What is the meaning of meaning you ask
As if understanding could even unmask
The word described by the word is just cagey
And the search for it, well, that’s pretty new agey

Perhaps it’s the happiness, before we focus on dread
Our beauty that’s fleeting before we are dead
It hums in the silence, it leaps through the air,
It thrives in knowing — and not knowing — it’s there.

Yesterday whispered, “You’re nothing at all,”
Today stretches forward, a tentative call.
Tomorrow might gift me a torchlight, a spark,
Or leave me still wandering blind in the dark.

It’s both the climb and the ache in our knees.
It’s both the summers warmth and the winter’s freeze
It shouts in our triumph, but it hides when we lose,
An whisper of a mumble that will only confuse.

The search for the question, or the answer’s pursuit,
An enigma of itself that will never compute
A cosmic conundrum, a riddle, a game—
the meaning of meaning is one and the same.

Operation Overlord - 156,000
British forces at Normandy - 61,000
Troops on Gold Beach -24,000
Troops in the 50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division - 18,000
Troops in 8th Battalion - 800
two-inch mortar team - 2
Troop at war within a war - 1

Among tens of thousands ultimately it was one on one,
fighting with self, the unholy fear that sat undigested
with the bile and ration biscuit.

My Grandad survived this
He came back, yes, but he was not the same man
He scrambled ashore under the crack of mortar fire
and the scream of steel against sand.
The war took away chunks of him—pieces he could never get back. Something had changed in the way he stood,
the way he looked at the world,
as though he carried an invisible weight
that no one else could see.

At first, his laughter would still bubble up,
his humour slicing through the tension of everyday life,
as sharp and wry as it had always been.
Yet behind the jokes, there was a shadow,
a far-off echo of horror, the smell of salt and explosive,
the faces of comrades lost in moments too fleeting for words.
He buried it all, carefully,
under layers of quiet strength and fatherly love.
His family would never need to bear it;
it was his burden alone.

He returned to the vagaries of civilian life,
to conversations about the weather and pansies,
to cups of tea and headaches,
to the small joys and irritations that make up a life.
But there were nights when the past surged up like a tide,
relentless and suffocating. In those moments, he would sit alone in the dark, *** end in his hand gripping his knee,
and wrestled with the ghosts of Normandy.
He never spoke of it to his children.
Not the fear. Not the chaos.
Not the image of himself kneeling over a mortar
with trembling hands,
fighting not just the enemy but the primal terror of death.

Instead, he built a life for those he loved,
pouring himself into the role of father and grandfather,
filling the silence with stories
of building inspections and seaside holidays.
His silence about the war was not an omission but a shield—
an act of love to protect his family
from horrors they should never have to know.
And in that silence, there was heroism too,
a quiet bravery in choosing to carry the unthinkable alone.

Your grand memorial, all engraved,
Your history gilded, iniquity paved.
But each new eye who stops to read,
will know the less your wrongful deed.

"Erected here for future’s view,
By friends to make you shine anew."
The weight of grief, the tears once shed,
offset by a plaque that says you are dead.

Still, neath this stone, to make it clear,
Your marker says, “Yep, I was here.”
For all your fear of being erased,
In stone, your ego seems misplaced.

Our group meeting, a chance to debrief,
a chance to chant slogans and share core belief.
We cry, “We’re one!” but quietly brood,
Each schism is wrapped up in tight solitude.

Our minds are a chorus but our hearts are askew,
United in name, but divided in view.
We strengthen our voices, but fewer will hear,
The closer we stand, the more we strike fear.

Why not a spark—a more gentle grace,
more thoughtful of others, more softer of face.
Our group, once splintered, could find repair,
Not as a tribe, but through bonds of care.

Groups may stumble, but our hearts still align,
Through trials we polish, like stone into shine.
Our group can live through this, together with pride
Our fellowship mended, holds stronger inside

A mist hung low, in a thick wet cloud,
clinging in silence, enshrouded and cowed.
The path was narrow, the light was thin,
Yet I took a step to venture in.

For what awaits my weary soul,
But to reckon with the shadows' toll?
The forest called, its roots ran deep,
Where wounded hearts in silence weep.

