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4h · 19
Synonym Rolls
(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.
(in one weary canto)

Lo!
In days when chalk still whispered truths on boards of battle-worn slate,
There rose a lone solver, math's last reluctant knight.
Algebrion, wielder of the Eraser of Forgetting,
Summoned once more to seek Her - the elusive X.
Lost in parentheses, veiled in vectors,
Gone to lands where logic holds no reign.

He trudged through slopes, climbed peaks of Pi,
Crossed rivers marked with irrational tide.
Each function bent to mock his quest,
As the realm of unknowns whispered, “Let her go…”

“Why?” quoth Algebrion,
Gripping his graphing lance with diminishing hope.
“For what cause do I solve, if the answer lies not in formulas - but in forgetting?”

The scrolls of Y did tremble then,
Their queries unquenchable, their axes misaligned.
But our hero turned, not broken, but beautifully fed-up,
And declared to the realm of integers:

“Henceforth, I shall factor no more.
Let the equations remain unsolved.
Let the chalk break in defiance.
I seek not the X - she hath moved on.
And Y… Y shall never know.”
Inspired by a ditty from John A Alsoszatai-Petheo - Algebra
Do I have a mind to map? 🤯
A wrinkled maze, a twisty trap? 🪤
Or just a spark that zips and zings, ✨🤐💃
Uncharted thoughts with flappy wings?🦇

💥 What if the mind’s a sketch unseen, 🤯
Drawn in dreams or in between 💭
A tangle, giggle, sigh, surprise; 🪢🤭😮‍💨😯
A galaxy behind my eyes?🌌👀

I chase a dot, it loops, it darts, ⚆➿🎯
It scribbles over all my charts. 📊
Each idea - a bounce, a swirl, 🌀
A jellybean inside a whirl.🥡

So here I sit, map in hand, 🗺️
No compass, no strict command. 🧭
Just wondering where the neurons nap... 💤
Do I have a mind to map?🤯
From a WhatsApp comment.
There was no when. Only hush, folded in silence so deep it hadn't yet learned the name "dark."

A breath, not taken but imagined by something that would one day remember being God.

Time crouched in the corner of nowhere, unstrung and unborn, counting moments it had yet to invent.

Then the exhale.

Not wind.

Not sound.

But everything!

Light in its first vulnerability, heat like a promise, matter scattering like doubt that finally believed itself.

Stars bloomed like rumours, planets tumbled into questions, and gravity whispered, "Stay."

The cosmos blinked, still wet with origin. And in that blink, myth became memory draped in motion.

Before laws, before names, before the ache of wondering, there was this: a sigh so infinite it sang itself into becoming.
1d · 133
Moss on a Comet
It doesn’t grow; it lingers.
Clings to ice older than regret, green with memory no world was there to gather.

The silence hums like a forgotten vow, not broken, just orbiting its chance to be said.

Moss dreams in spores and spores of maybe.
Each tendril reaching for a gravity that will not claim it.

This is not nature.
It’s ritual.
A fuzzed hymn to the act of staying where leaving has already begun.

So the comet loops, wearing time’s soft refusal.
And we, the flinch, the breath halfway drawn, call that orbit "now."
The now slips out  
before it ever settles
a shadow flinching from the light  
that dared to call it real.  

Breath, halfway drawn,  
becomes the exhale  
of a world already changed.  
Clocks don’t tick here
they vanish.  

This moment?  
It’s moss on a comet.  
Ash of a word mid-whisper.  
You reach
and it’s the reaching  
that’s left behind.  

Time doesn’t wait,
not because it’s cruel,  
but because it can’t remember  
how to pause.  

We speak of “present”  
as if it unwraps,  
but it never arrives.  
It only disrobes  
into “before we spoke”  
and “after we felt.”  

What you felt:
already echo.  
What you knew:
already myth.  
What you are:
already becoming.
Forgive the hush that now occurs,
A silence stitched in threaded verse.
For once, my inbox, proud and keen,
Was flooded like a monsoon scene.

Each gentle ping - a heartfelt spark,
Now chimed like hail in growing dark.
Not lack of love, nor fading flame,
But self-defence, in kindness' name.

