No incantation can achieve the same

No mere words

Can cast a spell greater than your compassionate smile

The magic found there is natural and pure

Without the trickery of the wordsmith’s game

Bewitched, enchanted I am transformed

By your simple, gentle, natural grace


Of Substance


What is this on the paper I read?

Ancient papyrus was crafted from reed

Scrolls from Qumran’s wadi from vellum were made

Later old rags processed and flatly laid

Wood pulp next seemed the thing to write on

Substance, not mere pixels – easily gone



Close-up Photo of Woman Covering Her Ears
Oleg Magni at Pexels

I can’t be bothered

I don’t really care

It’s your problem

There’s no need to share

I am not cold-hearted

But I’m still dismissive

Of the complaints you cited

In that five-page missive

Go deal with it on your own

And leave me alone



Fruit of the Vine

Wine, White, Red, An Isolated, Glass

Be it a white clear,

A rose pink,

Or a deep purple red

As dark as ink

The grape has produced

Drinks deemed fine

Whether dubbed vino or wine

But as a Protestant quite fundamental

It’ll be for Concord grape juice

That I’ll settle




White Fireplace

Szymon Mosakowski at Pexels

Brickwork surrounding a quaint fireside

A copper kettle there steaming upon its hook

No matter how the chill wind may blow outside

The fire’s glow warms the inglenook

A warm cup of something soon to provide

In this refuge as we chat and cook


dVerse – Inglenook