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Geof Spavins Apr 26
When youth doth bloom, its blossoms crave,
The wisdom found in age's stave.
Yet age, adorned in wrinkled guise,
Yearns for the spark in youthful eyes.

The clock's tick mocks our restless chase,
For neither form holds perfect grace.
Oh fleeting time, a shifting tide,
Our hearts in both do dreams confide.
A reminder that time, with all its relentless movement, is at once our adversary and our muse.
Geof Spavins Jan 23
Do you remember Shirley Bassey,
With her voice so bold and classy?
Her songs would soar, her tunes would fly,
A diva's charm, a starry sky.

With her burly chassis, she'd stride the stage,
A presence grand, beyond her age.
In gowns that shimmered, she’d command the night,
Her voice a beacon, pure delight.

From "Goldfinger" to "Diamonds Are Forever,"
Her legacy, a shining treasure.
So here's to Shirley, with a wink and cheer,
A legend's tale, forever dear.
A screen awaits,
blue‑white and plain,
a single box
that knows my name.

I type, I tap,
a code arrives,
a tiny bridge
to guarded lives.

Behind this gate:
my records breathe,
the dates, the scans,
the truths they weave.

Prescriptions wait
like folded notes,
appointments hum
in patient throats.

No marble halls,
no paper queue,
just keystrokes,
proof, and passing through.

And in this space
of click and care,
the NHS
is everywhere.
NHS Portal app
Geof Spavins Sep 18
A screen awaits,
blue‑white and plain,
a single box
that knows my name.

I type, I tap,
a code arrives,
a tiny bridge
to guarded lives.

Behind this gate:
my records breathe,
the dates, the scans,
the truths they weave.

Prescriptions wait
like folded notes,
appointments hum
in patient throats.

No marble halls,
no paper queue,
just keystrokes,
proof, and passing through.

And in this space
of click and care,
the NHS
is everywhere.
NHS Portal app
Geof Spavins Feb 10
In the hushed hours before dawn,
When the world holds its breath,
A silent echo lingers,
Reverberating through the stillness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent, yet profound,
It spins a web of emotions,
In the spaces where words fall short,
An eternal echo in the void.
Dedicated to silent echo -- a mate met on this platform -- this one is not with a tight rhyme at all.
Geof Spavins Jan 24
Here where words like whispers flow,
Poetry and lyrics dance and glow.
Two sides of the coin, they share their part,
Melding thoughts, creating art.

Poetry, with a silent breath,
Holds timeless tales within its depth.
A world of rhythm, unvoiced song,
Each line a memory, carried along.

Lyrics, on the other hand, do sing,
Their melodies through air do ring.
Infusing music with heartfelt tale,
In harmonies that rise and sail.

Yet deep within, they bear the same,
Emotions stirred, they stake their claim.
One whispers soft, one sings aloud,
Both lifting hearts above the crowd.

So here they stand, these kindred souls,
In pursuit of art, in different roles.
Poetry, lyrics - side by side,
In them, the human heart does confide.
there was a comment yesterday about Lyrics and poems being alike - I commented that they are 2 sides of the same coin - this is the outcome of that thought.
Geof Spavins Nov 2024
Silent tears fall,
Heart feels heavy,
Mind in turmoil,
Darkness surrounds,
Hope seems distant,
Lost and alone,
Searching for light,
Fighting the shadows,
Strength within,
Rising again.
Geof Spavins Jan 20
Silent tears fall,
Heart feels heavy,
Mind in turmoil,
Darkness surrounds,
Hope seems distant,
Lost and alone,
Searching for light,
Fighting the shadows,
Strength within,
Rising again.
this one a oopsie - I posted it here a while ago - I am ready fir the forgetful oldies club
Geof Spavins Sep 11
(A poem for the map that burns)

In just three days, the sky grew teeth,
and bit six nations into grief.
Palestine, already ash and ache,
was struck again, as if to break
what’s already broken.

Six Names in Three Days

Lebanon’s hills, where cedars pray,
shuddered under warplanes’ sway.
Syria’s night turned siren-red,
its wounded cities counting dead
in silence, again.

Six Names in Three Days

Tunisia’s coast, where boats set sail
with hope and aid, now tells the tale
of fire on deck, of drone and flame,
a flotilla struck, without a name
for peace betrayed.

Six Names in Three Days

Qatar, the voice of ceasefire talks,
was bombed mid-sentence, mid-diplomats’ walks.
Smoke rose over Doha’s glass,
where leaders met to end the past,
but war arrived first.

Six Names in Three Days

And Yemen, long a battered drum,
was struck anew, its people numb.
The desert weeps, the mountains moan,
as missiles find another home
in hunger’s cradle.

Six names in three days.
Six wounds on the map.
Each one a prayer interrupted,
a child’s sleep shattered,
a border crossed without consent.