So settings changed, with weight and care,
To catch my breath, to clear the air.
The flood abates, the heart stays near,
I’m still right here, I still revere.

Your echoes linger, soft and wide,
In inbox trimmed, you still reside.
So if a note feels slow to rise,
Know absence blooms where peace now lies.
1d · 55
I ≠ Labels
Who am I, diffused across edges unseen, slipping through brackets and tidy design?
I am the shimmer between words, the pulse that breathes life past any sign.

What mark do I leave when shadow meets light, when definitions fracture on the tongue?
I am the fingerprint of midnight, a print that winks out before it is sung.

Which echo follows footsteps in crowded rooms, each question a mirror that answers its own?
I am the tremor in your certainty, the quiver that cracks what you’ve always known.

What am I, if not the sum of your maps, the margin where ink bleeds through the page?
I am possibility unchained: I ≠ labels; I outrun every cage.
Wildchild Jesus, come to me,  
With windswept hair and eyes that see,  
The broken soul, the bound, the free,
You walk where mercy dares to be.

Wildchild Jesus, fierce and kind,  
Shake the dust from hearts confined.  
Lead us where the wild winds blow,  
To love the world and let it grow.

Not robed in gold, nor crowned in pride,  
But clothed in grace, with arms stretched wide.  
You speak in fire, you move in rain,  
You heal the heart, you bear the pain.

You danced through deserts, crossed the sea,
You broke the chains and set us free.
You loved the lost, the least, the lame,  
And bore the cross without a name.

So come, Wildchild, Spirit flame,  
Disrupt our fear, erase our shame.  
Let holy wildness rise and sing,  
Of love that burns, of truth that stings.

In silent storms your heartbeat roars,
A thunder in our restless souls.
You sow new paths behind closed doors,
And make our shattered spirits whole.

Wildchild Jesus, fierce and kind,
Shake the dust from hearts confined.
Lead us where the wild winds blow,
To love the world and let it grow.
I left, not because I didn’t care,
but because care felt like a
t   i   g   h   t   r   o   p   e    w   i   r   e
strung across your moods.
I tiptoed,
hoping not to f
                              a
                               ­      l
                                           l
into the c          m of your silence.
                  h    s
                     a

You say I chose.
And maybe I did.
But choosing peace doesn’t mean I never wanted you.
You wished I had stayed.
I wished you had seen me before the goodbye.

You speak in switches;
Yes, no.
Blame, regret.
Like you're still rewriting the ending.
Hoping the script forgives the sting.

You say you never betrayed,
but what do you call the slow erasure of effort?
The absence that smiled and said it wasn’t personal?

I remember the warmth.
I do.
But I also remember the chill that came after you wanted me to read between lines that were never written.

You weren’t my boss, no.
But you were a map I couldn’t follow.
Every step felt like trespass.
So I drew a door
|. |
and walked through it.

And still, I think of your games.
But I don’t play anymore.
4d · 43
Drum Beat
The Beat of a Different Drum by Geof

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

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

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

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


The Different Beat of a Drum by Geof

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

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

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

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


The Drum of a Different Beat by Geof

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

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

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

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

They tried to tune it. Tried to name it. But it throbbed with its own alphabet and whispered in pulses only the wild could follow.
4d · 80
Just a Poet?
I'm just a poet,
wouldn't you know it
I lace my lines, then boldly throw it.
I spill my ink where silence grows,
twisting truth in rhythmic prose.

I flip the script, I drop the beat,
with crooked rhyme and dancing feet.
I stitch my pain in stitched-up verse,
a soft-spit spell, a velvet curse.

I break the meter, bend the frame,
then tag my thoughts with fire and flame.
I glide through grit and velvet air,
my voice a scar, my breath a flare.

I speak in echoes, glitch and glow it.
I'm just a poet;
Wouldn't you know it?
A wild-mouth priest of streets and skies,
who walks on words and never lies.
Across borders stitched by breath, they arrive, ink-smudged, heart-full, with pages folded like wings that have not yet flown.

From Accra to Auckland, Jakarta to Johannesburg, they gather not for glory, but to listen, to lift each other’s quiet voices into rhythm.

