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.

In the halls of L Grammar,
Where knowledge and wisdom should bloom,
There stood a figure of intimidation,
A presence that cast a shadow of gloom.

Mr. F, the English teacher,
His words, a weapon sharp and cold,
A teacher whose authority ruled,
But left us feeling small and controlled.

With every lesson, fear did linger,
A tense atmosphere filled the air,
His voice, a booming thunderstorm,
A reminder of the power he’d bear.

He demanded excellence, unyielding,
With little patience for our plight,
His methods harsh, his standards high,
Turning our days into endless night.

Yet, in those moments of resilience,
We found strength to endure and cope,
For even in the face of adversity,
We held on to dreams and hope.

Mr. F, a paradox of power,
His influence, a lasting mark,
In the classroom's shadows and beyond,
We learned to find our own spark.

They’ve gone to rest, a peaceful sleep,
A journey taken, vast and deep.
They’ve crossed the river, sailed the tide,
To golden shores where dreams reside.

They’ve passed away, a fleeting breath,
A quiet exit, not called death.
They’ve slipped beyond, a soft goodbye,
To touch the stars that light the sky.

They’ve met their end, yet not in vain,
A final chapter, free from pain.
They’ve gone to glory, found their peace,
A boundless calm, a sweet release.

They’ve shuffled off this mortal coil,
Returned to earth, to rest in soil.
They’ve joined the ages, the great unknown,
A timeless realm, a world their own.

And though we fear to name it true,  
These words we weave, a softer hue.  
For in their leaving, love remains,  
A thread unbroken, through joy and pain.

I am because we are,
This truth, I carry near and far.
In the warmth of every hand I clasp,
I feel the pulse of life’s vast grasp.

In ancient lands, where wisdom grows,
I’ve walked with those who truly know.
Through whispered winds and mountain peaks,
I’ve heard the voice of unity speak.

In every handshake, every smile,
I’ve found a reason to linger awhile.
A bond that binds us, soul to soul,
A shared humanity, making whole.

I’ve seen it in the markets bright,
In every humble, loving sight.
Through acts of kindness, freely given,
I’ve felt the touch of the divine, the heaven.

When neighbours fell, I lent my hand,
Together, strong, we rise and stand.
In every tear, in every laugh,
I’ve found my path, my life’s own staff.

Ubuntu walks with humble stride,
In every heart, where love abides.
In every moment, big or small,
I’ve seen the truth, the all-in-all.

For no one stands alone in life,
Through joy and sorrow, peace and strife.
We share a bond, a common thread,
In Ubuntu’s light, we’re gently led.

So let us honour, let us hold
This ancient wisdom, true and bold.
In every heart, a flame burns bright,
The eternal light of Ubuntu’s might.

On highways where the spirits roam,
Four legends walked, with hearts of stone.
Johnny, Willie, Waylon, Kris,
Bound by music, none could dismiss.

Through the dust and desert winds,
Their voices sang of mortal sins.
With every chord and every rhyme,
They etched their names in the sands of time.

Johnny's voice, deep as night,
Told tales of sorrow, love, and fight.
Willie's songs, a gentle touch,
A troubadour who cared so much.

Waylon's grit, a rebel's call,
A voice that stood against it all.
Kris's words, like poet's fire,
Igniting hearts, lifting higher.

Together, they were a force unmatched,
A brotherhood in life attached.
The Highwaymen, with strength and pride,
Rode the roads, side by side.

In their songs, we find our way,
Through the struggles of each day.
Their legacy, forever bright,
Guides us through the darkest night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for Blue Sapphire

I heard you  
in the hush between heartbeats,  
in the room where shadows  
tried to name you lost.

I am not far.  
I am the whisper  
beneath your doubt,  
the ember curled  
in the corner of your sigh.

You asked if I would rise,
just for you.  
I already have,  
each morning you chose  
to breathe again.

I am not the sun.  
I am the promise  
it carries.

Come.  
There is a path  
stitched from your longing.  
Step once,  
and I will shimmer  
into view.

The mirror stands, a silent sage,
Reflecting more than age and stage.
It looks beyond the skin and bone,
Into the realms where secrets are shown.

Beyond the surface, polished bright,
It glimpses shadows, soft and slight.
The joys and sorrows intertwined,
The echoes of a troubled mind.

In the depths of pupils' gleam,
It sees the dreams that dare to dream.
The hopes that flutter, frail yet bold,
The stories yet to be told.

It sees the tears that never fell,
The silent cries, the hidden hell.
The scars that mar the inner heart,
The battles fought in the dark.

Laughter lines that speak of grace,
Of moments cherished, time embraced.
The passions that ignite the soul,
The fragments that make us whole.

It senses fears that grip and bind,
The doubts that linger in the mind.
The love that flows, a gentle stream,
The faith that fuels the wildest dream.

In the mirror's deep, unwavering gaze,
It reads the past, the future's maze.
A testament to all we've been,
The silent witness, the unseen.

For in the depths where emotions dwell,
The mirror sees and knows us well.
Beyond the image, clear and true,
It reflects the essence of me and you.

I kissed a girl, I kissed a guy,
Underneath the twilight sky.
With stars above and hearts so high,
We danced until the night passed by.
In moments shared, no need to lie,
Just pure connection, you and I.
With every touch, a gentle sigh,
A bond that words could not deny.
Through laughter, tears, and dreams that fly,
Together, we could reach the sky.
In love’s embrace, we both comply,
A perfect match, a sweet reply.