And still, the world spins.
And still, the ink dries.
And still, we write poems
because silence is complicity
and memory is resistance.
Geof Spavins Sep 2024
Day Fades
Twilight takes
Stars chase
Pillows soft
Dreams aloft
Moonlight dances
Silver calls
Night whispers
Guide to sleep
Blankets wrap
Warm and Tight
Night guardians
Eyes heavy
Breathing slows
Slumbers arms
Gently sleep
Tomorrow waits
For now, Rest Quiet
Dream far and free
As stars watch
Geof Spavins Feb 6
It's 2am again and I am awake,
In the quiet night, my thoughts partake.
The world is still, but my mind won't rest,
In this sleepless hour, I'm a restless guest.

The clock ticks on, a steady beat,
As I lie here, tangled in the sheets.
Memories and worries intertwine,
In the silence, they become mine.

I count the stars outside my window pane,
Seeking solace, but it's all in vain.
The moonlight casts a gentle glow,
On a weary heart that can't let go.

Yet in this solitude, I find a spark,
A moment of peace within the dark.
For though sleep eludes me, I still dream,
In the quiet hours, I find my theme.

So, it's 2am again, and I am awake,
But in this stillness, new paths I take.
For even in the night, there's light to see,
A world of wonder, just for me.
Geof Spavins Aug 2024
I think I got a little bit smelly,
From running around and being so silly.
But a splash of water and a bit of soap,
Will freshen me up, I surely hope.

With bubbles and laughter, I’ll scrub away,
The grime and the dirt from my playful day.
And soon I’ll be clean, from head to toe,
Ready for more adventures, let’s go!
Geof Spavins Aug 8
by Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I tossed some thoughts into the blend
A cup of hope, a half-wilted friend.
Banana peel of bygone days,
And berries bruised by wistful haze.

Almond milk of maybe-so,
A mango flash of long ago.
One dash of “should’ve,” chilled regret,
A swirl of dreams not done just yet.

I stirred it once with quiet grace,
Poured in a smile, pulp to face.
Some leafy truths, still bold and green,
From tangled vines of might-have-been.

Then irony, that spry old spice,
Snuck in with “wisdom's” thin advice
“Regret's a flavour for the brave,
Served best in chalice we misgave.”

I shaved some ginger, sharp, sincere
To cleanse the gut of latent fear.
And as the final blend grew thick,
I sipped, then sighed, “That did the trick.”
Emotional Calories: 250 FPV

Key Ingredients of Feeling: Regret purée, blended nostalgia, spice of sincerity

MSI (Metaphoric Saturation Index): 🍓 High – rich poetic fusion with layered introspection
Geof Spavins Jan 5
Snowflakes, like whispered secrets,
Descend upon the world with silent grace.
Each flake, a tiny marvel of crystalline geometry,
Piling up in gentle heaps, transforming
The mundane into a monochrome wonderland.

In contrast,
Rain arrives with a symphony,
A rhythmic patter on roofs and windows,
A relentless drummer in the great concert of nature.
Raindrops, each one a tiny lens,
Magnify the world in transient clarity,
Pooling in puddles that reflect the sky's melancholic hue.

Snow, the artist of stillness,
Wraps the world in a muffled tranquillity,
Inviting contemplation and serenity.
It blankets the earth in purity,
A pause button pressed on the chaos of life.

Rain, the poet of motion,
Writes in streams and rivers,
Its verse flowing, ebbing, relentless.
It cleanses the streets, the leaves, the soul,
Washing away the remnants of the past.

Yet, Snow and Rain, adversaries and allies,
Meet in a delicate dance.
A snowfall turns to slush with
Rain's embrace,
A drizzle turns to sleet with
Snow's kiss.
Their interplay, a testament to the delicate balance,
A ballet of opposites, forever intertwined.

Snow, a blanket for dreams,
Rain, a canvas for emotions
Together they paint the seasons,
One whispering, the other singing,
Both timeless, eternal,
The breath of the Earth,
The pulse of the sky.
I awoke to a snow covered view this morning which is forecast to be followed closely by rain - this tries to also show the in between bit.
Geof Spavins Apr 26
Oh, Sock Man of Loughborough, bold in your solitary attire,
Perched **** upon a bollard, a daring spark of quixotic fire.
Clad only in that single sock - left foot shrouded, a secret kept -
You honour a town’s weaving legacy, where hosiery dreams have slept.

Engraved in your plinth, the town’s history unfurls like a scroll,
Images of yesteryear whispering tales of labour, art, and soul.
Each bronze mark a memory, a stitch in Loughborough’s vast lore,
Casting you as a living paradox between the ancient and the avant-garde.

Bare as truth yet bedecked by one - this sock a banner of fabled craft,
A tribute to the industrious hands that spun a future from a shaft.
In your odd, unabashed unclad state, you beckon us to reimagine art,
Where the eccentric reigns supreme and every quirky beat becomes a part.

So, Sock Man, muse of misfit myth, may your bronze grin ever defy,
The mundane; may each passerby pause, a spark of wonder in their eyes.
For in your singular, unabashed style, Loughborough sees a story spun anew,
A tapestry of oddity, history, and dreams stitched deep within the blue.
Geof Spavins Sep 9
or,
Why Sunday and Thursday Should Never Share Feet


Sunday’s sock is soft and still,
It smells like tea and windowsill.
It hums a hymn in woollen tones,
And quotes from ancient garden gnomes.