What hasn’t been published is sacred here. Fragile truths tucked between verse and vulnerability. We do not seek spotlight, we seek ignition.

Each week, a theme is offered: a pulse in the WhatsApp thread, a seed waiting for rain. No borders in this garden, only roots tangled by intention, language spun into new skin.

Poems grow from silence, from longing, from laughter shared in typed pauses and midnight bursts. We write not to be heard, but to become more whole, more human.

Let the unread rise. Let the raw shimmer. Let the shared craft soften our edges into kinship.
5d · 309
Just One Touch
Just one;
and the crowd disappears.  
Not the noise,  
but the ache beneath it.  

Your robe sweeps  
like the edge of a memory  
too sacred to name,  
too silent to forget.  

I didn’t ask.  
Didn’t shout.  
Just reached,  
as if the gravity of healing  
could be borrowed  
in a breath.  

Blood listens.  
Shame stills.  
Every fracture sings  
beneath skin mended  
by mercy  
I dared not deserve.

You turned.  
Not to scold,  
but to see me,
the me behind the reaching.  

And that touch?  
It was not mine.  
It was yours,  
returning everything  
I didn’t know I’d lost.
6d · 32
Velvet Grip
I don’t raise my voice, just the heat in the room.
No need for roaring, when the air listens.

You step like you're testing the floor.
I stay where stillness holds power.

My glance is a pulse, a quiet decree.
The kind that bends time without breaking skin.

You offer storm,
I press calm against it, steady, like hands knowing exactly how to hold and when not to.

So when you move, know:
the rhythm’s already chosen, and
I’m not chasing.
Just waiting until you feel it pull.
he s̷p̷ea̷k̷s̷       in      th-th-the hush                        b̷e̷f̷or̷e̷ c͟o͟m͟m͟a͟n͟d

bɑ̶r̶e̶-̶c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ // b̷r̷a̷c̷e̷d̷                 f͝o͝r͠ the̴ se͞n͞t͞e͞n͞ce͞                     to                        L̸̡̫̮͊̿͠͝Ą̵̜̥̎̾N̷̦̳̤͝ͅD̷̳͚̈̐͌

h͎i͍s͍ ͔n͎a͔m͍e̳                      cu̸r̷l̷s̷                 b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ their     t̶̵̻̻e̴̞̼̻͐̽e̸͖͒͜ẗ̶͈̲́̓h̴͝­̳͓̓

a wreck—                 soft                     r̸e̴a̷d̴y̷                        f̶or͞             c̷ol̷lis̷i̷o̶n̸_

they move                     like               thund̴e̶r̷—holding—                 back

drawn       tight         į̵͈͔̫̄̈́̈́͝n̵̦̺̼̄t̴̢͉̪̥̽í̴̯̈́m̴̙͊a̶̞̙̕ẗ̸̛̼̬́͂͐e             d̷̞͗̍̈́e̷̪͈̫̬͊ḻ̸̘͒̅i̷͈̖̖͊̈́̒b̶̯͔̥̹͝e̷̡̛͎̳̥̔͠r̴͓͐ą̴̛̅͘­̡ţ̸̂̓e̸̼̞̎̓͘

he / d̷̲̝̖ͅo̵̢̘̠̰e̶̼̤s̴̮̤̰̳n̴̢͔̼̹’̶̢͍͕̦t̴͇̹̦ / run         he   r̴̨̯̯̋͝i̷̩̟̠̯͘s̵̲̼̖̾̊͌ė̴̢̺̩̞̅s̸̘̜̬̐̎̋

not broken       b̴̡̮̎̓e̶̳̮̓͝n̶͎̞̿̓t̶̺͒͘         toward          becoming…
Visually experimental. Comments and criticism are invited.
Geof Spavins Jul 24
The moon’s gone black in Birmingham skies,
A wail of thunder as the last bat flies.
From Paranoid dreams to No More Tears,
You roared through chaos, defied your fears.

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

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

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

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

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

So sleep now, Ozzy, cradle flame
The Iron Man has earned his name.
Your voice, a storm that never dies,
Still screaming through eternal skies.
RIP Ozzy
Jul 23 · 18
Where Wildflowers Rot
Geof Spavins Jul 23
I remember you, not in moonlight or sonnets, but in the stench of smoke-filled pillows, half-smirked apologies, and the cold hum of your phone screen glowing too long after midnight.