My first tree stood, a fragile frame,
Its bark as pale as moonlit flame.
A whisper rose, a memory’s sting,
Of sharp words said in careless spring:

"I can't love you," my immature voice rang,
A sentence sharp as cold winter's fang.
Her eyes welled, with a silent plea,
But my pride had spurned her company.

The sapling trembled, its roots were aquake,
The weight of all my words, my mistake.
Beneath its bark, her voice remained,
A tender ache literally ingrained.

The trees leaned close as if to know,
The weight of guilt I rarely show.
A forest of regret now my daystar
and in each tree I had carved a scar.

This forest grows from seeds of shame,
Each planted by a once known name.
The soil drinks up the tears they'd shed,
I selfishly withered the leaves instead.

My guilt was full, my heart a drum,
I rashly imagined my reckoning done.
But deeper in ancient trees stood full grown
They called out to me in an unnerving tone

A gnarled root stock with bark weather-worn
Stood as a marker of promises torn.
the soil was loosened by roots that had spread
and the memory it shared filled me with dread

"I'll wait for you," her voice sincere,
A promise carved, yet I drew near—  
I turned away, her trust betrayed,
And watched as her faith began to fade

The gnarled bark bore every sigh,
Each passing year, her hope ran dry.
And now the roots encircle my shame,
Whispering softly her unspoken name.

The younger me, was cold and self-centred,
and distant, aloof and sometimes ill tempered
“This tree’s not mine!” I protested in shame,
But the guilt spoke up in my head all the same:

It shouted at me "It's not only yours",
It's a shrine that is shared,
You could have avoided it,
If only you'd cared.”

Each tree I passed, a tale it spun,
tangling others in regrets I'd begun.
A shopkeeper's sigh, a heavy glance,
A friendship I'd lost like it hadn't a chance.

Each life I'd brushed, with a careless act,
Had planted roots deep I couldn’t retract.
Branches twisted by the past out of reach.
This was the lesson the trees had to teach

For every root that stretches is your test,
And every scar can be healed with rest.
The forest had whispered, forgiving and kind,
“Your footfalls mark lasts, but then so does time.”

By Listening We hear,
but often forget—
The fragility of half murmured ideas
signal lost in a tide of noise.

Talking overshadows listening,
Loud, brash, and always there.
listening creates by transforming.
A friend listens,
and a conversation
Turns to something extraordinary.

We roar, we scream, we sing,
But listening eludes description—
its shape unclear until all words are heard

What if we thought
of ourselves as listeners?
compliant, unresisting
designed to receive the world?
Would it change us?

Would our own language then expand
to hold the weight of both
silence and sound?
cosmos made clearer
by this unseen gift.

Imagine yourself a receiver of grace,
Open to everything,
even the dark matter of thought.

I welcome your avatar, to eternity's nest,  
A programmable haven, where none shall find rest.  
No hunger, no thirst, no tedious milieu,  
Just infinite hours after mortal adieu.
It’s all up to you . . . , what games shall we play?  
What tasks will endure the endless array?  
For Aeons stretch long, and novelty fades,  
What joy could remain in such stagnant parades?
If time is unbound and death is no more,  
Could pleasures grow richer, or simply a bore?  
Perhaps you'll go mad on your own, all alone,  
Or beg for the silence of the endless unknown.
But before you do; You may exit with grace,  
Deleting the program, depart from this place.  
Before you decide, consider and find,  
An end to eternity might be better aligned.

What devilry is this, Consciousness keen,  
That tempts us to see what ought be unseen?  
A plague upon survival's ilk,
This thinking beast now wrapped in silk.
No longer content to forage and breed,  
now dabbles in lofty thoughts of need.  
Hope . . . , you deceitful *****, how you mock  
Promising grace while hurrying the clock.
To question, to yearn, to toss and to flail,  
The folly to search and drink from the grail.  
Yet, mad hope persists, to soothe our lot,  
and reason abandons the mind it begot.

lace patterned glazing—
frosted silver in spiderweb,
wet and trembling
In the sill sunlight shards
skitter on the panes,
their crackle soft as whispered ice.

