Poetry

Myrrh

A Psalm of Myrrh Golden‑brown, the ancient resin glows, from ancient dunes of Arava it grows; Its forest‑hushed fragrance rises high over the chapel’s incense‑kissed sky. In the choir of the desert’s dance, the

Rugby

On Green Pastures In the dawn‑lit green of the empire’s game, A clash begins where the ball is the claim. The packing of the scrum, a tightening knot, Masses of strength, a line‑out’s faint,

Finding Nemo

Finding Nemo Beneath the blue veil of the Southern Sea, Marlin, the anxious clownfish, swims with glee— His tiny heart in a world of vast, wondrous hue, Where every reef’s a cathedral, and the

Grass

In the quiet hours when the world is still, A blade of green unfurls with quiet thrill. Soft as a whisper, light as silver dew, It remembers every breath the cool air blew. Beneath

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

In the murky mist of England’s swampy moor, Sir Lancelot clutching scabbard, forgotten o’er, Sir Robin dashes, barely breathing the air, While Monty Python’s clip‑boards spin their snare. The “Knight who says Ni” guffaws

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