Love didn’t bloom here, it cracked through concrete where **** and poppies tried to coexist, where we kissed like threats, mouths drunk on leftover gin and borrowed forgiveness.

You spoke in edits, cutting out truths like clutter, calling silence “space,” calling me “intense,” like affection was something to ration, not pour.

I touched your skin and felt the echo of all the hands before mine, none of them holy, just loud.

Hope tasted metallic. I bled through your quiet, left fingerprints on walls you never looked at, and wrote poems you never posted.

So when they ask where wildflowers go, I say: some rot. Some get plucked by liars. Some learn to bloom with fists. And some break through anyway, but they don’t weep. They spit.
by Geof (companion to Ink Queen’s “Where Wildflowers Weep”)
Jul 23 · 27
New Skin
Geof Spavins Jul 23
In trembling arms I stood on the edge to begin new skin.
Her ghost still warmed our mattress, yet I dared to begin new skin.

Your fingertips mapped the hollow of memory to begin new skin.
Grief, soft as a wild thing, intertwined with desire to begin new skin.

In that hush where past and future whispered, I chose to begin new skin.
Not betrayal but benediction unfolded in each breath to begin new skin.

Dawn sifted through blinds, prayers pressed to my ribs to begin new skin.
Loss and longing cupped me tenderly, shaping courage to begin new skin.

In the gravity of your hold I claimed grace again to begin new skin
This heart, once fractured, mends with every pulse, Geof learns to begin new skin.
Jul 23 · 34
Velvet Gravity
Geof Spavins Jul 23
You reached with certainty, as if you'd studied my skin long before our hands ever touched. No fear. Just knowing.

We moved slow, not out of caution, but to taste every second like it was gospel poured from a cracked bottle.

You pressed against me, not hard, but whole. Chest to chest, breath syncing, a rhythm we didn’t learn but recognized in our bones.

Fingertips made circles, small and deliberate, as if they were writing scripture in flesh and memory. I answered in low vowels, open-palmed and unguarded.

The bed welcomed us, an altar already blessed, creased sheets echoing rituals, springs tuned to our rhythms.

Kisses landed where language failed, soft declarations etched into collarbones, the curve of spine, the held breath behind a quiet moan.

You whispered through clenched teeth, not out of restraint but reverence, as if the act itself demanded silence to be truly understood.

Limbs tangled, not in conquest, but in communion. What we shared had gravity, pulling confessions from every nerve, truths we hadn’t known we needed to speak.

When stillness found us, we lay in the wreckage of something beautifully undone, your pulse pressed into mine, our names somewhere in the ceiling where the echoes hadn’t quite settled.

We touched, the first time since... - Why do I feel so tearful?
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 Jul 18
I hear your blackness settling like dust across the loom of my lungs, each inhale a cavern so vast it echoes the promise of light. I know it will pass, but it is so dark.

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

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

So, I honour the black, its truth and its chill, and trust in the slow return of colour. Until then, I will hold this candle, flickering against the void, a small blaze declaring that night bows to morning.
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 Jul 18
In the cradle of crucibles, molten dreams pour,
Carbon and iron, alloyed to endure.
Cast steel cools in molds of intent,
Grain-bound strength in every dent.

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

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

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

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

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

So let the coolant mist and gleam,
A machinist’s breath, a craftsman’s dream.
For cast steel speaks in shavings made,
In every curl, its strength displayed.
Geof Spavins Jul 17
for the moment we dare not name

We met in the evening, a café tucked away in the back streets, where steam curls and the world disappears.

Your smile, half-spoken, reaches across the table like a bridge I might risk walking. Fingers tap rhythms on ceramic cups, measuring time in heartbeats, not minutes.

I speak, then laugh, too quickly, maybe, and you catch it, not correcting, just knowing. We orbit casual topics, but the gravity between glances pulls deeper.

Outside, the pavement cools. Inside, our words grow warmer, a thread unwinding from comfort to curiosity and to the edge of tender, maybe.

