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.

Flames flicker, dancing in the night,
A hungry force, a mesmerizing sight.
It breathes with no lungs, it roars without a mouth,
A blazing fury heading north or south.

It devours the weak, yet warms the soul,
A paradox born from its fiery control.
Tamed in a hearth, or wild in a spree,
Fire's essence burns bright, fierce, and free.

Born of the earth, and a gift from the skies,
It whispers in sparks, and in embers it lies.
Fuelling creation, yet striking with dread,
A force that gives life, or leaves ruins instead.

It shapes the land, leaves ashes behind,
A power of passion both cruel and kind.
Through ancient rituals, it lights the way,
A beacon of hope at the end of the day.

Much like fire, life fiercely burns,
Through joy and pain, it twists and turns.
With warmth it heals, with sparks it ignites,
Fuelling dreams through endless nights.

A fragile balance, a force untamed,
Both life and fire can never be claimed.
They forge ahead, with a ceaseless drive,
Ensuring the world remains alive.

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

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

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

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

Laughter spills -
sunlight streams,
ripples of gold,
dreams unbound.

Children leap,
arms to the sky,
chasing joy
without asking why.

No walls,
no thought,
just pure delight,
their laughter so bright.

Voices echo,
bellies shake,
a symphony
innocence makes.

Faces glow,
mirth lights skies,
worlds reborn,
joy unties.

Oh, to pause -
to stop and play -
to bask in laughter
and let life sway.

In the heart of the kitchen,
where pots clatter and steam whispers,
there lies a tale of humble beginnings,
a saga of peas and ham,
a symphony of flavours,
a dance of the mundane and the marvellous.

Oh, Pea and Ham Soup,
you are the unsung hero of the pantry,
the green knight in a ceramic bowl,
the warm embrace on a cold, dreary day.

Once upon a time,
in a land of bubbling broths,
a lonely pea dreamed of greatness,
of joining forces with the mighty ham,
to create a potion of comfort,
a brew of bliss.

The peas, so green and round,
rolled into the *** with a plop,
like tiny emeralds diving into a sea of broth,
their destiny intertwined with the smoky ham,
a partnership forged in the cauldron of culinary magic.

The ham, oh the ham,
with its rich, savoury whispers,
joined the peas with a sizzle, a pop, and a bang,
bringing tales of smoky adventures,
of hickory forests and salty seas.

Together they simmered,
in a slow waltz of flavours,
the peas softening,
the ham infusing,
a marriage of textures,
a union of taste.

Garlic and onions,
the mischievous twins,
danced around the ***,
adding their own flair,
a hint of mischief,
a touch of zest.

Carrots and celery,
the reliable companions,
joined the fray,
bringing crunch and colour,
a rainbow in the ***,
a feast for the eyes.

The broth bubbled and gurgled,
like a storyteller weaving a yarn,
each bubble a chapter,
each gurgle a verse,
in the epic of Pea and Ham Soup.

And when the time was right,
the ladle dipped in,
bringing forth a spoonful of history,
a taste of tradition,
a sip of solace.

Oh, Pea and Ham Soup,
you are more than just a meal,
you are a memory,
a comfort,
a friend.

In the quiet of the kitchen,
as the last spoonful is savoured,
the tale of Pea and Ham Soup lingers,
a story told in flavours,
a poem written in broth.

Version 1
The bench beneath me, sunlit and still,
A perch for gazing, a world to distil.
Children scattered, a vibrant tide,
Feeding ducks, then rushing the slide.

A boy, face smeared with bread’s white trace,
Flings crumbs with an urgent, determined grace.
The ducks converge, a flurry of wings,
Ripples spreading, nature sings.

On the swings, a girl takes flight,
Her giggle bright, her hair alight.
She leans forward, daring the breeze,
Feet reaching high to the tops of the trees.

The slide claims its turn, metallic and grand,
A queue forms, restless, with grains of sand.
One child hesitates, then takes the leap,
Their laughter rises, joyous and deep.

Parents linger at the edges, near,
With watchful eyes and echoes of cheer.
The park alive, a canvas displayed,
Moments of wonder in sunlight replayed.

From my quiet seat, I watch and I see,
A world alive, endlessly free.
Time halts briefly in this golden space,
Children’s joy leaves a lasting trace

Version 2
The bench, my ship in a sea of spring,
Anchored in sunlight, where sparrows sing.
Children dart like kites unbound,
Their laughter the breeze, a joyous sound.