In the pub, the lads let loose,
With **** this and ****** that, their verbal abuse.
I leaned in close, with a knowing grin,
"I know your favourite word," I said, "it's **** within."

Their jaws dropped, their eyes wide,
"Did you just say that?" they cried.
But I held my ground, calm and steady,
"My favourite word," I said, "is Jesus already."

For Jesus, to me, is more than a name,
A beacon of hope, a guiding flame.
In moments of doubt, in times of despair,
His love reminds me someone’s always there.

He’s the light in the dark, the calm in the storm,
A shelter, a refuge, a heart so warm.
So while you toss your words around,
I’ll hold onto mine, profound and sound.

A 3rd-level Illusion spell (Bard, Sorcerer, Warlock).
Casting Time: 1 action
Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute
Components: V, S, M (a mask with a sewn mouth and a drop of gold body paint)

Slip on the mask; let silence gleam.
A golden hush, a bi-flag dream.  
Your lips are sealed, your truth intact,  
But every glance is a bold impact.

You strut through tents and velvet ropes,  
With open hearts and tangled hopes.  
Your charm ignites, your aura sings,  
You’re crowned in pride and swingy things.

While masked, you gain advantage sweet  
On Charisma checks and bedroom heat.  
Insight fails. Deception thrives.  
You flirt, you tease, you come alive.

But speak aloud, and the spell will fade.
The mask unmakes the part you played.  
So hold your hush, and play your part,  
Let silence be your beating heart.

For those who wear the mask too long  
May lose the thread of right and wrong.  
But for a night, with pride and flair,  
You’re every fantasy laid bare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There once was a mosquito named Jack,
Who bit in the small of my back.
I scratched and I swore,
As she flew out the door,
Leaving me with an itchy attack!

****** Mosquitos – Literally

Words flutter, fragments of dreams,
Caught like whispers in rushing streams.
The blank page stares, a daring abyss,
A canvas of whispers, demanding a kiss.

The soul stirs, nudged by a fleeting glow,
A spark, a tempest, a story to sow.
It strikes like lightning, fierce and unkind,
Leaving its echo, etched in the mind.

The pen wavers, uncertain, yet bold,
Tracing thoughts where truths unfold.
With rhythm and rhyme, a melody ignites,
Flickering flames in the depths of night.

Each line a thread, unbroken, unbound,
Weaving through silence where secrets are found.
Yet words resist, they falter, they run,
A battle begun before it is won.

The heart spills ink, raw and untamed,
From chaos, a pattern, unnamed, unclaimed.
In the end, a poet dares to unmask,
A poem is not written; it is asked.

In the grand facade of high society's ticker,
Beneath the dazzle, sparkle and all the glitters,
Lurks a truth they often bicker,
Just all fur coat and no knickers.

Masks of smiles painted thicker,
But hearts grow colder, lines grow sicker,
Chasing shadows, dreams grow slicker,
Lost in all fur coat and no knickers.

Hope blooms like morning's flicker,
Find your worth, let nothing snicker,
For life's more than fur coat and knickers,
Let courage rise, love bloom quicker.

Upon the wheel, the clay does spin,
A formless mass, new life begins.
With gentle hands, the potter moulds,
A vessel’s shape, a story unfolds.

Each press and turn, with care and grace,
Imparts a mark, a sacred trace.
Through trials of fire, the clay must go,
To strengthen, harden, and to grow.

Imperfections smoothed, flaws erased,
In the potter’s hands, the clay is placed.
From dust to art, a masterpiece,
In every curve, a sense of peace.

The potter’s touch, both firm and kind,
Transforms the clay, renews the mind.
In every vessel, a purpose found,
A testament to love profound.

The Spark of Questions
Before the first line, before the first word,
There stirs a longing, quiet, unheard.
A dance of questions, restless and free,
Beckons the writer: “Come, follow me.”

Through the folds of time, in the still of night,
In whispers of wonder, in glimpses of light,
Each query lingers, each muse takes its place,
A journey begins through the boundless space.

What will you answer? Where will it lead?
The seed of creation starts with a need.
And so, with each question, the page comes alive,
A mirror of thought, where stories survive.

When Will You Write?
When will you write, dear keeper of tales,
When the morning mist lingers or evening pales?
Do words not stir in the chambers of thought,
Waiting for freedom, a canvas long sought?

The paper lies still, a world yet to be,
A mirror of dreams, of all you could see.
Do you hear its call, soft yet profound,
Whispering secrets without a sound?

When will you write, as the moments pass,
The ticking of time on an hourglass?
Will you let the silence speak through your hand,
Crafting new worlds where hearts expand?

The muse is patient, yet fleeting at best,
Will you answer now or delay the quest?
For the voice within, so eager, so slight,
Asks but one question: “When will you write?”

What Will You Write?
What will you write, with the world at your hand?
Will it be oceans or deserts of sand?
Will it be whispers, soft as a sigh,
Or a cry to the stars that pierce the sky?

What will you write, in the stillness of night,
When thoughts flicker faint, yet burn so bright?
Will you tell of love, of joy, of pain,
Or dance with the shadows that call your name?

