Poetry

Judge

In the hushed courtroom, shadows play, A gavel rests upon the stone‑grey table, Its weight a quiet promise, day by day, To balance truth where doubts are unstable. He wears the wig

Slate

On the quiet hill where old roofs sigh, A slab of slate lies low beneath the sky. Grey as a winter’s breath, its surface cool, A canvas kissed by rain, a mason’s tool.

Taper

A quiet wick, a slender thread, Where wax and wick together tread, It tapers—softly, gently drawn— A flame that sighs before the dawn. In candlelight the taper bends, A silken sigh that night

Probe

A whisper of steel in the silent void, A probe of night, where stars are employed. It drifts beyond the amber glow of home, Seeking the secrets that the cosmos comb. From

Usual

The usual sunrise slips through the blinds, A soft gold spill on the kitchen floor, The kettle sighs its familiar tune, Steam curling like a quiet thought. I pull on my well‑worn

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