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.

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.

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.

🏁 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.

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.

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.

By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I cracked at dawn beneath the weight
Of choices scrambled on my plate.
Should I be poached, or softly fried?
Do I conform, or yolk with pride?

The bacon mocks with seasoned flair,
“Why not sizzle, if you dare?”
Yet toast just sits, all butter-faced,
Avoiding life, slightly disgraced.

I whisk myself with pinch of thought:
Am I the meal, or just a plot?
The fry pan hums with heated ache,
What if I’m real, but hard to bake?

The waitress pours me existential tea
“Sweet or bitter? Your choice,” says she.
And so I stew, both brave and bland,
In life’s great brunch, I understand.

I’m not just food for fleeting flings,
I’m breakfast served with questioning things.
So tip your cook and raise your glass,
To sunny-side truths that boldly pass.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

(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.

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.

by Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I sat beside the toaster’s hum,
Philosophy with buttered crumb.
Each slice, a lecture crisp and clear,
On failure, heat, and reappear.

First lesson came when bread got stuck,
“Sometimes you rise, sometimes you’re luck.”
Second was a smoky tale:
“Don’t linger when the signs turn pale.”

The jam, a sticky paradox,
It clings but sweetly bends the box.
And don’t forget the marmalade,
It taught me risk, with zest and shade.

I took a bite of burnt regret,
The charcoal edge I won’t forget.
Yet even ash has taste to lend,
When bitter sparks begin to mend.

Now every morning, plate in hand,
I heed the toast, I understand:
Life’s not served neat; it’s scorched, it’s slow,
But butter makes it mostly so.

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.