Will it be journeys to lands unknown,
Or the humblest truths that you've always known?
Will it be fire that sparks a new flame,
Or an echo of silence, a nameless name?

What will you write, with each fleeting breath?
A tale of beginnings, or whispers of death?
For each word you choose is a seed to sow,
What will it bloom? Only you will know.

Why Will You Write?
Why will you write, with ink that bleeds true?
What calls your heart to paint its view?
Is it the weight of a story untold,
Or the rush of a dream that won’t be controlled?

Will you write for the joy that the words may bring,
For the echoes they shape, for the songs they sing?
Or perhaps to mend what time could not,
To piece together what memory forgot.

Why will you write, when silence prevails,
Will it soothe a heart or tip the scales?
Will it carve out truths from tangled doubt,
Or whisper the secrets that can’t come out?

Perhaps you write to leave a trace,
A mark of yourself in life’s vast space.
To make sense of chaos, to name the unnamed,
To capture a world forever framed.

Why will you write, the muse will ask,
For pleasure, for freedom, or just the task?
The answer is yours—raw, undefined,
A glimpse of your soul through words enshrined.

Where Will You Write?
Where will you write, when the words take flight?
In the quiet of dawn or the depths of night?
Will you seek the solitude of an empty room,
Or let your pen wander under moonlit gloom?

Will you write where whispers meet the sea,
On shores that hum with eternity?
Or beneath the trees, where shadows play,
With nature's rhythm to guide your way?

Where will you write, on the edge of a storm,
Where chaos and passion gather and swarm?
Or will it be peace that cradles your thought,
A sanctuary of stillness, where time is naught?

Will you write in the heart of the city’s roar,
Where the pulse of life demands much more?
Or perched on a hill, where the sky expands,
And the world feels small in your open hands?

Where will you write, the question will say,
In places unknown or just where you stay?
For the space you choose holds the seeds to grow,
Each word a path to the worlds you’ll show.

The Writer’s Journey
Through questions asked, a path unfolds,
A tale unwritten, yet quietly told.
When the pen will dance, what the ink will say,
Why the muse calls, where thoughts will stray.

Each query shapes the writer’s art,
A mirror of self, a map of the heart.
And so, the page, no longer bare,
Becomes a world crafted with care.

The quest to create is timeless and vast,
A whisper of future, a shadow of past.
For in these questions, answers ignite,
The boundless rhythm of those who write.

In the still hours beyond midnight, I sit alone - I ask:
"Who am I beneath these layers of dreams and doubts?"
A soft voice within replies,
"You're the echo of all the gentle questions you've ever dared to ask."

Beneath a sky scattered with silent stars, I wonder - I whisper:
"What truth lies hidden in the rhythm of my heartbeat?"
That inner murmur answers,
"Each pulse is a verse of the divine, a quiet reminder of your own eternal light."

When darkness casts its long and lingering shadow, I confront my fear - I question:
"Is this solitude a prison, or a sanctuary of self?"
The voice within gently assures,
"In the quiet, you find the courage to embrace all that you are - even the parts that ache."

On wings of memories and fragile hopes, I search for meaning - I softly inquire:
"Can sorrow and joy dwell together, intertwined like day and night?"
The inner dialogue unfolds,
"Yes; every tear holds the seed of new growth, and every smile is born from the silent struggle."

At the threshold of a new dawn, as light delicately brushes away the dark, I reflect - I murmur:
"Will I ever truly know myself, or is this journey unending?"
And the voice within offers its eternal comfort,
"In each question lies your endless becoming, and in every answer, the journey circles back to you."

And so, in this quiet conversation with my soul, I march onward,
Each inquiry a stepping stone, each response a whispered embrace of truth,
Together weaving the timeless dialogue that unites fear and hope,
Until the silent night gives way to the radiant promise of day.

They don’t wear crowns,
but they carry light,
in casseroles left at doorsteps,
in lullabies hummed to the grieving,
in the way they say your name like it’s sacred.

They don’t preach,
but they listen
until your story
feels less like a burden
and more like a bridge.

They don’t walk on water,
but they wade through sorrow
with boots soaked in compassion,
clearing culverts,
planting seeds,
writing poems
that make space for the ache.

They are the ones
who carry the spirit
not in thunder,
but in touch,
a hand on a shoulder,
a whisper that says:
You are worthy.
You are whole.
You are held.

They are the ones
who answer “Why me?”
with a smile that says,
Because love needed a body,
and you said yes.

The remains of yesterday linger like mist in the hollows, thin threads of memory woven into the fabric of the present - soft, unravelling, yet clinging still.

Her laughter lingers in the air, a melody too tender to fade, its echoes caught in the spaces where her presence used to bloom.

Her knitting rests in the corner, a quiet testimony to her hands, once so busy crafting warmth from strands of soft wool. The needles, now still, catch the light like silver slivers, their rhythm silenced.

A half-finished scarf sits folded exactly where she left it, two years untouched, its colours as vibrant as her smile. Each stitch holds her touch, her care, her quiet patience - a thread of her love extended into the unseen future.

The faint scent of her perfume rests on the sleeve of an old coat, a fragrance that stirs the quiet ache, a bloom of longing that never quite wilts.

