Poetry

Acute

Acute In geometry’s quiet gaze, an angle sharp, Less than ninety, keen and bright, It points to corners where lines embark, A sliver of truth in pure light. Acute is also

Gripe

The Gripe In the queue for the bus, a sigh escapes, A low‑grade whinge that lingers like damp wool, He mutters about the late‑running service, His gripe a small storm in a

Sonic

Sonic In the hush of midnight air, A tremor rides the breath of night, A ripple spreads through earthen square, A pulse that flickers, swift and bright. It sings in whispers, low and

Triad

Triad Three notes converge in quiet harmony, A chord that sings of balance, whole and true: Root, third, and fifth—each voice a loyalty, Together forming hues both rich and new. Like

Epoch

Epoch In the slow turning of stone and sea, An epoch sighs beneath the weight of time, Where ancient rocks remember glaciers' breath, And fossils whisper in the limestone’s rhyme. Each layer a

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