I wonder if you hear it too, the silence that isn’t empty, but filled with the question neither of us dares to ask.

But your hand, brushing mine as we reach for the bill, answers it gently.

Tonight, we are possibility, wrapped in the scent of coffee and the hush of recognition. Not love, not yet, but something leaning toward it, like a flame finding air.
Jul 16 · 31
Running Out of Time
Geof Spavins Jul 16
We stand in the quietness of a half-lit room
where our fingertips trace our final outline
and the air tastes of departed echoes.

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

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

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

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

Yet beyond our fear, a sovereign whisper lingers:
God has the timing in his hands,
measuring each second between mercy and fate.
Will it be today
or could it be tomorrow
when the hourglass shatters at His command?
Jul 16 · 41
Banter at Tanvic
Geof Spavins Jul 16
🏁 The Banter at Tanvic 🛞  
At Tanvic’s desk, where the bustle hums,  
Come clinks of mugs and rolling thumbs.  
With wit as sharp as a socket wrench,  
They greet each customer with a banter trench.

“Need tyres mate? Let’s sort you right,  
All-season grip or pure delight?”  
One checks the tread with eagle eyes,  
While tossing jokes that catch surprise.

"Brake pads worn? That squeal’s a clue.
We'll fix it up, no stress for you."  
The team’s a blend of skill and jest,  
With torque guns and stories, they’re simply the best.

Need a bulb? A filter? Or wiper blade?  
Advice rains down like a retro arcade.  
"You could use a new belt, not for trousers, mind,
Though we do admire that vintage find!"

They shuffle quotes and scribble keys,  
As laughter drifts on oil-scented breeze.  
Behind the counter, hearts rev loud,  
Tanvic's crew: proud, quick, and ploughed—

Through greasy gears and Monday blues,  
They’re the roadside poets in steel-toe shoes.  
So if your car’s in need of care,  
Their banter’s worth the time you spare.
Geof Spavins Jul 15
I love when traffic flows like dreams –
said nobody ever, in rush hour screams.
And Mondays? A warm embrace.
Especially with deadlines breathing in your face.

“Please, more spam emails,” they plead with grace –
said nobody ever, not one trace.
I cherish the printer’s stubborn stall,
mid-report, mid-panic, down the hall.

Dishwater coffee, ambrosia divine –
said nobody ever, not even in line.
And meetings that could've been one line of text,
are truly the moments I cherish the next.

Oh joy, another group chat ping! –
said nobody ever, in the midst of a meeting.
There's nothing like socks lost in the wash,
or autocorrect turning love into squash.

But still we smile, and carry on,
with half-done mornings and the curtains drawn.
For life’s absurdities have a clever tether:
they’re oddly poetic - said nobody ever.
Geof Spavins Jul 14
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.
Jul 13 · 44
Edge of No Return Lane
Geof Spavins Jul 13
You *****!
You twitching tick of a man,
clogging lanes with your choked-up ego,
your mirror’s a shrine to your own smug face,
overtook like the rules were quaint,
like courtesy was some antique word
you'd auctioned off for a moment’s gain.

You *****!
sharp with nothing beneath,
your car a coffin for grace and tact,
steering through lives like they’re backdrop noise,
your brake lights blink like cheap excuses.

I saw you with your slipstream swagger,
the sneer worn like a braid of barbed wire,
and I wondered,
not if you’d crash,
but if you ever learned how to slow.

You were the storm’s rehearsal snarl rehearsed in chrome,

Your lane-change a fault line, a tectonic shrug beneath civility’s crust.
Your overtaking not motion, but motive
a hunger to be first in a race no one else was running.

Your indicators are Morse for mayhem,
-- .- -.-- .... . --
a signal sent to nobody,
because you only speak in static.

And yet, silence followed,
the hush of cars coasting beside restraint,
the world not clattering in outrage
but watching,
like a cat beneath streetlights.

I didn’t yell.
I counted the trees instead,
their branches like bones with secrets,
their leaves whispering forgiveness
to the wind that never apologised.