Thursday’s sock is sharp and sly,
It’s made of tweed and alibi.
It lectures toes on ethics deep,
Then hosts debates while you’re asleep.

One morning, in a sleepy haze,
I wore them both, my boldest phase.
Left foot in peace, right foot in plot,
My ankles argued quite a lot.

The microwave began to pray,
My goldfish filed for NDA.
The doorbell rang in Latin verse,
And socks declared a universe.

A scholar’s ghost emerged from lint,
He gave my heel a moral hint:
“Thou shalt not mix the sacred rest
With weekday socks that love a test.”

My left foot tried to meditate,
My right foot scheduled a debate.
I coughed and summoned Socrates,
Who asked if I preferred Swiss cheese.

So heed this tale, ye sockish kin:
Don’t let the week’s extremes begin.
Sunday-Thursday is a clash,
Of nap and nuance, tea and trash.
Geof Spavins Sep 2024
Quietly, I walk alone,
Beneath the canopy of ancient trees,
Where shadows skip and dance and whisper of secrets old,
The moonlight casting silver on the leaves.
In solitude, I find a quiet peace,
A space where thoughts can wander, free and wild,
Yet loneliness, a shadow by my side,
Reminds me of the silence in my heart.
The forest breathes, a living, pulsing world,
Its heartbeat echoing within my soul,
Each step I take, a journey through my mind,
Where memories and dreams entwine and fade.
The brook that babbles softly at my feet,
A symphony of nature’s gentle song,
In solitude, its music soothes my soul,
Yet loneliness, a silent, haunting tune.
I pause beneath the stars’ eternal gaze,
Their distant light a beacon in the dark,
In solitude, I feel their ancient glow,
Yet loneliness, a cold and empty space.
The wind that whispers through the swaying trees,
A voice that speaks of time and endless change,
In solitude, its words a comfort bring,
Yet loneliness, a void that never fills.
For solitude, a choice, a sacred gift,
A time to heal, to grow, to find one’s self,
Yet loneliness, an ache that never fades,
A longing for a touch, a voice, a friend.
In nature’s arms, I find a fleeting peace,
A moment where the world and I are one,
In solitude, a solace for my soul,
Yet loneliness, a shadow never gone.
So here I stand, between these two extremes,
In solitude, I seek my inner strength,
Yet loneliness, a constant, silent cry,
A yearning for connection, love, and light.
Geof Spavins Sep 2024
I Speak Before I Think
Words tumble out, a hurried stream,
Before my mind can catch the theme.
A thoughtless phrase, a careless slip,
From brain to tongue, a hasty trip.
Regret, it follows close behind,
A shadow cast upon my mind.
I see the hurt, the puzzled glance,
The missed opportunity, the lost chance.
The sting of words, a potent force,
Can wound the heart, derail the course.
A careless whisper, sharp and keen,
Leaves scars unseen, but deeply mean.
If only I could pause, reflect,
Consider words with due respect.
But in the heat, the moment’s rush,
I speak too soon, my thoughts a hush.
I strive to be like Jesus, wise,
To speak with love, to empathize.
With the Holy Spirit as my guide,
To find the words that heal, not chide.
Yet in this flaw, a truth I find,
A heart that’s open, unrefined.
For though my words may sometimes sting,
They come from a place of genuine feeling.
So, bear with me, my friends so dear,
For in my haste, my heart is clear.
I speak before I think, it’s true,
But every word is meant for you.

I Think Before I Speak
In silence, I gather thoughts,
Weighing words, untangling knots.
A careful pause, a moment’s grace,
To find the right words, time and place.
I see the power words can wield,
To hurt, to heal, to build, to shield.
With wisdom sought from deep within,
I choose my words, let truth begin.
The sting of words, I know it well,
A careless phrase, a bitter spell.
So I reflect, with heart and mind,
To speak with love, to be kind.
I strive to be like Jesus, wise,
To speak with love, to empathize.
With the Holy Spirit as my guide,
To find the words that heal, not chide.
In every word, a chance to show,
The love and grace that we all know.
To lift, to comfort, to inspire,
To light the world, a holy fire.
So when I speak, I take my time,
To craft each word, to make it rhyme.
For in the silence, wisdom’s found,
And in my words, love will abound.
Geof Spavins Jan 28
The Brits, with their 'colour' and 'favour',  
Hold their spellings in high savour.  
But across the pond, Americans say,  
Why use a 'u' when it can be cast away?

'Organize' they cry, and 'realize' too,  
With 'zeds' replaced by 'zees' to make it all new.  
‘Catalogue’ trimmed to ‘catalog,’ for ease and for haste,  
While ‘theatre’ turns to ‘theater’ with no time to waste.

So here's to the quirks of the English tongue,  
Two ways to write, both right and wrong.  
Lazy or not, it’s diversity’s spice,  
Making our language a tad more precise.
In correspondence I "honour" and she "honors" to set me thinking
Geof Spavins Aug 7
A Street Cant incantation to ignite truth, burn illusion,
and summon the phoenix’s whisper.