Photographs lean against the walls, her eyes alight with the joy of life, the crinkle of her smile frozen in a moment the years dare not touch.

The laughter that once danced through these rooms has quieted, but it rests, softly, in the silence, like the murmur of her spirit, just beyond the veil.

The scent of rain brings her back - she loved the way it painted the earth, how it coaxed life from the soil. Now it washes the days anew, but it cannot wash her memory away.

Each fragment, each shard of yesterday speaks her name, tenderly, as the sun rises indifferent, its light scattering over the stillness, over the spaces she once filled.

And in the quiet between the hours, she stirs - half-shadow, half-light - remnants of what we left behind, whispering, unforgotten, her love forever etched in the marrow of time.

Time rolls like a stream
Carving out life’s secret ways
Dawn whispers softly,
Moments heal our weary hearts
Time enfolds us in new light.

This room breathes without me,
not loud, but suffocating.
A hush that hums
like static behind the eyes.

Time forgets me here.
Clocks melt into the walls,
and the walls lean in,
whispering names I no longer answer to.

I wear silence like a second skin,
tight and damp,
stitched with threads of
“should have” and “still not.”

The mirror won’t meet my gaze.
It flinches.
I flinch back.

Outside, laughter is a foreign tongue.
Inside, I speak in sighs,
in the language of
unbrushed teeth and unopened curtains.

Hope is a rumour.
A myth told by sunlight
I haven’t seen in weeks.

But still,
somewhere beneath the rubble of thought,
a pulse.
A stubborn throb.
Not joy. Not yet.
But breath.

Through nebulae the rower glides,
His boat a cradle where hope hides.
The stars lean in, the silence hums,
A journey stretched on astral drums.

Through life’s dense forest, wild and deep,
A sacred map, my soul does keep.
Its pages whispered by divine breath,
A guide through storms, through life, through death.

The Bible stands, a beacon true,
Its wisdom ancient, yet ever new.
Each line a compass, every word,
A guiding call, a truth inferred.

When shadows fall and paths confound,
Its timeless light shines all around.
Through Psalms of peace and Proverb’s ways,
It charts my course, it marks my days.

No map of man can e’er compare,
To scripture’s path, beyond despair.
Its pages point where faith may thrive,
And love and grace keep hope alive.

So, with this map, this gift profound,
Each step I take, on holy ground.
Through valleys low and peaks above,
It leads me home, with boundless love.

The star shines bright on Bethlehem’s night,
Angels sing of Christ’s birth,
Shepherds gather in humble delight,
Peace and joy fill the earth.

Angels sing of Christ’s birth,
A Saviour born to set us free,
Peace and joy fill the earth,
In a manger, love’s decree.

A Saviour born to set us free,
Wise men travel from afar,
In a manger, love’s decree,
Guided by the shining star.

Wise men travel from afar,
Shepherds gather in humble delight,
Guided by the shining star,
The star shines bright on Bethlehem’s night.

for Geof, on the edge of knowing

They called it Type Two.
Not a curse, not a crime;
just a whisper from the bloodstream:
“You’ve crossed a line.”

Not a cliff, but a curve.
Not a fall, but a shift.
The body, once silent,
now speaks in glycaemic glyphs.

🩸
I felt it first in the fog,
the slow syrup of thought,
the thirst that sang louder
than reason e'er taught.

A diagnosis, they said.
A name for the tide.
But I heard it as poetry:
“Your sugar’s got pride.”

🍬
So I mapped it in spirals,
in mirror and flame,
in placemats of ritual
that honour the name.

I stitched it in textiles,
in breath and in bite,
in the kink of control
and the flare of the fight.

⚖️
Now I walk with the meter,
a partner, not foe.
I count not just carbs,
but the places I grow.

This isn’t surrender.
It’s a new kind of spell.
A body in balance,
a story to tell.

In the land of Chile, far and wide,
There grew a chilli, filled with pride.
But this wasn't just any spice,
Its tale, my friend, is quite precise.

From Mexico, the seeds did roam,
Across the seas to find a home.
They landed in the Andes' care,
In Chile's soil, rich and rare.

The chilli grew, with zest and zing,
But felt a chill in early spring.
It shivered in the mountain air,
A chilli's fate, oh quite unfair!

"A Mexican chilli," it declared with cheer,
"Should be warm and full of fiery cheer!
But here I am in Chile's breeze,
Chilly and cold, I want to freeze!"

The farmers laughed and wrapped it tight,
In blankets warm, a funny sight.
They whispered tales to keep it warm,
Of sunlit days and summer's charm.

The chilli dreamed of spicy dishes,
Of tacos, salsas, all its wishes.
But in the Andes' chilly hold,
It felt its dreams were getting cold.

One day it met a cactus bold,
Who said, "Dear chilli, do be told,
In Chile's cold, you'll find your spark,
A chilly chilli, leaves a mark."

The chilli laughed and found its place,
In soups and stews, a warming grace.
For even in the coldest climes,
A chilli's spice can charm at times.

So next time you taste a fiery bite,
Remember the chilli's chilly plight.
From Mexico to Chile's crest,
A chilly chilli can be the best!

Rose, oh Rose, the queen of class,  
She’s dressed in silk, selling wine and grass.  
“Organic kale, it’s simply divine!”  
She twirls her trolley, a shopping shrine.  