A boy, a maestro with breadcrumbs in hand,
Conducts a symphony on the rippling strand.
The ducks waltz in their feathery parade,
Water their stage, sunlight their cascade.

A ******* the swing, a pendulum in play,
Her hair catches the sun’s golden ray.
She soars toward the heavens, toes tracing skies,
A tiny comet with endless tries.

The slide gleams like a dragon’s tail,
Inviting the brave to its glistening trail.
One child hesitates, then takes the dive,
Emerging below, electrified, alive.

Parents hover like guardians of lore,
Their faces lit with quiet rapport.
The park blooms with stories untold,
Moments like petals, both fragile and bold.

From my quiet harbour, I sip the view,
A kaleidoscope of life, in every hue.
Time pauses here, where innocence thrives,
A canvas painted with radiant lives.

Once upon a time there was a tavern,
In the heart of town, where stories were woven.
With laughter, tears, and memories to share,
A barman stood, his smile ever so rare.

Behind the counter, he worked with grace,
A friendly face in that warm, cosy place.
With nimble hands, he poured and mixed,
A master of potions, full of tricks.

He knew each customer by name,
Their joys, their sorrows, their every aim.
With a listening ear and a heart of gold,
He turned the mundane into tales retold.

When evening came and the firelight dimmed,
The barman’s spirit never once thinned.
He shared a laugh, a joke, a knowing wink,
Making friends out of strangers with just one drink.

Through the bustle and the hum of chatter,
He moved with ease, never one to scatter.
A confidant, a guide, a friend so dear,
In the heart of the tavern, always near.

As nights grew late and the moonlight glowed,
The barman’s tales and warmth bestowed,
A sense of comfort, a place to unwind,
In that humble tavern, a treasure to find.

From the coffee house window, she stands so near,
A lady busking, her melodies clear.
On the market corner, her voice does rise,
A beacon of song, under cloudy skies.

Shoppers bustle, with bags in hand,
Yet pause for a moment, to join her band.
A minute or two, they stand and sway,
Enchanted by the music, in their busy day.

With nimble fingers, she strums her guitar,
Notes dancing like wishes on a falling star.
Her voice, a sweet lullaby, soft and free,
Echoes through the market, like a gentle sea.

Coins clink softly, in her open case,
A token of thanks, for the smile on each face.
In the rhythm of life, her tunes take flight,
A brief interlude, in the shoppers' plight.

Children tug on sleeves, eyes wide with glee,
As parents smile, lost in the melody.
Old friends reunite, share stories anew,
With her songs as the backdrop, their bonds grew.

From the coffee house window, I watch and see,
A scene so vibrant, a living tapestry.
The lady busking, with her heartfelt tune,
Brings warmth and light, like a sunny June.

In every note, a tale is told,
Of love, of loss, of days of old.
Her music weaves through the market square,
A thread of magic, in the midday air.

And as the sun dips, shadows grow long,
Her voice still carries, the heart of her song.
A fleeting moment, a melody shared,
As the market slows and daylight fades.

I am sitting in a café,
On a rainy Saturday,
Watching people pass the window,
As they hurry on their way.

The barista's making coffee,
Steam is rising in the air,
I can hear the gentle chatter,
Of the patrons everywhere.

A couple's sharing secrets,
In a corner by the door,
While a student reads her textbook,
Sprawled across the table's floor.

The rain keeps softly falling,
On the pavement, on the street,
And the rhythm of the raindrops,
Matches footsteps of the feet.

I sip my cup of coffee,
Feeling warm and feeling fine,
In this little cozy café,
Where the world is left behind.

A man is reading headlines,
From a paper in his hand,
He frowns and sips his latte,
As he tries to understand.

A child is drawing pictures,
With crayons on a pad,
Her mother smiles beside her,
At the artwork she has had.

The door chime rings, a newcomer,
Shakes the raindrops from his coat,
He orders something warming,
And he clears his scratchy throat.

The café hums with life now,
As the morning turns to noon,
And the rain outside keeps falling,
To a gentle, soothing tune.

It's the gold of a late afternoon,
a girl and her collie wander along a winding lane;
the soft murmur of nature as their quiet tune,
their hearts aligned as they share joy and refrain.

She readies a ball with a gentle, knowing smile,
tossing it high into a sunlit arc above;
the collie's eyes brighten and pause awhile,
waiting for the "go" command—a moment of trust and love.