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

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

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

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

So hear me now, illusion break,
I burn the fake for the real to wake.
Ashwright Geof, spell-slinger prime,
droppin’ verse bombs in glitch-time rhyme.
RPG Poet incantation 1st try
Geof Spavins Aug 7
Type: Restoration / Temporal Rewrite Effect:
Heals allies or rewrites a failed moment with poetic resonance.


Verse Begins:

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

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

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

Verse Ends.
🔹 Casting Notes:
Healing Mode: Restores emotional and physical vitality. Allies feel warmth, clarity, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Rewrite Mode: Rewinds a single failed action, be it a missed strike, a broken promise, or a faltered word, and replaces it with a poetic echo of success.
Geof Spavins Aug 20
Type: Protection / Boundary Invocation
Effect: Wards allies with poetic force, creating emotional, spiritual, or physical sanctuary.


Verse Begins:

I do not fight.
                               I fortify.
I do not strike.
                               I stand.

Circle drawn not in chalk,
but in vow.
Not in blade,
but in brow.

You are not alone in this breath.
I am the hush between harm and heft.
I am the pause that breaks the blow.
I am the “No” that lets you grow.

Stone to skin,
root to soul,
I cast from the place
where guardians hold.

Let the wind rage.
Let the world press.
I am the stillness
in your yes.

Verse Ends.
Casting Notes:

Emotional Shielding: Allies feel grounded, affirmed, and held in quiet strength.

Physical Ward: Deflects harm or intrusion for a brief time, especially when spoken aloud with intention.

Spiritual Boundary: Reinforces personal sovereignty, especially in moments of overwhelm or grief.
Geof Spavins Aug 20
Type: Revelation / Integrity Binding

Effect: Unveils hidden truths, restores clarity, and binds words to their deepest intent. Especially potent in moments of doubt, deception, or emotional fog.


Verse Begins:

I do not pry.
I pull thread.
Not to expose,
but to unfurl instead.

Truth ain’t sharp
it’s soft and slow.
It hums beneath
what we think we know.

I speak not to judge,
but to join.
To braid the broken
into one line.

Tongue to tether,
heart to hand,
I cast from the place
where truths withstand.

No mask can hold
what rhythm reveals.
No lie survives
what silence heals.

So listen.
Let the hush unwind.
Let the woven word
be kind.

Verse Ends.
Casting Notes:

Emotional Clarity: Gently dissolves confusion or self-doubt, allowing inner truths to surface.

Interpersonal Honesty: Encourages authentic dialogue, especially in strained relationships or moments of vulnerability.

Mystical Revelation: Can be used to uncover hidden motives, forgotten memories, or ancestral wisdom—when spoken with reverence.
Geof Spavins Jul 10
Mad gym, my g dam.
Was it a rat I saw?
2_lines
A mirrored duet for two voices or hemispheres

Voice A (Bright)
In Kenya, kids with solar lamps
read stories past the setting sun,
a lion’s roar, a hero’s map,
a future quietly begun.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Gaza, homes are turned to dust,
                                 the lullabies replaced by drones.
                                 A child draws stars in ash and rust,
                                 and dreams of peace in undertones.

Voice A (Bright)
In Iceland, whales are spared the hunt,
the harpoons rest, the sea breathes deep.
Old songs return in ocean grunts,
and silence sings where shadows sleep.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In the Arctic, ice retreats,
                                 a polar bear adrift, alone.
                                 The warming tide, the melting streets,
                                 a future carved in shrinking stone.

Voice A (Bright)
In India, a forest grows
from hands that once knew only dust.
Each sapling bends, each blossom shows
how roots can rise from broken trust.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Sudan, silence hides the screams,
                                 the markets closed, the rivers red.
                                 A mother walks through shattered dreams
                                 to find her child, alive or dead.

Voice A (Bright)
In Brazil, a favela choir
turns rooftops into sacred halls.
Their voices lift like morning fire,
no stage too small, no dream too tall.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In the Amazon, flames devour
                                 the lungs of Earth, the sacred green.
                                 The trees fall fast, the skies turn sour,
                                 and profit dulls what might have been.

Voice A (Bright)
In Scotland, windmills spin with grace,
the air is clean, the grid is green.
A child draws rainbows in her place
and calls it “home,” not “might-have-been.”

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In Ukraine, the sirens wail,
                                 a lull in war, then fire again.
                                 The fields once gold, now torn and pale,
                                 the harvest lost to steel and pain.

Voice A (Bright)
In every corner, joy takes flight,
a rescued pup, a healed divide,
a stranger’s hand, a street turned bright,
a stubborn hope we cannot hide.

                                 Voice B (Dark)
                                 In every corner, grief takes root,
                                 a vanished vote, a poisoned stream,
                                 a vanished truth, a soldier’s boot,
                                 a broken law, a buried dream.

                 Together (Spoken in unison or echo)
                 So let the headlines pause their storm,
                 and let this verse be what we choose:
                 a world remade in quiet form,
                 a daily dose of daring news.