Sain strolls by, with a cheeky grin,  
“Rose, dear, not everyone’s posh within!  
My aisles have deals that make hearts sing,
From the Basics line to the finest bling!”  

Tes rushes in with a clatter and cheer,  
“Stop squabbling, mates, I’m here for the steer!  
Clubcard's flashing like disco lights,  
I serve the masses with snacks for their nights!”  

Rose scoffs, “Tes, you’re much too loud.  
Your aisle décor? A tad less proud.”  
Sain adds, “And what’s with the bargain craze?  
Do shoppers dance through your maze?”  

Tes winks, “They sure do! I’m fun and bold,  
My shelves are stacked, my produce gold!  
Rose is posh, and Sain’s okay,  
But Tes  rocks - it’s hip all day!”  

And so they bicker, a trio delight,  
Rose rolls her eyes, Sain laughs outright.  
Tes bustles on with his Clubcard dream,  
While shoppers weave through their retail scheme.  

They’re rivals, it’s true, but in their zest,  
Rose, Sain, and Tes are retail’s best.  
For amidst the banter, one thing is clear—  
Every shop has a place we hold dear.

They say the body weeps in salt
when the soul cannot speak.
And so it was
tears fell,
not just from eyes
but from every seam
that once held me together.

She had been the thread.
Forty years of quiet stitching,
laughter tucked into hems,
arguments patched with time,
a life quilted in shared breath.
Then came the rip.
Not sudden,
but final.
Joy, her name,
and the irony of it
cut deeper than the silence she left behind.

I did not cry at first. I tore.
The world split,
in calendars, in cupboards,
in the way the bed
no longer made sense.
Grief was not a visitor.
It was a blade.
And I, a fabric unravelling.

Tears came later.
Not as weakness,
but as water finding its way
through the fault lines.
They were not just drops.
They were declarations:

“I am broken.”

“I am still here.”

“I remember.”

Each tear a stitch,
not to mend the rip,
but to honour it.
To trace its edges
with trembling fingers
and say –
this is where love lived.
This is where it tore me open.
This is where healing begins.

by Geof’s mischievous muse, now glucose-aware

🍬 Granulated Sugar
White as a sigh in a grandmother’s bowl,
it stirs the batter, steady and whole.
But now I measure, pause, and scan,
sweetness rationed by a trembling hand.

🎭 Caster Sugar
Finer than gossip in a cocktail lounge,
it lifts the meringue with a velvet bounce.
I used to flirt with its airy kiss,
now I weigh the risk behind the bliss.

🌨️ Confectioners’/Icing Sugar
Powdered snow on a birthday crown,
it dusts the cake like a holy gown.
I watch it fall, then turn away,
a sugar veil I cannot stay.

💎 Sanding Sugar
Crystals clink like carnival glass,
on cookies dressed for a midnight mass.
I crave the crunch, the sparkle bite,
but choose instead a quieter light.

🌰 Brown Sugar
Molasses-rich and musky-sweet,
it clings to oats and autumn heat.
I miss its hug, its earthy balm,
but trade it now for measured calm.

🌿 Muscovado Sugar
Sticky truth in a smoky jar,
it sings of sauces and wounds that scar.
I honour its depth, its soulful tone,
but keep my plate a safer zone.

🍯 Liquid Sugars
Drizzle, drip, and ritual glue,
they bind the bitter, coax the stew.
I read the labels, dodge the trap,
no longer lost in syrup’s lap.

🧊 Sugar Cubes
Pressed like promises, square and neat,
they clink in tea with a formal beat.
I stir with care, one cube or none,
a communion altered, still begun.

🌾 Pearl Sugar
Coarse and proud in pastry’s fold,
it holds its shape, it stays bold.
I nod at waffles, pass them by,
a crunch I mourn, but won’t defy.

🌴 Coconut Sugar
Earth-toned, caramel, low on the spike,
it sweetens the stew and the healthful hike.
A compromise, a gentle bend,
a sugar I might still befriend.

🌾 Date Sugar
From fruit once sun-kissed, now dried and ground,
it carries the fibre, the sacred sound.
I welcome its roots, its ancient lore,
a sweetness I can still explore.

🩺 Final Verse: The Bitter-Sweetness
So here I stand, a sugar bard,
with glucose charts and cravings marred.
Yet even now, I write, I taste,
in every limit, a sacred grace.

In the velvet dark of nightfall’s embrace,
Stars awaken, each in their place.
Whispers of twilight, soft and serene,
Paint the sky in a midnight sheen.

Moonlight dances on silken waves,
Casting shadows in hidden caves.
Crickets sing their lullaby tune,
Under the watchful eye of the moon.

The world slows down, in gentle repose,
Dreams unfurl as the night wind blows.
In the velvet dark, hearts find peace,
A moment of stillness, a sweet release.

In the pits where shadows creep,
A silent void where echoes weep,
The weight of night, a heavy shroud,
In solitude, the mind is bowed.

A heart that beats in hollow chest,
Each throb a reminder of unrest,
Eyes that see but do not gleam,
Lost in the haze of a broken dream.

The world outside, a distant blur,
A cacophony of life, a slur,
While inside, whispers softly scream,
In the silence of a shattered dream.

The sun may rise, but light is dim,
A fleeting hope on the horizon's rim,
For in the soul, a storm does rage,
Trapped within this endless cage.