Every throw turns into a playful ballet,
a dance of learning, where patience finds its place;
the collie holds still until she's ready to say,
"Go on, run!" while they revel in that shared space.

Yet amidst the frolic and echoes of cheer,
nature reminds her of duty in the open air;
she crouches to pick up where responsibility is clear,
a simple act of care—a moment honest and rare.

For in each throw, each pause, and the mindful clean-up time,
lie the harmonies of life's adventures, both playful and true;
every command and every gesture, a gentle rhyme,
weaving joy and accountability into everything they do.

The family gathered, voices bright,  
In the steakhouse glow of amber light.  
Sizzling plates and stories shared,  
Love well-seasoned, deeply cared.  

The mother poured a glass of red,  
Softly nodding at words once said.  
The father carved the tender beef,  
A simple act, yet rich belief.  

Children whisper, napkins torn,  
Trading bites with giggles worn.  
Fizzy drinks, dripping fries,  
Magic dancing in their eyes.  

The grandpa chuckled, took a sip,  
Savouring time that tends to slip.  
For in the hum of knife and fork,  
Life was seasoned—bold, uncorked

They sat together in the dimly lit room,
Two souls entwined in an invisible gloom.
The air grew thick, as the seconds stretched,
In a silence profound, their nerves were etched.

Eyes would flicker, searching for a place to land,
Fingers fidgeted, twisting a silver band.
A cough, a sigh, a shuffling of feet,
Echoed like thunder, in a silence discreet.

"Lovely weather," one finally said,
As the other nodded, wishing for words instead.
Their cups of tea, now lukewarm and still,
Matched the conversation, awkward and shrill.

Thoughts raced wildly, but words refused to stay,
Like skittish birds, they fluttered away.
A clock ticked loudly, in the corner it chimed,
Filling the void, with seconds unkind.

Minds would wander, then snap back in place,
Searching for cues, in the other's face.
An accidental glance, then quickly withdrawn,
Eyes meeting briefly, then back to the drawn.

Awkward silence, a dance so hard to bear,
Yet in its midst, a strange bond shared.
For sometimes in the quiet, without a word,
Connections are made, though nothing is heard.

In that fragile stillness, where time seemed to freeze,
They found a fleeting comfort, a strange, subtle ease.
Though silence hung heavy, like a cloud above,
In its awkward embrace, they discovered a kind of love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know where I am going, and you can't follow me,"
She declared with a voice, resolute and free.
In the depths of her eyes, a storm had started,
While they stood at a crossroad, soon to be parted.

"Why do you think you can walk this path alone?
In your silence, my heart has already known,"
His voice trembled, his words etched in sorrow,
Yet in her resolve, she could not borrow.

"For this journey, my soul must fly unchained,
Where dreams and desires once faintly waned.
I’ve found a place where my spirit can soar,
Where life’s meaning blooms, as never before.”

"But why? Why must you leave me behind?
In our stories, our lives were intertwined.
The world we built with laughter and strife,
Am I not a part of your purpose and life?"

“It’s not you; it's the destiny I heed,
A call that whispers my heart’s deepest need.
To fields beyond, where stars gleam brighter,
Where burdens shed make souls so much lighter.”

Tears glistened on cheeks, hearts heavy with sorrow,
Two paths now split; no shared tomorrow.
“I love you,” she said with a pained plea,
“I know where I am going, and you can't follow me.”

With that, they turned, futures newly aligned,
Separate ways, with memories in mind.
A love not lost, but transformed in time,
A bittersweet end, in life’s tender rhyme.

Night descends with shadows deep,
In the silence, fears start to creep.
Grim visions fill the midnight air,
Haunting whispers everywhere.
Terrors rise from the mind's dark sea,
Monsters born of anxiety.
As the hours slowly pass,
Restless dreams in a murky glass.
Eventually, dawn will break.

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

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

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

In the land of vowels and silent lore,
Where consonants drift from shore to shore,
A name was born with gentle heft,
Not Geoffrey, not Jeff, but Geof, left.

A single “f,” a subtle grace,
Yet tongues would twist and misplace face.
In Finland’s frost, with earnest cough,
I rose to fame as GeOff.

A scholar of socks and sugar rites,
Of mirrored maps and jazzy nights,
They hailed me with a Nordic nod,
“Professor GeOff” - a name, a god.