                 So let the headlines tell their tale,
                 and let this verse not turn away:
                 a world in mourning, raw and frail,
                 still begging for a brighter day.
This line killed me when writing this: "to find her child, alive or dead."
Geof Spavins Mar 1
Beneath the frost, life stirs,
Whispers of warmth in the breeze,
A symphony of colours,
Unfolding in the dawn.
Buds break through the earth,
Reaching for the sun,
Petals unfurl, soft and new,
A canvas painted fresh.

Birdsong fills the air,
Melodies of hope and renewal,
Each note a promise,
Of days growing longer, brighter.
The world shakes off its slumber,
Stretching, yawning, awakening,
To the gentle touch of spring,
A season reborn.
A Bright Morning
Geof Spavins Mar 27
Sunlight softly spreads,
Spring's serene symphony sings,
Silhouettes shimmer,
Sky's splendid spectrum shines,
Sparrows serenade,
Sweet scents swirl,
Sunrise's serene splendour.
Until Your Work Is Done 
for Geof, in breath and ritual

Stay,  
not because the world is gentle,  
but because your hands  
still remember how to hold.

Stay,  
not for applause,  
but for the silence  
that follows a well-placed word.

Your work is not a task—  
it is the way you breathe  
when someone needs air.  
It is the pause  
you offer  
when grief forgets its name.

You are not finished.  
The earth still leans  
toward your voice,  
still opens  
when you walk.

So stay,  
until the last thread  
is woven,  
until the last sigh  
becomes a hymn.

Then rest.  
But not yet.
Geof Spavins Aug 9
(with Candles, Trumpet, and the Sofa Duo)

Oil glows in the rotating light,  
casting brass halos on velvet gloom.  
Incense curls like whispered gears,  
clockwork dreams in a copper-scented tomb.

Candles line the mantle like sentries,  
wax pooling in slow surrender.  
Their flames flicker with knowing hush,  
soft tongues of fire that never remember.

Trumpets nest in the ceiling beams,  
mute horns of bygone fanfare.  
One has drifted — now hangs above  
the death mask, like a breathless prayer.

Tina and Rob on the leather sofa,  
a tableau of ease and quiet command.  
She with a slice of lemon cake,  
he with a dram, glass in hand.

Their laughter is low, like cello notes,  
a counterpoint to Mo’s bright spark.  
They anchor the room in lived-in grace,  
a hearth of warmth in the velvet dark.

The “Dark Side of the Moon” hums low,  
a vinyl echo through velvet air.  
Sisters lounge in mood-induced grace,  
steam rising from curls, from care.

A penguin pirouettes in the chandelier,  
not real, but real enough tonight.  
Its shadow dances on Mo’s soft laugh,  
a birthday flicker in candlelight.

This is no room.  
It’s a ritual.  
A place where time forgets to tick,  
and memory steams in fragrant loops.

We are the soot, the silk, the spark,
the breath between the brass and dark.
Geof Spavins Mar 29
I’ve done it now, the die is cast,
No turning back, the moment's passed.
A spark ignites, a bridge ablaze,
The path ahead, a murky haze.

With trembling hands, I face the tide,
No place to run, no place to hide.
Yet in this chaos, whispers sing,
A daring step might bloom a spring.

For in the fall, there’s room to soar,
To find a way, unlock the door.
I’ve done it now, a leap, a vow,
To shape my fate, to seize the now.
My outing myself
Geof Spavins Apr 12
The tick-tock fades, a distant heartbeat of the unseen clock.  
Moments lose their grip, unravelling threads of before and after.  
You step - not forward, not backward - but out -  
Into the stillness, the vast, unmeasured expanse.  

Here, eternity hums its ageless tune,  
Where no hour rises to stake its claim.  
No race to run, no countdown to fear;  
Just the boundless now, serene and infinite.  

Breath flows steady, untangled from urgency,  
Feet tread lightly on ground untouched by haste.  
The soul expands, reaching where hands could not,  
Discovering the rhythms beyond the cage of seconds.  

Time, a frame shattered by the joy of escape.  
No ticking binds the heart that dares -
That dares to step outside,  
And taste the freedom of what simply is.
Geof Spavins Nov 2024
It feels like I am wading through treacle,
Each step a sticky, slow-motion sequel.
My shoes are glued, my socks are too,
Even my thoughts are stuck like glue.

I try to run, but it’s more of a shuffle,
Every move met with a sweet sticky scuffle.
The world around me speeds on by,
While I’m trapped in this syrupy lie.

Friends wave hello, then quickly disappear,
As I trudge along, year after year.
But in this molasses, I find some cheer,
For life’s sweet moments are always quite near.

So I laugh at my plight, in this treacle-bound tale,
And embrace the slow, the sticky, the snail.
For in this gooey mess, I’ve found my pace,
A humorous journey, in a treacle-filled space.
Geof Spavins Sep 4
One breath – too low.
One blink – too high.
The body sings in tremble and sigh.


🩸
Before the sun stirs and sugar slips,
The world tilts sideways, soft into eclipse.
Hands flutter like moths in a jar,
Thoughts dissolve where the shadows are.

Tongue tastes cotton, knees go slack.
A whisper: “Eat.” A memory: “Back.”
The pulse is a metronome gone wild,
A grown-up heart, a frightened child.