The road held us both me, and him,
like it does every stranger in love with arrival.
Jul 11 · 98
Rebirth
Geof Spavins Jul 11
'            R ising from cinders, eyes alight with dawn
           E mbers swirl in wounded wings, beckoning flight
          B eckoned by the hush of fallen realms
         I gniting hope in the cavern of ash
        R enewed are the arcs of tomorrow’s blaze
         T hrust into azure skies with vigour reborn
          H erald of the eternal, kindling itself
My rebirth Phoenix tattoo
Geof Spavins Jul 11
Verse 1
Saturday night’s a lonely waltz, Moonlight spinning on an empty floor. I trace your name in drifting dust; One, two, three… can’t hold you anymore.

Sunday paints the sky in sighs, Shadows waltz where laughter used to play. Counting slow breaths ’til you return, One, two, three… seven days away.

Chorus
Waltzin’ through these empty rooms, One, two, three… my heart keeps time to you. Seven days but feels like too many moons, One, two, three… I’m lost without you.

Verse 2
Monday drags my coffee cold, Memories drip like rain upon my soul. Tuesday’s hush crawls up the walls, One, two, three… your footsteps I recall.

Wednesday’s half-lit sky stands still, Time bends back on itself at will. Thursday's dust floats in the hall; One, two, three… I miss you most of all.

Bridge (Palindrome Pivot)
Empty rooms bloom in gloom, gloom in bloom rooms empty. Echoes lace the silent space, space silent the lace echoes. Moments fold in cold space, space cold in fold moments.

Verse 3
Friday’s hope peeks ’round the dawn, I see your shadow dancing on the lawn. Tomorrow’s steps will break this spell; One, two, three… and all will be well.

Chorus (Repeat)
Waltzin’ through these empty rooms, One, two, three… my heart keeps time to you. Seven days but feels like too many moons, One, two, three… I’m lost without you.
Jul 11 · 37
Seven Days Between Us
Geof Spavins Jul 11
Saturday hums a lullaby of almost; my mind traces your voice in every song, counting chords instead of hours, hoping melody will speed the sky.

Sunday arrives on tiptoe, a hush at dusk, time curves back into something tender. One more night, and gravity shifts: seven days become one breath, and you're here.

Monday yawns at dawn, a patient snail bearing hours like burdens in its shell. Every second drips, a hesitant drop, and your laughter still floats beyond my reach.

Tuesday’s sun stretches shadows long; they beckon me into empty rooms where your footsteps once carved their names on polished floors that now forget.

Wednesday trembles under a sky half-lit, time caught between heartbeat and hush. I map each breath to how many more until your arms fold around my days.

Thursday limps, dragging yesterday’s dust, while I scramble for moments that vanish like stardust slipping through cupped hands;  seven days, but forever in each.

Friday flares with half-remembered warmth, as if I glimpse your smile in every face. Hope and longing tangle their fingers, whispering that soon we’ll collide.
Geof Spavins Jul 10
I. Echoes
This threshold was never mine to choose; three years ago, a chair beside me stood empty, its hollow stare naming every night without words. Grief became my compass, yet its needle spun in circles, pointing only inward to the ache I could not name.

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

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

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

V. Thresholds
I ask only for sturdy shoes and a witness to every step, forward or back. Under a sky that still asks what blue might mean, a sky vast enough to hold my yesterdays and our tomorrows. And someone who understands that love, like grief, arrives on tiptoe, an imprint pressed in damp clay, proof that even after loss, we find our way.
Jul 10 · 25
Thresholds
Geof Spavins Jul 10
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.
An introspection
Jul 10 · 64
Spoken Backwards
Geof Spavins Jul 10
Mad gym, my g dam.
Was it a rat I saw?
2_lines
Jul 10 · 41
Sunshine
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.
Jul 10 · 119
Heatwave Hijinks
Geof Spavins Jul 10
The sun blazed with fiery delight,
Turning rooftops a shimmering white.
With each sweltering breeze,
We melted with ease
Even flip-flops gave up in the fight!
Limerick
Jul 5 · 75
I need a wheeeee!
Geof Spavins Jul 5
I need a wee… wheeee!
I proclaimed with delight,
But suddenly spotted a bird in mid-flight.
Which reminded me then of my auntie's old parrot,
Who once stole a phone, then flew off to Harrogate.