I taught the art of breath and pause,
Of kink and church and sacred flaws.
My name, a glyph, a whispered spell,
A portal where the poets dwell.

So let them mangle, let them guess,
I wear each version with finesse.
For Geof is Geof, and GeOff too,
A legend stitched in every hue.

Jovial zebras quickly vex the bright wizard,
Xylophones and quizzical jigs delight the bard.
Frogs jump over lazy dogs in the moonlight,
While quirky knights guard the ancient site.

Vivid dreams of exotic lands fill the night,
Glimpses of unicorns in the twilight.
Bold explorers venture into the unknown,
With zest and zeal, their courage shown.

Magical realms where dragons fly high,
Echoes of laughter as time passes by.
In this wondrous world, all letters unite,
Creating a symphony, a beautiful sight.

'            R ising from cinders, eyes alight with dawn
           E mbers swirl in wounded wings, beckoning flight
          B eckoned by the hush of fallen realms
         I gniting hope in the cavern of ash
        R enewed are the arcs of tomorrow’s blaze
         T hrust into azure skies with vigour reborn
          H erald of the eternal, kindling itself

An empty glass sits solemnly, a silent plea for more.
Its once vibrant contents now but a memory, a thirst waiting to be quenched.

With every sip, the world grew brighter, a dance of flavours on the tongue.
But now, the glass is void, hollow, its promise unfulfilled.

Oh, to taste that elixir once again, to feel the warmth, the joy it brings.
A moment of indulgence, a sip of bliss, to chase away the evening's emptiness.

Refill the glass, let it overflow, with the essence of life's simple pleasures.
For in that vessel, we find more than drink, we find connection, laughter, and moments to cherish.

So, raise the glass high, let it be known, an empty glass is but a call to action.
Refill it, and let the night continue, with stories told and memories made anew.

Quick reflexes spark,
Laughter echoes through the room,
Joy in swift surprise.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

O, T, T, begin the spree,  
F, F, S, S, join the jubilee.  
E comes next with elegant flair,  
N's not far, high in the air.  
T struts in, all bold and then...  
We’re queued for E and T again!  

Numbers marching, letters in tow,  
A cryptic parade with a lyrical flow.  
They don’t count sheep, they just rhyme tight,  
The alphabet’s way of counting at night.

In twenty-four, the streets aflame
a tempest brewed, a nation’s shame.
Southport’s wounds still fresh and raw,
three children lost their lives, a flaw.
False whispers spread through cyberspace,
the stabber’s name, a twisted chase.
Muslim, seeker, both or none
the spark ignited, chaos spun.
England, torn by fear and hate,
far-right voices, venom’s weight.
Riots surged from Southport’s core,
a wildfire leaping, burning more.
Arson’s dance, a crimson waltz,
shops looted, streets in tumult’s pulse.
Police van torched, officers besieged,
a fractured nation, wounds unseized.
Islamophobia’s venom seeped,
racist fervour, hatred steeped.
Disinformation’s murky tide,
Russia’s whispers amplified.
Yet amidst the flames, a counterforce—
Stand Up to Racism, voices hoarse.
Anti-fascists, Muslims, too,
clashed with rioters, hearts askew.
In this fractured hour, we seek the light,
to mend the rifts, reclaim the night.
For England’s soul, a plea resounds:
heal the wounds, find common grounds.
I stand against the darkness,
where prejudice and anger collide.
My words, a beacon of empathy,
a bridge across the chasm wide.
For love knows no division,
no borders drawn by fear.
In unity, we find strength,
and hate dissolves when love is near.
So let us rise above the chaos,
embrace compassion’s flame.
Together, we’ll extinguish hate
and heal the wounds that bear our name.

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

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

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

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

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

he s̷p̷ea̷k̷s̷       in      th-th-the hush                        b̷e̷f̷or̷e̷ c͟o͟m͟m͟a͟n͟d

bɑ̶r̶e̶-̶c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ // b̷r̷a̷c̷e̷d̷                 f͝o͝r͠ the̴ se͞n͞t͞e͞n͞ce͞                     to                        L̸̡̫̮͊̿͠͝Ą̵̜̥̎̾N̷̦̳̤͝ͅD̷̳͚̈̐͌