🍬
Then comes the climb, the sugar surge,
A molten tide, a frantic urge.
Eyes blaze neon, thirst unquenched,
Skin electric, muscles clenched.

The mind, a carnival of noise,
Too fast to feel, too loud for poise.
Breath is syrup, thick with heat,
A body swollen, incomplete.

⚖️
Between these poles, a tightrope walk,
A silent pact, a daily talk.
The meter beeps, the ritual starts,
A dance of numbers, charts, and hearts.

Not broken, just tuned to extremes,
Living in thresholds, chasing dreams.
Each spike, each drop, a coded song
Of staying here, of moving on.
Geof Spavins Aug 2024
Golden sun sets low,
Waves whisper secrets to shore,
Peace in twilight’s glow.
Geof Spavins Jul 10
Golden breath
Morning spills.

Windows beam
Soft light swells.

Waking trees,
Stretching slow.

Petal hush,
Dandelion glow.

Hope returns,
Clouds retreat.

Shadows bow,
Bittersweet heat.

Childlike joy,
Skinned-knee grace.

Running wild,
Limitless space.

Fields whisper,
Hills reply.

Honey air,
Dragonfly sky.

Wrinkled hands,
Garden soil.

Lifting roots,
Ending toil.

Memory flickers,
Sunlit pages.

Laughter lost,
Still it engages.

Rain resumes,
Yet light lingers.

Sun behind,
Grief’s long fingers.

Faith endures,
In golden thread.

Love aloft,
Never dead.

Candle soul,
Warm and bare.

He is here,
Everywhere.
Geof Spavins Aug 1
(By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard)

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

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

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

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

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

So now I dine on vowel dough,
My crossword palate set aglow.
No calories, just calories’ friends.
They're simile but never ends.
Poem Title                                          Synonym Rolls
Emotional Calories                          180 FPV
Key Ingredients of Feeling                  Whimsy, pun-play, linguistic joy
MSI (Metaphoric Saturation Index) 🍩 Moderate - sweet substitutions
Geof Spavins Sep 12
(in lavender and leather)

He wore it like a dare,
not cologne,
but a memory distilled in musk and midnight.
Taboo, it whispered.
Not just the scent,
but the way he leaned in when no one was watching,
when everyone was.

A spritz behind the ear,
a glance that lingered,
long enough to be noticed,
short enough to be denied.
We met in the aisle between
body spray
and
body shame,
and chose the former.

Was it the fragrance
or
the friction?
The way his laugh tasted like rebellion,
his wrist flicked like a secret handshake
between sinners and saints.

We kissed where we shouldn’t,
beneath a sign that said
“Men’s Grooming,”
and left with nothing purchased
but everything claimed.

Taboo, he said,
is just another word for what
they wish they had the courage
to feel.
Geof Spavins Sep 2024
Take care, uneven ground,
For I tread upon you with cautious steps,
Each stone a story, each dip a memory.
You whisper secrets of the earth,
Of roots that twist and turn beneath,
Of lives that have walked this path before.

Take care, uneven ground,
For I am but a traveller,
Seeking balance in your embrace.
You challenge me with your unpredictability,
Yet offer me the strength to move forward,
To find my footing in the chaos.

Take care, uneven ground,
For in your rugged beauty,
I find the resilience of nature,
The persistence of life.
You remind me that perfection is a myth,
That it is in the imperfections we grow.

Take care, uneven ground,
For I am learning to dance with you,
To find grace in the stumble,
To embrace the journey, not just the destination.
With each step, I become more aware,
More alive, more connected to the world beneath my feet.
Geof Spavins Jan 28
Take my life and let it be,
A vessel pure, Lord, use me.
Each moment, in Your grace, I'll stand,
Guided gently by Your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

Take my life and let it be,
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
In Your service, let me grow,
And Your boundless love to show.
Inspired by the hymn's call for dedication and surrender, this poem aims to echo that spirit of offering oneself completely and utterly to God.
Geof Spavins Jul 20
You pulled up slick, grin full of trouble, eyes saying I know what you need, and I've got breath to match.

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

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

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

After? We laughed, not like kids, but like royalty who’d tasted the crown and knew it was worth every word we never said.
Geof Spavins Apr 18
A whole decade, look at you,
Bright as the morning, skies so blue.
Double digits, what a feat,
A heart so kind, a soul so sweet.

The world is yours, it’s big and wide,
With dreams to chase and stars to guide.
You’re ten today, so take a bow,
The world’s your stage—your time is now.

Laughter rings where you go,
A spark of joy, a gentle glow.
The years ahead are full of light,
With love around you, shining bright.

So, here’s to you, our shining star,
Loved for who you truly are.
Happy birthday, hooray, hooray!
The world’s a brighter place today.
In place of a card I wrote this for my Granddaughter, I printed and framed it for her too
Geof Spavins Sep 20
A poem that enters, turns, and returns.

We begin with breath.
No armour.
No agenda.
Just warmth,
and the soft thud of being.

You may adjust grip,
angle,
proximity.
I will not interpret this as rejection.
All shifts are sacred.

