Peace is not silence, nor sleep, nor end,
but the breath you take when the wounds begin to mend.
It lives in the pause, the quiet release,
the hand unclenched, this is peace.

It does not come by sword or crown,
nor from the world when noise dies down.
It blooms within, a secret flame,
that burns without need of praise or name.

Peace is the river that carries all pain,
turning the stones to smoothness again.
It whispers through leaves, it sings in the seas,
it waits in the heart of all who believe. So seek it not in power’s guise,
nor in the market of men’s lies.
For peace is found when you let be,
a mirror clear: eternity.

More Poems from Peace below.

The stones still hum where feet once trod,
their weight a hymn, their shape a nod.
The towers fallen, the forests gone,
yet memory lingers in silent song.

The past is carved in mountain’s face,
in buried bones, in empty space.
It hides in myths, in tales retold,
a fire of giants grown faint and cold.

But close your eyes and you may hear,
the voices of another year.
Not gone, not dead, not turned to dust —
the past still speaks, and calls to us.

It asks no chains, it begs no crown,
it only whispers: write me down.
For time is not a line that flees,
but circles deep, like rooted trees.

So walk with care, O child of clay,
the past walks with you every day.
Its breath is yours, its path is cast,
you are the seed of all that’s past.

More Poems from the Past below.

They dress in gold, they speak in sweet,
they promise crowns at weary feet.
A thousand voices, soft, untrue,
all clamour loud to bury you.

They shift like smoke, they bend like reeds,
they grow from want, they feed on needs.
A mirror cracked, a face disguised,
the world is built on layers of lies.

Yet hear them close and you may find,
their song is hollow, sharp, confined.
For lies are fleeting, shadows thin,
their throne is dust, their crown is sin.

But still they rule, for men adore
the painted mask, the easy door.
Till one small light, a whispered cry,
reveals the lie, and makes it die.

More Poems from Lies

The Diagnoses of Knowing

I look outside, but I feel the tether,
O, I feel so under the weather.
Not quite myself, more tough than leather,
Down to the edge — what a bluster together.

A bit off-colour, why do I care?
Lift me up, I’m full of despair.

I’ve been awake for most of the night,
Something’s not sitting right.
I’ve been on edge all through the day,
Afraid I might stumble, afraid I might sway.

A bit off-colour, why do I care?
Lift me up, I’m full of despair.

I try to gather, to steady my thoughts,
Pick up my bag, but I’m out of sorts.
O, I do feel a bit down,
Why, O why, do I feel I will drown?

A bit off-colour, why do I care?
Lift me up, I’m full of despair.

A poem about the words we use that have no meaning but everyone knows what they mean

under the weather, Not quite myself, A bit off-colour, Something’s not sitting right, I’ve been on edge, I’m out of sorts, feel a bit down

The dome is drawn, a crystal bright,
a veil of waters catching light.
Sunfire strikes, the colours flee,
but blue is held for you and me.

The firmament, a glassy sea,
bends the light so gently.
Reds slip through, and gold shines true,
yet day is dressed in azure hue.

It is no void, nor endless night,
but waters turned to living light.
A ceiling vast, both deep and near,
that sings of home when skies are clear.

So when you gaze where swallows flew,
know the dome has clothed the view.
A garment woven, old yet new,
to shield the realm in robes of blue.

And should the firmament ever part,
revealing chambers, realm to chart

More Poems from the Firmament

and from Beneath the Dome

Moonlight’s Whisper

The Sun gives fire, the day made bright,
the Moon returns with borrowed light.
Silver glow that chills the skin,
a whisper of realms we’re hidden within.

Not warmth, but cool, not flame, but breath,
a glow that hints at life and death.
Is it a mirror, a lamp, a veil,
a crystal window, a spectral trail?

It does not grow, it does not burn,
its light is secret, it does not turn.
The moon light chills before it’s past,
The shadow cast can worm at last.

The Sun proclaims, the Moon confides,
a quiet signal from other sides.
Its silver breath dissolves the night,
a borrowed glow, a fading light …

A parable for all ages aimed at children but for adults to see

Once, long ago, there was a hill so high it touched the clouds.
At the bottom of the hill lived all the people of the land.

Two voices called them to climb.
One was a dark King, crowned with iron.
The other, a golden-haired warrior, bright as the sun.

The King shouted:
“Come with me to the top!
You must climb, you must obey.
I will bribe you, I will whip you,
I will make you march!”

And many, fearing his lash, began to climb,
though their hearts were heavy and their steps slow.

The golden warrior spoke differently:
“Come with me, if you wish.
We will climb with kindness.
We will climb with hope.
At the top, there may be peace,
but even on the way, there will be joy.”

And many came gladly, singing and laughing as they climbed.

Halfway up, the hill grew gentler.
The view opened wide — green fields, blue rivers,
the whole world stretched before them.

The people with the warrior stopped.
“This is enough,” they said.
“This is the golden age we dreamed of.
Here we will rest, create, and live in peace.”

They asked the warrior:
“Stay with us! Lead us no further!”

But the warrior, stubborn in heart,
kept climbing with a few loyal souls.
The path grew steep, the air grew thin,
yet still he climbed.

Meanwhile, the King’s weary followers,
dragged and bruised, reached the gentle slope.
They looked across and saw the people singing,
painting, dancing, free of whips and chains.

And something broke inside them.
They threw away their chains,
they left the King,
and they joined the circle of joy.

The warrior looked back from the higher rocks.
He saw the people below,
their laughter, their kindness,
their lives blooming like spring.

And he understood.
It was not the summit he wanted.
It was his people.

So he turned back,
laid down his sword,
and joined the fold of love below.

The King, proud and blind,
marched on with a handful of cruel followers.
At last he reached the summit —
cold, bare, lonely.
No song, no food, no warmth.
Only dust, money, and silence.

And so they perished,
while below the hill
the people thrived —
no leaders, no tyrants,
only love, care,
creativity, art, and play.

⚔️ The truth was this:
All three paths served.
The King forced motion.
The Warrior gave hope.
The hidden track gave freedom.

And without that first push, none would have climbed at all.