Poetry

Hinge

On the quiet door of morning’s hinge, A silent swing begins— Metal sighing, softly pinching Old oak to welcome day. It bears the weight of comings, goings, Each turn a measured breath, A tiny

Farce

In the cramped flat above the pavement, A knock‑about scene of unintended jest, When the postman trips over a stray biscuit tin, And the neighbour's cat launches a surprise protest. Letters flutter like startled

Badge

A tiny disc of metal, bright and keen, Fastened upon a lapel, a cap, a chest— It bears the mark of service, of the unseen, A quiet promise stitched in silver‑threaded vest.

Homer

In the mist‑laden hills of ancient Ionia, Where olive groves whisper beneath a sapphire sky, A blind bard named Homer wanders, staff in hand, His voice a thunder that rolls across the ages. He

Story

In quiet corners of the mind, a story lies— A whisper soft, a tale that dares to rise. From ancient hearth to modern page it drifts, A thread of wonder that the soul

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