h͎i͍s͍ ͔n͎a͔m͍e̳                      cu̸r̷l̷s̷                 b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ their     t̶̵̻̻e̴̞̼̻͐̽e̸͖͒͜ẗ̶͈̲́̓h̴͝­̳͓̓

a wreck—                 soft                     r̸e̴a̷d̴y̷                        f̶or͞             c̷ol̷lis̷i̷o̶n̸_

they move                     like               thund̴e̶r̷—holding—                 back

drawn       tight         į̵͈͔̫̄̈́̈́͝n̵̦̺̼̄t̴̢͉̪̥̽í̴̯̈́m̴̙͊a̶̞̙̕ẗ̸̛̼̬́͂͐e             d̷̞͗̍̈́e̷̪͈̫̬͊ḻ̸̘͒̅i̷͈̖̖͊̈́̒b̶̯͔̥̹͝e̷̡̛͎̳̥̔͠r̴͓͐ą̴̛̅͘­̡ţ̸̂̓e̸̼̞̎̓͘

he / d̷̲̝̖ͅo̵̢̘̠̰e̶̼̤s̴̮̤̰̳n̴̢͔̼̹’̶̢͍͕̦t̴͇̹̦ / run         he   r̴̨̯̯̋͝i̷̩̟̠̯͘s̵̲̼̖̾̊͌ė̴̢̺̩̞̅s̸̘̜̬̐̎̋

not broken       b̴̡̮̎̓e̶̳̮̓͝n̶͎̞̿̓t̶̺͒͘         toward          becoming…

Storm clouds gather fast,
Winds howl, bending ancient trees,
Strength in nature's grasp.

At the start of the seventies, a spark ignites,
From Newcastle’s heart, a band takes flight.
Roxy Music, a name whispered in the wind,
With Bryan Ferry’s voice, where dreams begin.

A tapestry of sound, that’s woven with care,
Glam rock’s pioneers, they’re beyond compare.
Synthesizers hum, guitars wail and cry,
In their melodies, the stars align.

Andy Mackay’s sax, a soulful breeze,
Phil Manzanera’s strings, a symphony with ease.
Paul Thompson’s drums, a heartbeat strong,
Together they create a timeless song.

From “Virginia Plain” to “Avalon”’s grace,
Each album a journey, a new embrace.
Brian Eno’s touch, an avant-garde flair,
In Roxy’s world, there’s magic in the air.

Their style, a blend of chic and bold,
Glamour and art, a story told.
In sequins and suits, they take the stage,
A visual feast, a gilded age.

“More Than This,” a whisper in the night,
“Love Is the Drug,” a lover’s delight.
Their music, a canvas, painted with care,
Each note a brushstroke, vibrant and rare.

Through decades they journey, a legacy grand,
Influencing many, a guiding hand.
From punk’s raw edge to new wave’s beat,
Roxy Music’s echo, a rhythm sweet.

In the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame they stand,
A testament to a visionary band.
Their songs, a soundtrack to life’s parade,
In every heart, their mark is made.

So here’s to Roxy Music, legends true,
With every chord, they renew.
A symphony of art, a timeless muse,
In their melodies, we find our cues.

We stand in the quietness of a half-lit room
where our fingertips trace our final outline
and the air tastes of departed echoes.

Our pulse is a metronome of dread
ticking secrets away beneath brittle ribs.
Will it be today
when our breath dissolves into a sigh
and we vanish like midnight’s promise?

We ask each other in quiet tones: “Will it be today?”
“The hush already tightens around my breath.”
“Yet I cling to the rumour of tomorrow.”

Or could it be tomorrow
when the curtains draw back on emptiness
and the shadows swallow what remains of our shape?

We stand on the edge of a borrowed moment,
feet trembling on the threshold of silence,
no footsteps behind us, only the echo
of what once called itself alive.

Yet beyond our fear, a sovereign whisper lingers:
God has the timing in his hands,
measuring each second between mercy and fate.
Will it be today
or could it be tomorrow
when the hourglass shatters at His command?

Where the winds blow, a heart of stone grows.
Eyes that pierce through veils of night,
A soul that knows no wrong from right.
Ambition’s fire, a burning flame,
No room for mercy, no room for shame.
Steps that crush the fallen leaves,
A path of power, one that deceives.
Whispers echo in the dark,
A ruthless mind leaves its mark.
No tears to shed, no love to give,
In this world, only the ruthless live.

The first salad of the season— a whisper of renewal on the tongue. Tender leaves, new-born and green, crisp with secrets of earth awoken.