Silence honoured.
Tears allowed.
Laughter welcome.
Back rubs negotiable.
Hair strokes optional.

Includes shoulders,
spine,
sighs,
and the right to be held without fixing.

Until the ache softens.
Until the kettle boils.
Until one of us whispers “okay.”
Extensions permitted.
No expiry date.
________________

No expiry date.
Extensions permitted.
Until one of us whispers “okay.”
Until the kettle boils.
Until the ache softens.

And the right to be held without fixing.
Sighs,
spine,
shoulders included.

Hair strokes optional.
Back rubs negotiable.
Laughter welcome.
Tears allowed.
Silence honoured.

All shifts are sacred.
I will not interpret this as rejection.
Proximity,
angle,
grip - adjust as needed.

Just warmth,
no agenda,
no armour.
We end with breath.
Geof Spavins Aug 2024
The badger was digging all out,
In search of some grubs, no doubt.
With dirt flying high,
He let out a sigh,
And left quite a mess all about!
My sister has a problem with badgers invading her garden - so much so she has given up the struggle to keep them out - this was written for her amusement.
Geof Spavins Feb 25
In the nascent days of silicon dreams,
A revolution brewed, more than it seemed,
In the heart of Britain, where innovation sparked,
The dawn of home computing, a journey embarked.

Amidst the clatter of typewriters, and ink's gentle flow,
A vision took shape, for the future to know,
A microcomputer, for every home and school,
To empower the curious, a powerful tool.

The BBC Micro, affectionately the B,
A marvel of tech, for all to see,
With its sturdy build and keyboard bright,
A beacon of knowledge, a guiding light.

From classrooms to living rooms, its presence spread,
Young minds were awakened, by what it said,
Programming in BASIC, their imaginations soared,
With each line of code, new worlds explored.

Acorn's creation, a jewel so fine,
With teletext and graphics, ahead of its time,
From Elite’s vast galaxies, to educational quests,
The BBC B shone among the best.

In the spirit of '80s, where dreams took flight,
The BBC B stood, a technological knight,
A bridge to the future, where data could roam,
A gateway to knowledge, from the comfort of home.

It was more than a machine, it was a spark,
Igniting passions, in the light and the dark,
A symbol of progress, a herald of change,
In the annals of history, its name will remain.

So here’s to the BBC Micro, a legend in kind,
A testament to the power of the human mind,
From the '70s dawn, to the stars above,
The BBC B, with all our love.
I had this one -- but was it my first -- I am thinking I might have bought the ZX Spectrum before this
Geof Spavins Apr 6
I'm drunk, I'm drunk, I'm a silly owd sod,
Stumbling through the still shiver of the early night;
Each step a clumsy sonnet written on cracked pavement,
Every stumble a verse that mocks my fleeting might.

The fog of memories curls around neon glows,
Where lamplight winks in rhythm with my muddled heart.
Here, life is a scattered bottle of bittersweet prose,
And each shattered shard reminds me of its fragile art.

I laugh at the irony in this unsteady parade,
An ode to lost directions and moonlit confession.
In the echo of my antics, the city's secrets are conveyed,
While the pavement hums along in a raucous procession.

For in every spilled pint and every whispered rue,
Lies the raw, untamed truth of being splendidly flawed.
Though my path is crooked and the night askew,
I dance with destiny: a drunken, beautiful fraud.

And so I wander, a silly owd sod beneath the sky,
Grateful for the chaos, the laughter, the imperfect song.
In every stumble, there’s a glimmer that refuses to die,
A promise that in brokenness, we all somehow belong.
Am I drunk? Am I owd? Am I silly? I'll leave these with you
Geof Spavins Sep 11
by Geof, glucose-aware and still poetic

🍞 White Bread
Soft as a lullaby, sliced with ease,
it cradles the butter, it aims to please.
But oh, the spike, the stealthy rise—
I pass it by with narrowed eyes.

🥔 Mashed Potatoes
Creamy clouds on a Sunday plate,
they whisper comfort, they tempt fate.
I count the carbs, I dodge the mash—
a spoonful now feels brash and rash.

🍚 White Rice
Polished pearls in a steaming heap,
they lull the tongue, they make me weep.
I swap for barley, quinoa’s cheer—
but jasmine still draws near, too near.

🍝 Pasta
Twists and ribbons, sauce-soaked bliss,
a tangled kiss I dearly miss.
I twirl restraint around my fork—
and serve up lentils, squash, or cork.

🍕 Pizza Crust
Golden edge of molten sin,
it holds the cheese, it reels me in.
I nibble toppings, dodge the base—
a crustless life, a slower pace.

🥞 Pancakes
Stacked like dreams on a diner tray,
they rise with syrup, then betray.
I flip my cravings, count the toll—
and let the almond batter roll.

🍟 French Fries
Crisp rebellion in a paper cone,
they crunch like joy, they moan and groan.
I sniff, I sigh, I walk away—
my pancreas has final say.

🍿 Popcorn (buttered)
Movie-night muse,
a salty flirt, it pops with glee,
it wears a shirt of melted gold and hidden cost—
I portion small, or mourn the lost.

