Tag: poem
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A Star That Forgot to Burn
Listen;in the beginning, the universe wasn’t made of atoms,it was made of attention.Every star lit because something cared enoughto ignite it.Every planet spun because something whispered,move. Creation is participation.Existence is engagement.The cosmos is a choirand apathy is the one voicethat refuses to sing. Apathy is not silence.It’s a gravitational collapse.It’s a star folding in on…
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New Logos
I’ve added a couple of new logos to the site. Step into the archive of everything I almost said out loud;the scraps, the sparks, the moments that refused to stay still,all stitched together into something that feels a little like truth. And this little mark? It’s just the doorway;the quiet signal that the words are…
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Howl For the Quiet Classroom
(With inspiration from, and apologies to, Allen Ginsberg…) I saw the best minds of my generationtrying to get thirty teenagersto care about a metaphorat nine‑thirty on a Tuesday,holy fools of fluorescent corridorsdragging whiteboard pens like relics,summoning meaning from photocopiesthat still smell of warm toner. I walked the tiled floors of the learning cathedral,the budget‑cut basilica,the…
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April Fools?
We don’t need April to tell us we’re fools. We do that ourselves every time we trust the wrong hunch, laugh at the wrong moment, or walk into the day with our shoelaces untied and our certainty tied too tight. We’re fools when we love too loudly, when we hope too early, when we mistake…
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April Breeze
April speaks in half‑truths:a warm breeze here,a cold shoulder there,never quite committing to either. It lets the blossoms openjust enough to tempt you,then tests your faithwith a sharp, late frost. But you learn to trust the pattern:uncertainty first,growth second,and somewhere in between,your own patience stretching.
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The Distance We Carry
The story bends north long before I arrive,a woman carrying four childrenas far from harm as she can manage,finding Thurso at the edge of what’s possible.My dad grows up in that far light,learns the sea’s voice, leaves when work demands it.Years later, I come for my own reasons,thinking I’m starting from somewhere else,and feel the…
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The Well Best Forgotten
At the edge of townthere’s a well everyone swearsthey don’t visit.Too dark,too deep,too full of thingsthat were never meant to be pulledinto daylight. But every nightyou can hear the rope creak,the bucket scraping stone,the hush of neighboursleaning over the rimto see what’s floating there. They say the well shows truths.They say it reveals dangersbefore they…