Poetry

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

Segue

In the quiet hush of a room when the lights dim, a subtle sigh of the night, you hear the cue – the thin, silver thread that pulls the scene from one story

Gone with the Wind

Gone with the Wind | When the breeze first whispered past the hedgerow, A thrill of cold light slipped through the summer sky, The old oak in the corner garden lost its leaves, Their

Rage bait

Rage Bait In the pixel‑lit alleys of the net, Where thoughts are cast like coins on tide, Some dwellers plant a cunning trap, Awaiting the tempest of a clicked reply. They ink their

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