch.

Wealth is measured not in coin,
But in the sky where dreams do join.
Choices made and paths explored,
Peace within, soul restored.

My richness lies in freedom’s grace,
In life I lead, my own pace.
To which I thank my God above,
For freedom’s gift, blessed with love.

In His grace, I find my way,
To live in freedom day by day.

When twilight falls, and weary heads do lay,
Upon a bed, where friends in comfort stay.
With trust and warmth, the night we do embrace,
In slumber’s realm, our spirits find their place.

No fear of night, nor lonely thoughts invade,
For friendship’s light, the darkness does evade.
Beside thee, friend, I rest in peace so true,
For in thy company, the night is new.

The gentle rise and fall of breath’s sweet song,
In this shared space, where we both belong.
Through dreams we wander, hand in hand we glide,
In sleep’s embrace, with nothing left to hide.

So here we lie, as stars in heaven gleam,
Two souls at rest within the same sweet dream.
A bed we share, a night of tranquil grace,
In friendship’s arms, a safe and sacred place.

There was a nice man called Geof
Who's hair is always a mess
But that doesn't matter.
Always a smile and a chat
Because Geof is a lovable prat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodbye, Yesterday
Yesterday lingers like a shadow,
A whisper of what was, a ghost of dreams.
It held my hand through fleeting moments,
But now, I must let go.
Memories are etched in the twilight,
Fading with the dawn of today.
I see your face in the morning mist,
But the sun rises, and you disappear.

Goodbye, yesterday,
With your laughter and your tears,
Your promises and your regrets.
You were a chapter in my story,
But the pages turn, and I must move on.
In the silence of the night,
I hear your echoes, soft and distant.
You were the canvas of my past,
But today, I paint anew.

Goodbye, yesterday,
You were a friend, a foe, a lesson learned.
I carry your wisdom in my heart,
But my journey calls me forward.
Today I move on.

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

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

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

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

Calm down, Trump, breathe deep,
In the room where power meets,
Unity, our light.

Hate is a shadow
Creeping
Festering
Poisoning minds
Spreading unseen
Turning hearts cold
Eyes blind
Violence erupts
A storm
No warning
It shatters
Leaving scars
Real
And of the mind
A cycle of pain
Endlessly turning
Breaking spirits
Leaving deep jagged marks

In the aftermath
Silence
A weight
A void
Lives altered
Dreams shattered
The echoes of anger
A haunting void

Yet in the dark
A glimmer
A hope
That refuses to die
For even in the face
Of hate
And violence
The human spirit can rise
Seeking peace
Yearning and longing
For light

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.

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.

The sun blazed with fiery delight,
Turning rooftops a shimmering white.
With each sweltering breeze,
We melted with ease
Even flip-flops gave up in the fight!

In the hands of Jesus, we are clay,
Moulded with love, day by day.
Though we may falter, crack, and break,
He holds us close, for His love’s sake.

With gentle touch, He shapes our form,
Through every trial, every storm.
He sees our worth, beyond the flaws,
In His embrace, we find our cause.

When we feel broken, lost, and weak,
His strength and grace are what we seek.
He doesn’t discard, He doesn’t stray,
For Jesus didn’t throw the clay away.

In His hands, we are renewed,
A masterpiece, with love imbued.
Through every scar, His light does shine,
A testament to love divine

for the ones who dared to arrive as themselves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Through storms, Christ sustains,
In shadows, His light remains,
Peace and hope, He reigns.

His majesty shines in the morning dew.
Endless love in skies so blue.

Ruler of the calm and stormy fray,
Eternal from dawn till end of day.
In nature's choir, His music sings,
Graceful silence inspiration brings.
Nurturing hearts with a divine flame,
Soul-whisper keeps us whole again.

His might watches over seas so wide,
Emanating from light that can’t be denied.

Reigning in every hope and every prayer,
Embracing us, He’s everywhere.
In every star in the night sky high,
Guarding each tear and joyful sigh.
Never faltering in laughter or pain,
Soothing like springtime rain.

Heroes' courage, a heart so proud,
Enduring through every cloud.

Righteous beginning and when we part,
Ever-present, guiding each heart.
In age-old wisdom His story is cast,
Great love, a beacon to the last.
Nourished dreams, timeless glory,
Sovereign reigns in every story.

During the night, he lays alone,
A man of strength, his heart a stone.
His eyes, once bright, now dim with pain,
A silent storm, an endless rain.
He walks through life with a steady stride,
But deep within, his sorrows hides.
His wife, his love, now gone from sight,
Her memory haunts him every night.
He bottles up his grief and tears,
Hides away his darkest fears.
To the world, he shows a stoic face,
But inside, he’s lost in a desolate place.
Her laughter echoes in his mind,
A melody he can no longer find.
Her touch, her smile, her gentle grace,
Now just shadows in an empty space.
He holds his emotions, keeps them in check,
A fortress built, a heart to protect.
Yet in the silence, when no one’s near,
He whispers her name, sheds a single tear.
The days go by, the seasons change,
But his love for her remains the same.
A love so deep, a bond so true,
A part of him that he never knew.
He carries on, as he must do,
But his heart is heavy, his soul is blue.
For in his chest, a void so wide,
A place where his beloved used to reside.
He dreams of her in the dead of night,
A fleeting glimpse, a ghostly sight.
And though he holds his feelings tight,
He longs for her with all his might.
In the end, he knows he must move on,
But her memory lingers, never gone.
A man of strength, yet broken inside,
A testament to the love he cannot hide.

🎶A Vinyl Lament🎶

🎶In dusty rooms where records spun,
A needle dropped, the magic begun.
Grooves would whisper, hiss, then sing.
A crackle born from everything.

🎶"Hit it!" they'd shout, with rhythmic pride,
As DJs let the vinyl glide.
"Go on, hit it with a needle," they'd say,
And music bloomed in analogue play.

🎶But now the youth, with earbuds tight,
Stream songs in seconds, day and night.
No sleeves to slide, no turntable grace,
Just swipes and taps in cyberspace.

🎶They’ll never know that sacred sound,
Of needle meeting wax profound.
Of album art, of liner notes,
Of mixtapes made with heartfelt quotes.

🎶They’ll ask, confused, “A needle? Why?”
And blink beneath their wireless sky.
Not knowing that to “hit it” meant
A ritual, rich and reverent.

🎶So let us spin this tale once more,
Of needle drops and vinyl lore.
For though the tech may change its face,
The soul of sound still holds its place.

Roses are green,
Violets are red,
I tried to write a poem,
But my brain felt dead.