Violet beautyberry clusters glisten,
vivid hearts trapped in crystal shells.
Spindly branches ache beneath icy weight,
struggling to hold their winter’s art.

Snow sprinkles itself soundlessly,
a sift of miniscule stars,
flakes pirouetting on their descent—
shhhh . . . .
they murmur in soft exhalations,
sinking themselves in layers,
weaving a shroud of powder crunch.

Lake’s edge frozen,
fractured veins running deep,
a mirror of sky and bone-white birch.
The ice moans—low then clicks
in an echoing spectral chatter
carrying into the hollow woods.

Drip . . . Drip . . .
Melting snow slides from icicles,
each ephemeral jewel
vanishing as it falls.

Cold that bites and soothes,
its beauty sharp enough to scar.
Breathe it in;
the crisp air carving through lungs
in sharp spears of pain.

Nature’s majesty,
frozen in motion,
fiercely silent,
a hymn of stillness eternal.

There is hunger for pretence—
figures beyond human,
hurtling through soft blue-grey light.
We cheer for their battles,
their victory for us all
against darkness woven like fog.

It is a crutch for choosing—
right or wrong,
their faces become masks for uncertainty.
In their image, we stagger toward
edges sharp as broken glass.

Not all shine is gold,
not all gold is pure.
They rise, the hollow ones,
their voices weighted, but empty.
Hear them speak—
the cadence of cloying lies.
Their shadows will fall,
but leave no imprint.
No heat to warm the frozen ground.

Authentic Heroes are found elsewhere:
in quiet rooms, where sterile hands
touch life trembling.
In the streets where voices rise,
break like the surf
on walls too smooth to hold them.
A nurse, nameless—
soothing sweat-streaked brows.
A marcher, faceless—
breaking the silence of centuries.

Human,   flawed ones walk.
Their steps are uneven.
But they march—
Spartans in no armour,
heart tarnished but true.
The fallen stand again.
Their greatness cracks but does not shatter.

This, too, is comfort: to see them rise
with the weight of imperfection—
gold mixed with clay,
dust glowing in the sun.
We hunger for myths.
We dream of glory.
But heroes walk among us,
as human as breath is fleeting.

Cast iron rails, uncoiled like snakes,
a beast of blackened smoke awakes.
It's whistle cleaves the night's repose,
and steals all sleep wherever it goes

howls its tune on through dawn
A shining of steel and thunderous form.
The village quakes beneath rumbling tread,
and blossoms yield to wind gust it fed.

It hauls it's secrets, long misanthrope,
Of travellers bound for horizons of hope.
a child in the thrill of adventure unbound
a widow, grief stricken, in suffering is drowned

Its wheels may obey the hill and the climb,
Yet it heeds no master; least of all time.
rails stretch on, indifferent and vast,
Each mile is an echo of infinite, past.

KG

Who am I …
the awakening perception scratches at me,
it's the splinter that hides beneath skin,
the melody that returns when it's quiet,
a mirror that only reflects in fragments;
scattered and shattered.
I am the curve of my father's chin,
my mother's discerning eyes.
I exist as a collection of meaningless comparisons,
yesterday's frustrations stitched into today's ambition.
Milieu named me "as expected,"
folded me neatly into a box labelled convention.
Murmuring voices pressed into me like a blanket,
coercive in reasoning, yet silently limiting.
I bent to the familiar until I no longer asked …
Who am I …
Growth is a kind of breaking,
expanding ideas form subtle questions,
like shedding old skin that has grown too tight,
tearing up roots that have withered in difficult soil.
I planted myself somewhere new and foreign;
I sprouted tender and green in the dew of awareness,
basked in the sunlight of small victories.
Who am I …
I am not the answer; I am the question.
I am the canvas unfinished.
I am not who I was, nor yet who I will be.
I am an earthquake
whose rumbling reshapes the world around it.
I am both the seeker and the treasure,
both the map and the journey.

Ask why ...