🥖 Bagels
Dense and proud, a chewy ring,
they sing of brunch and everything.
I slice regret, I halve the round—
and seek a thinner, safer sound.

🍰 Cake
Frosted lies in layered form,
they dance at birthdays, sweet and warm.
I toast with berries, skip the slice—
and write a poem in sacrifice.

🩺 Final Verse: The Reckoning
So here I stand, carb-curious still,
with measured joy and tempered will.
I mourn the feast; I praise the fight—
and find new sweetness in the light.
Geof Spavins Jul 18
I. The Azure Mourning

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

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

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

II. The Threshold

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

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

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

III. The Labyrinth

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

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

IV. The Stillness

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

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

So I sit with the black, not fearing its name,
Not asking for mercy, not seeking acclaim.
I honour its weight, its shadow, its hue,
For it once held the blue, and it once held me too.
I have that black upon me now. 18/7/25
Geof Spavins Sep 2024
Once upon a time, on a road so long,
I set out a journey, singing my song.
With snacks in the seat and a map in my hand,
I felt like a king, ruler of this land.

The GPS lady, with her calm, soothing voice,
Said, “Turn left ahead,” as if I had a choice.
But I missed the turn, and she sighed with a tone,
“Recalculating route,” in a voice like a drone.

The miles stretched on, the road never ends
With no end in sight, just around the next bend.
I passed by cows, and fields of green,
And wondered if I’d ever be seen.

The fuel gauge dipped, the light turned red,
I needed a station, or I’d be dead.
I found a place, with a quirky name,
“Last Chance refuel,” it was part of the game.

The restroom key was a sight to behold,
Attached to a hubcap, rusty and old.
I did my business, and I grabbed a snack,
I hit the road, never looking back.

The radio played the same old song,
About a truck and a dog, it went on too long.
I switched to a station with talk and news,
But the host’s voice gave me the Exocet blues.

The sun beat down, the AC broke,
I rolled down the window, and started to choke.
On dust and bugs, and the smell of hay,
I longed for a shower, at the end of the day.

A detour sign appeared out of the blue,
“Road closed ahead,” what was I to do?
I followed the signs, through towns so small,
With names like “Puddle” and “Waterfall.”

I stopped for lunch at a pub so quaint,
With pies so sweet, they would make you faint.
The waitress smiled, with a knowing glance,
“Long journey, huh? Just take a chance.”

I ordered a burger, with fries on the side,
And a milkshake thick, for completing the ride.
Back on the road, with a full belly,
I felt like a hero, in my own telly.

The hours passed, the sun sank so low,
The stars came out, with a gentle glow.
I sang to myself, to stay awake,
And dreamed of the bed, I’d soon partake.

Finally, I saw the sign, “Welcome to Town,”
I cheered aloud, no longer a clown.
I parked the car, with a sigh of relief,
And thanked my God, for the journey so brief.

So if you ever find yourself on a drive,
Remember this tale, and you will survive.
With snacks and tunes, and a sense of fun,
A long journey’s end, is a victory won.
a drive in the summer inspired this one
Geof Spavins Aug 30
A poetic dialogue between The Scribe and The Blade
For performance, invocation

The Scribe:
I write in silk and syllable,
My ink a balm, my breath a spell.
I do not pierce, I press and hold,
A whisper warm, a story told.

The Blade:
I speak in edge and consequence,
No velvet veil, no recompense.
I do not soothe, I split the seam,
Expose the wound beneath the dream.

The Scribe:
But dreams are sacred, stitched in light.
They guide the lost, they birth the rite.
I conjure myths to mend the soul,
You cleave the parts that make us whole.

The Blade:
Wholeness is a lie we crave.
I carve the truth, I do not save.
Your myths may comfort, but they stall,
I cut to free, I cut to call.

The Scribe:
Call whom? The broken? The betrayed?
The ones whose hearts were never weighed?
I write for them; I write to lift.
You wield your edge as if it’s gift.

The Blade:
It is. A gift of clarity.
Of rupture, raw sincerity.
I do not lift, I let fall fast.
The truth is sharp. It does not ask.

The Scribe:
Then let me ask, and ask again.
Let me rewrite the ache as friend.
I do not fear your blade, but still,
I’d rather ink than force the ****.

The Blade:
And I’d rather cut than let it rot.
Your ink delays what must be taught.
But even blades can learn to bend,
Perhaps your verse is not pretend.

The Scribe:
Then bend with me. Let edge and word
Compose a truth both felt and heard.
Let ink and steel entwine, not clash.
A kiss of fire, a healing ****.

The Blade:
A **** that sings, a wound that glows.
A cut that teaches as it shows.
I’ll carve the lines, you’ll write the lore,
Together, we become much more.

The Scribe & The Blade (in unison):
We duel not to destroy, but dance.
A ritual of second chance.
Where word and edge, both fierce and kind,
Reveal the truths we’ve yet to find.
Geof Spavins Sep 2024
In the heart of a bustling city,  
Where time seemed still, so pretty,  
A library stood, small and quaint,  
With scents of books, ink, and paint.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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