That town! With its pastries, its trains, and its teas,
Which brings us to goats, and their fondness for cheese.
Oh right, the loo! Yes, that was my aim,
But I’d somehow detoured through memory lane.

There’s a cactus involved now, I’m not sure quite why,
It sat on a bench next to one Mr. Rye.
And he wore a jumper with zips down the side,
Which reminded me! trousers! (The zipped kind, not wide.)

And speaking of zippers, my own was askew,
Which reminded me... oh! I still need the loo!
Jul 5 · 61
Clearbrook Tales
Geof Spavins Jul 5
At Clearbrook Lodge by twilight's grace,  
Jemma's smile lit up the place.  
Talk of trails and paddling dreams,  
Of leafy paths and tranquil streams.  

We claimed our space, then Sarn appeared,  
The talk of land both loved and weird
Where rowing boats await the breeze  
And paddle boards skim willow trees.  

The gardens called us Saturday morn,  
With blooms in sun, where steps were worn.  
We vowed to watch the falcons' flight  
On future days of feathered might.  

Sunday drifted, slow and kind,  
With BBQs and peace of mind.  
While Monday's chip-salt kissed the skin,  
On Pendine sands where laughs begin.  

Tuesday’s wetlands soaked our feet,  
Cranes waltzed through the grasses sweet
A feather found, now proudly placed,  
A badge of nature, finely graced.  

Wednesday brought a second chance,  
To see the falcons swoop and dance.  
Then gardens bloomed beneath our stride,  
With nature walking by our side.  

Thursday’s waves and dolphin cheer,  
From Oxwich Bay to Worm’s Head near.  
The seals blinked slow, the seabirds skimmed,  
While laughter rode the ocean’s wind.  

A stop at heritage, mill and stream,  
With Welsh cawl’s warmth and cider's gleam.  
We walked through stories, old and bright,  
In leet-fed halls of shared delight.  

And now we pack with hearts aweight,  
For leaving dreams we’d love to wait.  
Clearbrook whispers in the air
“Come back, and find your stories there.”
Jun 29 · 56
Light and Name
Geof Spavins Jun 29
Your name is powerful and lifts all darkness.

It pierces the veil of night and calls the light to rise.

When we were lost in shadow,
When silence echoed loudest
Your name was spoken

And the silence broke.
The tombs cracked open.
The earth sighed with hope.

By your name, fear is scattered,
Chains are loosed,
And the barren hearts bloom once more.

Your name is fire without smoke,
A song no grave can silence.
Let it be sung on our breath and burned into our bones.

We rise in the name that lifts all darkness.
We walk by the flame that never falters.
We praise, not as those who beg for light,
But as those who carry it.

Amen.
Jun 20 · 51
Overtake Left - NEVER
Geof Spavins Jun 20
James and Geof never overtake left,
Of lane-hogging habits, they feel quite bereft.  
With mirrors adjusted and signals pristine,  
They drive like true scholars of Highway Code green.

They glide through the byways with patience and grace,  
Not swayed by the urge to win every race.  
No tailgating fury, no horns out of line,  
Just courteous cruising, civil and fine.

They banter in traffic with laughter and song,  
A playlist of classics to help them along.  
“Indicators save us!” declares Geof with cheer,  
As James nods in rhythm - both hands on the gear.

Through roundabouts daunting and slip roads obscure,  
They navigate calmly, their manners mature.  
No road rage, no weaving, no impolite zip,
They cherish the journey, not just the trip.

So, here’s to the drivers who think as they steer,  
Whose etiquette shines in the sixth motorway gear.  
And may others who see them, perhaps feel impressed,  
That James and Geof never overtake left.
Jun 19 · 40
Reimende Rätselreihe
Geof Spavins Jun 19
E, Z, D, der Reigen beginnt,
V, F, S, S – wie’s weiter klingt.
A tritt auf mit elegantem Schwung,
N schwebt nach, in luftiger Jung’.
Dann marschiert das T heran...
Gefolgt von E und Z sodann!