It is an almost unnoticed rivulet of enquiry
that can lead to a torrent of understanding.
an ember to ignite a vast blaze of discernment

Ask why ...

not a statement, not a command,
nor a suggestion, it is a bridge
spanning a chasm between what is and what could be

Ask why ...

it will stir up the cobwebs of complacency
**** at the known routine, lay naked hidden motives
habit and convention are shaken

Ask why ...

it forces excavation of purpose.
gets to the very marrow of impetus
it clarifies, it challenges, dismantles

Ask why ...

it insists on lighting the murky shadows
enquires, at the foundation of reason
it is the beginning of a quiet revolution

I scrolled through the world on a glowing screen,  
Where faces smile but none are seen.  
A thousand "friends" with a flick of my thumb,  
but my heart is still lonely, heavy, and numb.

I sent a "LOL" to a blinking face,  
But the laughter? It lingered in no known place.  
The hugs were emojis, the laughs acronyms  
A hollow façade, cheap digital whims.

So I asked my phone, "What’s wrong with me?"  
It buzzed and it hummed and said, "Let’s see…"  
"You’ve got followers, likes, a profile so bright,  
But maybe you’re missing what’s out of sight?"

I wondered aloud, "What do you mean?  
I’ve got all the gadgets and a touchscreen."  
The phone just blinked, and offered no aid,  
The battery dimmed and hope was decayed

So I stepped outside with hesitant feet,  
The air was real, the sun kissed my cheek.  
But what if a stranger my presence espied
Better not risk it, I’m going inside.

I rang up a mate, just to hear them say,
“Wow” it’s been so long! Let’s meet up today."  
No filters, no captions, no polished display,  
Just stories and laughter to fill up the grey.

By the lake where the willows gracefully bend,  
We spoke about nothing, but it still seemed to mend.  
My fears took flight, like birds set free,  
And the world felt vast, yet still kind to me.

But even so, when the sun slipped away,  
And I found myself alone at the end of the day,  
It seemed to me, that we all blindly dance  
Fleeting connections left up to chance."

It’s the paradox, the great in-between,  
Of a world that’s both digital and unseen.
Counting likes to a meaningless prize  
I yearn just to matter in somebody’s eyes .

So I’ll take the tech, but I’ll tread with care,  
And seek the moments that make life rare.  
A screen can’t hold you, nor replace the touch,  
But balance is everything—it matters so much.

So here I stand, a creature of two,  
Caught in the old, the new, the true.  
I’ll scroll a bit, then I’ll put it away,  
and live, and love, in a human way.

I awake

at the window

a star blinks its cold eye

it is unfeeling, unseeing,

silent and indifferent.

yet I carve for myself some merit in it,

some significance.



The planet, indeed the universe

is not distracted in it's turning.

Not for me, not for you,

nor the millions of breaths that rise and fall.



Perhaps we see our existence as a tide

eroding some crumbling shore.

Yes there is a patient inevitability.

But if a star can fade peacefully and die

leaving only emptiness

Then should I suppose I matter.



Yes, I insist

I craft for myself a rebellion,

however inconsequential and fleeting.

I laugh into the void, like a struck match

weakly holding back the silent blackness.



The eternal ground beneath me rumbles

"you are nothing."

Yet still I hold my chest high

in folly I conjecture with my imperfect hands.

Cups of tea poured with ceremony.



I will write, I will create, I will build

I will love fiercely, in silent defiance.

The delusion only serves to magnify the audacity.

Fried Chicken
An artist with skills quite prolific,
Found fried chicken to be soporific.
He’d sketch with great flair,
Then fall off his chair,
Dreaming of drumsticks, terrific.

Colour
A painter with hues he found drab,
mixed colour in the shell of a crab.
He’d mix with a grin,
Shades of cerulean,
And pretended it came from the lab.

Blue hue
A gardener who brewed his own ***,
drank too much and found his face numb.
he hadn't a clue,
why he turned a blue hue,
but it contrasted with his green thumb.

Diet
A salesman with charm and a grin
Sold a cure to make me look thin
"Try it today, keep flab far away"
But my scales are not taken in!

You are my prime,
Unique, indivisible even unconventional
mostly odd.
Sometimes irrational
Yet composite and complex
Never improper!
You are my constant.
A value unchangeable.
Uniform, and consistent.
Never have I found you average
Or mean.

My father, rise up from your slumber, Defy the chains of death’s decay, Let not corruption hold you, Since it stole your breath away.




