How human it is to speak with a drawl
to define and expound and interpret it all,
naming objects and assigning a label
placing a meaning and fixing it stable.

Is it really that thing that we named, overweening
or is it's existence outside of our meaning.
A teacup exists in a ritual of convention
a utilitarian Chinese invention.

But it's also a collection of bone dust and clay
the function transforming the substance this way,
the matter and molecule existed before
and after it's broken it's bone dust once more.

We build a construction of nouns in our head,
the meaning assigns a convenient "instead"
As the vessel returns to it's matter
language and labels and meaning will scatter.

Impermanence is both fickle and cruel
but in a grand triumph of human renewal.
we impose hope in our order once more
pretending that chaos bends to our lore.

A fiction is woven in silence
the worn out shoes at the door
a house rule observed in compliance
they're neglected and piled up once more

discarded yet thrown all together
worn in but stretched to the sole
it creates a softer creased leather
but odour combined takes it's toll

the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.

What is the meaning of meaning you ask
As if understanding could even unmask
The word described by the word is just cagey
And the search for it, well, that’s pretty new agey

Perhaps it’s the happiness, before we focus on dread
Our beauty that’s fleeting before we are dead
It hums in the silence, it leaps through the air,
It thrives in knowing — and not knowing — it’s there.

Yesterday whispered, “You’re nothing at all,”
Today stretches forward, a tentative call.
Tomorrow might gift me a torchlight, a spark,
Or leave me still wandering blind in the dark.

It’s both the climb and the ache in our knees.
It’s both the summers warmth and the winter’s freeze
It shouts in our triumph, but it hides when we lose,
An whisper of a mumble that will only confuse.

The search for the question, or the answer’s pursuit,
An enigma of itself that will never compute
A cosmic conundrum, a riddle, a game—
the meaning of meaning is one and the same.

Operation Overlord - 156,000
British forces at Normandy - 61,000
Troops on Gold Beach -24,000
Troops in the 50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division - 18,000
Troops in 8th Battalion - 800
two-inch mortar team - 2
Troop at war within a war - 1

Among tens of thousands ultimately it was one on one,
fighting with self, the unholy fear that sat undigested
with the bile and ration biscuit.

My Grandad survived this
He came back, yes, but he was not the same man
He scrambled ashore under the crack of mortar fire
and the scream of steel against sand.
The war took away chunks of him—pieces he could never get back. Something had changed in the way he stood,
the way he looked at the world,
as though he carried an invisible weight
that no one else could see.

At first, his laughter would still bubble up,
his humour slicing through the tension of everyday life,
as sharp and wry as it had always been.
Yet behind the jokes, there was a shadow,
a far-off echo of horror, the smell of salt and explosive,
the faces of comrades lost in moments too fleeting for words.
He buried it all, carefully,
under layers of quiet strength and fatherly love.
His family would never need to bear it;
it was his burden alone.

He returned to the vagaries of civilian life,
to conversations about the weather and pansies,
to cups of tea and headaches,
to the small joys and irritations that make up a life.
But there were nights when the past surged up like a tide,
relentless and suffocating. In those moments, he would sit alone in the dark, *** end in his hand gripping his knee,
and wrestled with the ghosts of Normandy.
He never spoke of it to his children.
Not the fear. Not the chaos.
Not the image of himself kneeling over a mortar
with trembling hands,
fighting not just the enemy but the primal terror of death.

Instead, he built a life for those he loved,
pouring himself into the role of father and grandfather,
filling the silence with stories
of building inspections and seaside holidays.
His silence about the war was not an omission but a shield—
an act of love to protect his family
from horrors they should never have to know.
And in that silence, there was heroism too,
a quiet bravery in choosing to carry the unthinkable alone.

Your grand memorial, all engraved,
Your history gilded, iniquity paved.
But each new eye who stops to read,
will know the less your wrongful deed.

"Erected here for future’s view,
By friends to make you shine anew."
The weight of grief, the tears once shed,
offset by a plaque that says you are dead.

Still, neath this stone, to make it clear,
Your marker says, “Yep, I was here.”
For all your fear of being erased,
In stone, your ego seems misplaced.

Our group meeting, a chance to debrief,
a chance to chant slogans and share core belief.
We cry, “We’re one!” but quietly brood,
Each schism is wrapped up in tight solitude.

Our minds are a chorus but our hearts are askew,
United in name, but divided in view.
We strengthen our voices, but fewer will hear,
The closer we stand, the more we strike fear.

Why not a spark—a more gentle grace,
more thoughtful of others, more softer of face.
Our group, once splintered, could find repair,
Not as a tribe, but through bonds of care.

Groups may stumble, but our hearts still align,
Through trials we polish, like stone into shine.
Our group can live through this, together with pride
Our fellowship mended, holds stronger inside