Each breath a struggle, each step a fight,
In the darkness, there is no light,
A shadowed path, a weary tread,
In the land where hope is dead.

Yet in the depths, a flicker stirs,
A fragile spark, a whisper heard,
For even in the darkest night,
There lies a seed of distant light.

A journey long, a battle fierce,
To break the chains, the heart to pierce,
For in the end, the soul must rise,
To find the dawn in shadowed skies.

First things first, can you imagine what's about to happen?
A spark in the darkness, a dawn quietly tapping.
In the stillness of the morning, dreams begin to stir,
The world awakens, potential's soft whisper.

Beyond the horizon, the unknown waits,
A journey unfolds, opening gates.
With every step, new wonders to find,
Adventure and magic, intertwined.

Questions unanswered, mysteries to seek,
Courage found in moments so meek.
First things first, with eyes open wide,
Embrace the unfolding, let curiosity be your guide.

From the simplest breath to the grandest view,
Life’s surprises await, in hues ever new.
First things first, imagine what’s to come,
A world of possibilities, for you to become.

Second things second, as we chart our course anew,
From the echoes of beginnings, visions come into view.
With each step deliberate, we traverse the unknown,
Building on the whispers of dreams already sown.

In the dance of life, each moment builds upon the last,
A symphony of seconds, weaving future from the past.
Second things second, foundations strong we lay,
Guided by our passions, lighting up the way.

Courage in the heart, and wisdom in the mind,
Through trials and triumphs, treasures we shall find.
Second things second, with purpose we proceed,
Nurturing the seeds of hope, for every need.

In the journey of existence, no step is left behind,
Each act, each choice, a testament designed.
Second things second, as our story intertwines,
Creating a masterpiece, where every moment shines.

Third things third, as we walk this path ahead,
With hearts aligned to purpose, by inner compass led.
Step by step, the road unveils, unfolding tale untold,
Moments turn to memories, a treasure to behold.

In the quest for meaning, in the search for truth,
Every action ripples, echoes from our youth.
Third things third, with intent we make our mark,
Each choice a shining beacon, lighting up the dark.

In the symphony of life, each note finds its place,
Harmonizing stories, in a timeless space.
Third things third, building dreams with care,
Crafting our existence, here and everywhere.

Through joys and trials, through laughter and tears,
We weave our lives together, conquering our fears.
Third things third, a journey we embrace,
Writing our own story, with love and grace.

Fourth things fourth, finally the moment to arrive,
The culmination of our journey, where dreams come alive.
With every step behind us, we've grown, we've learned,
The fires of our passion forever brightly burned.

In the dance of destiny, we find our place,
With hearts unburdened, with hope we embrace.
Fourth things fourth, the pinnacle we seek,
Strengthened by the trials, resilient and unique.

With the cacophony of time, each thread interwoven,
Crafting tales of wonder, in every life that's chosen.
Fourth things fourth, as we reach this height,
A celebration of spirit, a beacon in the night.

Be still

In the hush between heartbeats,  
In the breath before words,  
There lies a whisper, soft as dawn,  
Unfolding in the quiet.

The world runs loud,  
Clamour rising like waves that break,  
But peace waits beneath -
A river, steady, unseen.

Close your eyes.  
Let the noise dissolve  
Into the distant echo of its own futility.  
Feel the silence settle,  
Not as absence,  
But as presence.

Here, in this sacred pause,  
The weight of the eternal speaks.  
Not in thunder, not in flame,  
But in a voice so gentle,  
It weaves through the fabric of your soul.

“Listen,” it murmurs,  
To the song woven in stillness.  
“Know,” it declares,  
That the quiet holds my promise.  
“Go,” it breathes,  
But carry this calm,  
This knowing,  
This piece of forever within you.

Be still -
And hear.

In the annuls of rock and roll, a thunderous sound,
The Who emerged, breaking ground.
With power chords and a rebel's cry,
They soared to fame, reaching the sky.

Pete's guitar, a windmill's spin,
Roger's voice, a lion's din.
John's bass, a thunderous beat,
Keith's drums, wild and fleet.

"Tommy" told a tale so grand,
A rock opera that took a stand.
"Who's Next" and "Quadrophenia,"
Albums that shaped rock's criteria.

Their live shows, a force of might,
Smashing guitars, a thrilling sight.
From "My Generation" to "Baba O'Riley,"
Anthems that echo, timeless and wily.

Off the stage, their antics wild,
Keith Moon, a rock 'n' roll child.
Driving cars through hotel doors,
Throwing furniture, breaking floors.

Banned from inns, their legend grew,
Moon's wild ways, the stories true.
From poolside dives to wild nights,
Their off-stage tales, rock's wild rites.

They challenged norms, they broke the mould,
In rock's great story, their tale is told.
Their impact vast, their legacy clear,
The Who's roar, we still hear.

The yin and yang of life, in you is personified,
In love and light, both soft and bright, you stride,
Embracing all that comes within, a heart so free,
Dancing to the tune of dual kin, a soul set free.

Two souls in one, a tender embrace,
The fluid dance of life's sweet grace,
Boundaries blur, the lines dissolve,
In your spectrum of love, we all evolve.