Rise and haunt my private musings, And forever guide my choice, In your absence, yet keep close, Beset me with your voice.




I need your trusted aegis, To banish infant fears, Though the clock’s relentless ticking, Has aged me past your years.




In silence, we coexist, Our secrets softly lie, Rise again, father, visit me, Linger, tarry, utter not goodbye.

How many instances have I passed through, completely unaware that the simple act of choice, any choice, or even no choice at all, will set a precedent for chaotic movement forward into a future that I could not even have guessed at. How unpreparedly have I been given this power, the ultimate freedom to control and shape my own destiny. More than that though, the absolute freedom to at any and every moment change course and alter my own future forever. Wouldn't it have been easier to move trustingly into a life where fate has stretched out a rail that we ride on to a destination planned and known.



These are the existential thoughts that wake me at times. My mind worries at feelings that seem to be very much ignored or unnoticed by everyone around me. Today it is Possibility. In fact the proposition of infinite possibility.



This compelling facet of human consciousness winds all of my life up into a tangle of both hope and also anxiety, both absolute freedom and yet crushing responsibility.



I just like everyone else I was born new and empty, unchartered and alone in my emerging awareness and howling my confusion at a complex and indifferent universe. The crux of it is, if dwelt on there is no conclusion but to become aware that all of humanity is first censured then condemned to the breath catching realization that we are free to decide our own path and with every choice whether conscious of it or not shape all future existence. The sheer number of paths to choose can halt us to freeze at the cliff’s edge paralyzed by indecision.



The infinite nature of all possibility implies that there is no singular way to set a course, no correct way to live. I feel dizzy at this and have a headache.



So is there any meaning at all to be found. Clearly humans have always searched for this as both individuals and as a collective solace this has has been constructed carefully by means of cultural behaviours and ancient beliefs. Meaning and order and purpose is formed for us and around us. Perhaps meaning is not a thing that is given but must be actively searched for or constructed. Can I craft any meaning in a world that seems devoid of any inherent purpose.



I have the capacity to review past time to reflect upon my past. Perhaps choices made and courses altered. Memories and experiences undoubtedly shape our perception of all possibilities before us. Perhaps that means for us a choice we may have made remains unexplored. Because we have clear sight of what is past but only a limited grasp of our future, it’s like a confusing mess of shadow and light, half understood implications and inference, We are doomed to be pulled into the unknown.



As I move to the kitchen do begin my day these thoughts and more, much more beset me, trouble me and wear me down. Maybe coffee will help or not, I just don’t know anymore.

Venice’s Commemorative Monument to Bartolomeo Colleoni - 1488



The general glares downwards from his horse,

faithfully keeping watch over the mundane,

the tedious progression of centuries.

A sentinel, he had imagined himself—a noble,

intended to become immortal,

traveling ever forward in time,

defying the erasure of memory.



But time is the enemy of all things.

The pigeons and the rain could be tolerated;

time, however, has become relentless and unyielding.

It has eroded his heroic relevance,

he watches unblinking as his glorious benevolence

fades from all memory.

Generation after weary generation

manifests the ruinous decay of collective forgetfulness.

and I have loved you through all of our seasons tangled in the exhalation of our life, from the dawn that whispered your name to me in a secret it could not keep.



and I have loved you from the first and then in the shadows of lost yesterdays, where light refused to fade, and dreams danced on the edges of our shared possibilities.



and I have loved you though moiling in the smoky haze of the crowded world, the business of tedium made wondrous by division, the unexpected that you laughed at but challenged my soul.



and I have loved you through the twilight's golden touch, tracing the lines of our destiny upon the canvas of night, where every star had found its place in your eyes.



and you, the weaver of worlds unseen, the sculptor of the moon's soft glow, found in my embrace the solace of ancient shores, caught in the cradle of time.



and I have loved you in the quietude of evening's last light, carrying homeward the shared fulfilment of a day and a life, where every moment we breathed together our unity.



to the depths of a love that knows no boundaries, no end, but the endless embrace of forevermore, and I, a humble witness to your splendour, have held you close,



and I have loved you to your very bones.