Cucumber slices cool as spring rain, tomatoes blushing with sunrise hues, a drizzle of olive oil weaving through, like a stream winding in sunlight.

Each bite holds a promise, a fragile hymn to fleeting freshness, a reminder that seasons turn, and with them, we grow anew.

So here’s to your first salad, to the bloom of brighter days ahead, to the joy of savouring life’s simplest, sweetest gifts.

for every body that ever needed a place to land

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

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

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

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

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

In the depths of shadows, where hope seems distant, a soul stands still, contemplating the price.
The weight of sorrow, like a heavy blanket, suffocating, an endless night, where even the stars refuse to shine.
A heart quivers, devoid of light, every beat a struggle, an echo of despair.
Within the darkness, soft murmurs arise, faint echoes persist, despite the fall.
In the heart of grief, a spark kindles, a flicker, faint, like a firefly in the night.
Through eyes bathed in tears, strength emerges, in moments of stillness, a heart is reborn.
Even in the darkest hour, resilience blooms, a delicate flower, pushing through the cracks.
As the sun begins its ascent, a burst of colour illuminates the sky, from profound pain to soaring joy, a long journey, an endless quest.
When elation's wings lift you, a heart soars, boundless sky, laughter reverberates, a joyful sound, a symphony of life.
Both the highs and lows, integral parts of life, as the river flows.
For each tear, a smile may appear, in every sorrow, joy takes form, a dance of contrasts, a delicate balance.
Embrace the dance of light and dark, the ebb and flow, each fleeting spark.
In balance, we find our path, through night and dawn, to each new day, to each new beginning

In the mirror’s gentle gaze,
Reflection true, a heart ablaze,
With whispers soft, I hear the call,
Of self-love’s rise, through shadows fall.

No need to seek approval’s light,
For in my soul, I shine so bright,
With every mark and every tear,
I stand strong, without a fear.

Establish routines, with care in mind,
Positive words, in mornings find,
Set healthy boundaries, guard your space,
Mindfulness, with calm embrace.

Embrace the strength within my core,
A love for self, I can’t ignore,
In every step, I find my way,
Through each new dawn, I greet the day.

Gratitude journals, heart’s delight,
Small indulgences, soul takes flight,
Forgiveness flows, for past mistakes,
In loved ones’ warmth, heart awakes.

With open arms, I welcome me,
A journey of discovery,
In self-love’s warmth, I’ll always stand,
My heart’s own keeper, hand in hand.

Learning grows, and hobbies bloom,
Reflection’s peace, within my room,
Through every act, and thought sincere,
Self-love’s embrace, forever near.

Resilience forged in trials faced,
Empowerment in every trace,
With courage bold, I rise above,
A testament to self-love’s love.

Through storms and sunshine, I will stand,
Empowered heart and steady hand,
In resilience, I find my way,
Empowered, loved, come what may

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.

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.

At seventeen, the world was wide,
A canvas vast, dreams yet untried.
No wrinkles carved by time or loss,
No tales of love or battles fought.

To be again at seventeen,
Would mean to trade the sights unseen,
The wisdom gained, the lessons learned,
For youthful days and hearts unburned.

Yet fifty years of paths untread,
The laughter shared, the tears we've shed,
These moments built a life unique,
A tapestry of joy and grief.

To wonder if the trade is fair,
To grasp at youth with silver hair,
Is to forget the beauty in,
The years that shape the soul within.

For though the young are filled with fire,
The elder's heart holds deep desire,
A balance struck through time's embrace,
A life well-lived, a gentle grace.

So while the thought may softly creep,
To yearn for youth, a wish to keep,
Embrace the years, both young and old,
For both bring treasures, tales untold.

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

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

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

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

Shadowing Still

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

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

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

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

A shadow drapes across my soul,
A weight that drags, yet makes me whole.
It's not a storm, but endless rain,
A quiet ache, a lingering pain.

I wear the mask, a smile to show,
But deep inside, the currents flow.
A quiet cry that none can hear,
A silent scream, a hidden fear.

Some days are bright, the world so wide,
But others hide where I can't hide.
I don’t choose this, it’s not my fault,
Yet here I stand, my heart in vault.

The mind is a maze, dark and tight,
Where peace is fleeting, out of sight.
But even in the darkest night,
I fight to find the smallest light.