Through night and day, dark and light,
In your gentle sway, we find our flight,
The yin and yang, in life's own way,
In you, bi personified, we sway.

A world in hues of blue and pink,
Where hearts can wander and calmly think,
In your balance, we find our truth,
Yin and yang, in love's own booth.

You are a powerful reminder, rich and multifaceted,
Every person, love, and experience, intricately crafted,
In you, we see the beautiful tapestry of existence,
Embracing every colour with gentle persistence.

In the world of texting, swift and bright,
Where autocorrect wields its might,
I tried to say a simple "Yes,"
But my phone had plans, oh what a mess.

"Yo!" it typed with confidence bold,
As if my words were dipped in gold.
"Yo!" it said, to be down with the kids,
While I just stared, closing my eyelids.

My boss asked if I'd seen the file,
I meant to say "Yes," with a smile.
But autocorrect had other schemes,
And "Yo!" it sent, shattering my dreams.

"Yo, I've got it," seemed too cool,
My boss now thought I was a fool.
In meetings hence, they giggled low,
At every "Yo!" my texts would show.

My daughter inquired, "Will you come for tea?"
"Yes," I tried, "Of course, it's me!"
But "Yo," sent with a swipe,
Left her thinking I’d joined a new type.

Autocorrect, oh mischievous sprite,
Turning my "Yes" to "Yo!" each night.
Down with the kids, it had me bound,
While I just sighed, round after round.

So now I double-check each text,
Ensuring my “Yes” is truly fixed.
But once in a while, it slips, and so,
I’ve learned to live with a little “Yo.”

In the wake of new dawn, in a world so grand,
Where silicon and circuits danced hand in hand,
Rose a beacon of brilliance, in tech's vivid scheme,
The ZX Spectrum, a digital dream.

Born from the mind of Sinclair's bright flair,
A machine to empower, to educate, to dare,
With rainbow stripes and keys of rubber,
It sparked a revolution, igniting the cyber.

In living rooms and bedrooms, its presence was felt,
As young minds discovered the power it dealt,
Loading with tapes, with a screech and a whirl,
They entered new realms, as the code would unfurl.

From simple lines of BASIC, they crafted their art,
Creating worlds of wonder, from the depths of their heart,
Jet Set *****’s antics, and Manic Miner’s plight,
The Spectrum brought magic, day and night.

With colours and sounds, it lit up the screen,
A marvel of pixels, where gamers convene,
From Dizzy’s adventures to text-based quests,
The ZX Spectrum was truly the best.

In the hands of hobbyists, it sparked a new age,
Of homegrown creations, their talents engaged,
From coders to players, a community strong,
Their passion for pixels, a resonant song.

Through trials of loading, with patience and care,
They battled the glitches, with will to spare,
The Spectrum stood resilient, a titan of play,
A legend in computing, to this very day.

Though decades have passed, and tech has evolved,
The spirit of the Spectrum remains unresolved,
A testament to vision, to dreams and to skill,
The ZX Spectrum, remembered still.

for Geof, who dances at the edge of intimacy

I see you two, your rhythm, your grace,
The way your laughter fills the space.
You pass the wine, you share the bed,
You speak in glances, hearts unread.

And I, bisexual bard in bloom,
Stand just outside your velvet room.
Not knocking loud, not breaking in,
Just longing soft beneath the skin.

I’d be the third, not wedge nor thief,
But harmony, not disbelief.
A gentle pulse to match your beat,
A kiss that makes your trio complete.

I’d bring my poems, bring my flair,
My swingy things, my Pride-worn care.
I’d learn your rituals and your cues,
And write new myths in threes, not twos.

But longing’s not a binding spell,
And love won’t bloom where secrets dwell.
So I perform, I wink, I tease,
A guest star in your nightly breeze.

Still, if you ever shift the frame,
And speak my truth, and call my name,
I’ll step inside, with heart unmasked,
Not just the third, but one you asked.

In the classroom's dusty gloom,
Where dreams and lessons intertwine,
A mischievous schoolboy sits,
With a spark in his eye, so bright and fine.

His mind wanders far and wide,
Beyond the walls of the old school hall,
To lands of dragons and daring knights,
And treasures hidden beyond the thrall.

He doodles in the margins,
Of his tattered notebook page,
Imagining adventures bold,
That could fill a thousand stage.

Yet, when the teacher calls his name,
He snaps back to the present day,
With a sheepish grin, he answers quick,
And promises to stay, to learn and play.

For in the heart of every lad,
A world of wonder lies,
And though he may be mischievous,
His dreams reach for the skies.

In the quiet of the morning, as the sun begins to rise,
A man sits by the window, with memories in his eyes.
With a wistful sigh, he journeys back through time,
To the days of youth and laughter, in a life once so sublime.

Those were the days when the world seemed so vast,
A canvas of dreams, where moments never passed.
With friends by his side and adventures to chase,
They roamed through fields of wonder, leaving not a trace.

The summers were endless, with skies a brilliant blue,
Long afternoons spent dreaming, and nights of starlit view.
They'd gather 'round the campfire, with tales to share and spin,
Those were the days when magic dwelled within.

The first taste of love, so sweet and so pure,
A heart full of promise, with a bond that would endure.
They danced beneath the moonlight, with whispers soft and low,
Those were the days when love would always grow.