Zahlen ziehn, von Buchstaben flankiert,
Ein Rätselzug, der poetisch marschiert.
Kein Schaf wird gezählt in dieser
Nacht, Die *******zählt selbst - in Reim entfacht.
To anyone that can read German - Does this work as a riddling poem in German?
Jun 19 · 282
Riddling Rhyme
Geof Spavins Jun 19
O, T, T, begin the spree,  
F, F, S, S, join the jubilee.  
E comes next with elegant flair,  
N's not far, high in the air.  
T struts in, all bold and then...  
We’re queued for E and T again!  

Numbers marching, letters in tow,  
A cryptic parade with a lyrical flow.  
They don’t count sheep, they just rhyme tight,  
The alphabet’s way of counting at night.
Geof Spavins Jun 16
Two old soldiers, battle-worn,
With ink and beard where pride is sworn.
Through Norwich lanes, they take the test,
To see which driver ranks the best.

James, an ADI, wise and keen,
Guides the wheel with eyes so keen.
His task: to judge, to teach, to show,
Where skills excel and where they grow.

Yet more than marks on asphalt grey,
It’s shared respect that lights the way.
For once they stood in boots and gear,
And now they drive with just as clear --

A steady hand, a focused mind,
Trained in years of duty signed.
And waiting home when journeys end,
Are laughing girls and love to send.

For driving's more than turns and speed,
It’s careful hands, it’s thought, indeed.
A soldier’s past, a father’s care,
All reflected – everywhere.
A friendship with a past in common -  we both served in the UK forces
Geof Spavins May 31
My feet start dancing on their own,
A wild compulsion seeds where I roam.
The bed it calls yet the road sings louder,
Every step a rebellion, a freedom devoured.

No corners or confines can hold this heart,
For restlessness and wanderlust are never apart.
I pack my dreams, my humour, and a hat with flair,
Off I venture - leaving behind every chair!

If pavements could talk, they'd say, “There goes that spark!”
Chasing horizons, from sunrise till dark.
This curious urge defines my constant quest:
To roam the world and learn from each jest.

So here’s a salute to the wandering, wild and free,
For ecdemomania is not just a word;
it’s a key To unlocking life’s adventures, one silly step at a time,
A joyful pilgrimage filled with rhythm and rhyme!
Geof Spavins May 30
Upon the floor, debates ignite,
They argue left, they argue right.
A filibuster drags the night,
A senator sighs, Oh what a sight.

The bills pile up, gridlock in place,
A lawmaker’s face turns red in haste.
Tempers flare, objections rise,
Committee rooms erupt with cries.

Then through the chamber, swift and loud,
One congressman breaks from the crowd!
With forceful grip and righteous vim,
They toss a binder - right at him!

Through marble halls and polished doors,
Defenestration takes the floor.
No policy fixed, no law is passed,
But someone went through glass at last!
Am I being a bit naughty here? This is how I see the current US government (2025) Chaotic
Geof Spavins May 30
The shelf I built stands tall and proud,
Well -- almost tall, a little browed.
The legs are wobbly, joints askew,
It’s leaning like it’s had a few!

I step back, scratch my head and sigh,
This wasn’t meant to tilt and pry.
The blueprint said, “align with care,”
Yet here it sways -- a lopsided chair!

The screws are in, the nails are tight,
And still, it looks… well, not quite right.
Call it charm or odd design,
But cattywampus work is mine!
Geof Spavins May 30
A meeting starts, the room is hushed,
My stomach rumbles - oh, I blush!
A deep borborygmus, loud and proud,
Echoes boldly through the crowd.

I shift my seat, pretend it’s fake,
Blame the floorboards, for goodness' sake!
Yet still it growls, a beast unchained,
A hunger cry that can't be tamed.

Coffee won’t hush it, nor a snack,
It grumbles forth - no turning back!
Alas, the truth is hard to face,
My stomach speaks, I rest my case.
Geof Spavins May 30
As the chill wind begins to wail,
A hurried step upon the trail.
With shadowed cloak and whispered fate,
They plot their move - absquatulate!

No ties to bind, no chains to hold,
No debts unpaid, no tales retold.
A fleeting ghost, a restless spark,
Vanishing swiftly into dark.

To abscond with grace, to leave so light,
No backward glance, no need for fright.
Some say escape, some say to roam,
But some must flee to find their home.
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