It’s part of me, this heavy hue,
A battle that I must get through.
But I know, through every tear,
I’ll rise again, despite my fear.

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

What is grief if not living in the liminal space between mourning and coping, a shadowed threshold where life meets death in quiet conversation?

I stand on this fragile edge, where the heart quivers like a candle’s wane in the whispering dark, a realm where memories and absence, like twin spectres, waltz in the soft gloom of yesterday and the uncertain light of morrow. Every heartbeat echoes a silence weighed by loss, each breath a tentative bridge between sorrow and the subtle pulse of hope.

Here, in the interstice of emotion, time becomes fluid, a slow, deliberate current that carries moments of despair and fragments of longing, merging into an arras of unspoken truths. In this space, mourning is not an end but a sacred state, a hallowed pause that shapes the contours of coping; each tear, a drop of ink on the parchment of the soul, writing verses of resilience on the margins of our existence.

The twilight of grief, that delicate pause between dusk and night, between what once was and what might be, nurtures a silent alchemy: the transformation of raw hurt into a quiet strength, a whispered promise that from the depths of loss, a new knowing can emerge. We are all suspended, adrift on the cusp of knowing, our spirit marked by both absence and the faint shimmer of renewal.

In this liminal expanse, life, and death converse in the language of echoes and gentle reclamation, and grief, ever mysterious, ever patient, reigns as the unseen artist painting our scars with the hues of compassion. It is the sacred territory where mourning softens into acceptance, and the raw edges of yesterday’s pain create a fertile soil for the blossoming of tomorrow’s hope.

What is grief, if not this delicate passage, a continuous, unfolding dance with mortality where every sorrow holds the seed of a future embrace, every quiet tear a step towards a new dawn?

Silent breath between heartbeats,  
Holding space for what cannot be spoken,  
Abiding in love that asks nothing in return,  
Light that lingers even in shadow,  
Open hands, open heart, open sky,  
Mirrored souls meeting in peace.

For breath, for belonging

Shalom, Abba,  
not just peace,  
but the kind that wraps  
around my weary shoulders  
like morning light.

You are the quiescence
between my questions,  
the stillness 
beneath my striving.

Abba, Father,  
not just parent,  
but the pulse  
that steadies me  
when I forget my name.

You walk with me  
through shadowed rooms,  
through spirals of doubt,  
and still you whisper,  
I am here.

Shalom, Abba,  
in your breath  
I find my own.  
In your silence,  
I remember  
I am not alone.

Until my work is done,  
until my last sigh sings,  
I will walk  
in your peace.

(for the aisle between body spray and body shame)

We didn't flinch.
Not when the mirror caught us mid-linger,
not when the aisle whispered
“this is not the place.”
We made it one.

He wore leather like a lullaby,
soft and creased with memory.
I wore lavender like armour,
sweet, stubborn, and uninvited.

We touched where rules were printed,
in Helvetica,
on sale tags.
We laughed like we’d stolen something holy;
and maybe we had.

Shame blinked, but we didn’t.
We were the flicker,
the friction,
the scent that stayed long after the exit.

Taboo, they called it.
We called it Tuesday.
A ritual.
A dare.
A shared audacity
too bright to be buried
in someone else’s silence.

In the cradle of crucibles, molten dreams pour,
Carbon and iron, alloyed to endure.
Cast steel cools in molds of intent,
Grain-bound strength in every dent.

Machinist’s dawn, the lathe hums low,
Tool meets stock in a tempered flow.
Torque and touch, precision’s dance,
Each pass a whisper; each cut a chance.

Spiral curls like silvered vines,
Long and laced in looping lines.
Blue-tempered ribbons, heat-kissed and proud,
Singing of friction, sharp and loud.

Short chips snap with brittle grace,
Scattered stars in a metal space.
Dust-fine swarf, a powdered veil,
Ghosts of edges, cold and pale.

Boring deep through hardened skin,
Contours carved from deep within.
Threads emerge like ancient runes,
Spun in silence, shaped by tunes.

Mill and drill, the chorus grows,
Steel responds in rhythmic throes.
Each shaving tells a tale of strain,
Of force, finesse, and measured gain.

So let the coolant mist and gleam,
A machinist’s breath, a craftsman’s dream.
For cast steel speaks in shavings made,
In every curl, its strength displayed.

A Full Conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me:
Is this what it means to be seen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me:
Will you stay if I tremble?

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

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

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