Through the seasons of life, in a tapestry of change,
The man recalls the moments, both familiar and strange.
The laughter and the heartache, the triumphs and the tears,
Those were the days that shaped his fleeting years.

He remembers the scent of rain on the summer breeze,
The feeling of freedom, as they climbed the tallest trees.
With a heart full of courage, they faced the world so bold,
Those were the days when dreams were made of gold.

But time has a way of drifting, like a leaf upon the stream,
The past becomes a memory, a distant, fading dream.
Yet in the quiet moments, when the world is still and bright,
He cherishes the echoes of those days, with all his might.

Now the man sits in reflection, with a smile upon his face,
For though the years have flown, they've left a gentle trace.
In the twilight of his journey, he finds solace in the past,
Knowing those were the days that were meant to last.

The thorns of life are pricking me, and it’s ****** uncomfortable,
My mind a tangled garden of roses, and the stem is a story of harsh brambles,
Winding their way around my sanity, tearing at the fabric of serenity,
But I grasp them anyhow, for the scent of dreams is worth the pain.

Each jagged edge a reminder of existence, raw and unapologetic,
Yet in the blood and grit lies beauty, fierce and unfettered,
So I dance through this thorny maze, wild, unfaltering,
For it is the struggle that shapes me, moulds my courage, my soul.

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

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

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

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

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5156835/three-things/
(a poem of presence)

I could be your echo,
soft and steady,
a voice to lean against
when your own feels tangled.
We’d sit with the mess,
name the knots,
and breathe through the “what now?”
No fixing - just listening
until the fog thins.

I could take one thing,
just one,
from your crowded shelf of “later.”
Sort the papers,
fetch the milk,
untangle the tech that won’t behave.
You rest.
I’ll be your hands for a while.

I could make you a pocket of peace:
a walk, a poem,
a playlist that hums (like your favourite socks).
No agenda, just joy.
Just the reminder
that you are allowed to feel good
for no reason at all.
And if you’d like,
I’ll hold your name in prayer,
not as a fix,
but as a quiet flame.
A breath. A whisper.
A way to say:
you are not alone.

If you had three wishes
Tell me what they would be.
A fancy car, a new guitar,
Or that money grows on trees

If I had three wishes
I tell you what they would be.
If I had three wishes
You would be all three.

Do you know how the rules go?
You cannot wish for world peace.
Or wish for love from anyone.
And with any an old friend be

You cannot wish for more wishes,
That does not bother me.
'Cos if I had three wishes,
You would be all three.

I could say "I want to fly,"
But that would get old after a while.
A million things that I could do
But they would be nothing without you.
So, I cannot think of anything....

If you had three wishes
Do you know what they would be,
Would one be saved for a rainy day?
Or for someone more in need.

If I had three wishes
I tell you what they'd be.
If I had three wishes
You would be all three!

(For Lexy)

I arrive with breath,
not bravado.
A quiet knock
that carries intention.

She opens the door,  
like dawn opens the sky,
slowly,
knowingly,
already prepared.

I step in,
not as stranger,
but as someone
who’s read the terms
and honours the offering.

The room is warm with her,
not perfume,
but presence.
A warmth that lingers
where words don’t reach.

We speak, briefly.
Not small talk,
just the shape of the exchange:
this much,
for this kind of touch,
this kind of time.

I place the money
where she’s asked me to.
No shame.
No secrecy.
Just the grace
of being clear.

She nods.
I breathe.
We begin.

Skin meets skin,
not for hunger,
but for grounding.
For the kind of holding
that reminds me
I am still here.

And when I leave,
I carry no confusion.
Only the echo
of being seen,
held,
and met
exactly as agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I walked a road of thorn and stone,
Each step a weight I claimed alone.
The sky hung low, the air was tight,
And hope was but a distant light.

I bore my grief like burnished gold,
A gleam too sharp, too cold to hold.
It sang a slow, unyielding tune,
A winter sun that mocked the noon.

Yet in the hush between my fears,
A voice broke soft as falling tears:
“Release the chain, unbind the seam,
And step inside your waiting dream.”

The path grew wide, the thorns withdrew,
The air was clear, the sky was blue.
My heart, once caged, began to sing—
A song of root, of flight, of spring.

Now every road, though steep or far,
Is lit beneath one steadfast star.
For I have learned through night’s long test,
The journey ends in gentle rest.

I stand before the glow - a prism of light and promise, a stage where shadows dissolve into spoken truth. The camera captures my heartbeat in pixelated whispers, each word a bridge, each pause a silent invitation.

Here on this channel, my sanctuary of bright ideas, I unfurl my poems like banners against the digital dusk, speaking directly into the soul of the lens, where audience and artist share a single, pulsing gaze.

The frame holds all my dreams, a mirror of aspiration, as I read verses that echo the rhythm of my being. Curiosity and courage dance at the edge of each line, illuminating hidden worlds set free by my voice.

This is more than a channel - it’s a gathering of hearts, a digital home where the magic of language transforms into a symphony of presence, resonating deep and true. With every reading, I cast a net of empathy and wonder, inviting viewers to step closer, to feel their own light.

And so I begin, microphone and lens intertwined, sharing my art directly with the observer, where each spoken poem marks a moment of shared truth, a pledge that here, in the glow of the camera, we are all the story, the voice, the enduring beat of life.