Category: NPM 2025

I won’t wonder why I rarely get dinner invites after this.

Dinner Invite

I was glad to get the invite,
like a dog wagging its tail for a treat,
but when I walked in,
the smell hit me.

Not the good kind,
but the kind that makes you wonder
what went wrong in the kitchen,
what went right in the graveyard.

She smiled, setting down my bowl,
"Hope you like it, it's my grandmother's recipe!"
I took a forkful,
tried to look human,
swallowed it whole
like a bad poem
I couldn't stop reading.

It tasted like disappointment,
like forgotten dreams,
like the kind of thing
you don't give to your enemy.
But I said,
"Oh, it's very... unique.
Really, very… interesting."

They all smiled,
like they didn't notice
the way my eyes 
were twitching,
the way my stomach 
was screaming.

The beer helped a bit,
but not enough
to erase the feeling
of being polite
and still wanting to throw the bowl
out the window.

I was happy to be there.
Really.
But if anyone asks,
I’ll say it was "delightful."
It’s easier that way.
At least the silence
between bites
tasted better
than the food.

This poetry thing always seems like a good idea and then I get started or stuck as the case may be. So I present to you this silly bit…

Something from Nothing?

I sit quietly; the screen is bare,
No thought to catch, no spark to share.
The world outside, it spins and glows
But here I am, and nothing shows.

No fleeting dream, no whispered thought,
Just empty space where words are sought.
The silence wraps its gentle shroud,
nary a thought in my mind but clouds.

I search for the muse, but none appears,
no inspiration to loose the gears.
The keys are quiet, the page is clean,
an empty space where none have been.

Perhaps, in nothing, something’s found—
In absence, silence does resound.
So here I write, without a theme,
A poem born from quiet's dream.

So I thought I might try writing a poem a day, which after today seems a little more daunting than it did yesterday. I did however get something written for today… enjoy.

The Favorite Mug

I’ve watched him for years—
the steady hand,
furrowed brow,
and tired smile
at the end of a long day
when the world outside the door
has quieted down,
and the room is ours.

We meet each morning,
a ritual of warmth,
the heat of hope rising with each sip.
He doesn’t speak much,
but his fingers,
calloused from decades of paperwork,
wrap around me with reverence,
like an old friend who has seen
too many years to count
and still holds on tight.

I’m there for the early mornings
when he shuffles into the office
before the children’s voices roar through the halls
before the phones start ringing
with problems for him to fix.
I see the lines on his face deepening,
the wear of time that can’t be erased,
not even by a warm cup.

But still, he carries on.
I’ve seen it—
the moments when a young person
knocks on his door,
nervous and wide-eyed.
He listens and encourages like it’s water
pouring from an endless well.

I see his eyes light up,
the cracks in his heart
mended with the smallest of victories.
I don’t mind my slow existence.
I’m just the cup—
faithful,
patient,
a silent witness to the years.

But in these moments,
I’m part of the story.
I hold the warmth
that helps him carry on,
the steady rhythm of his work
stretched across decades.

He leans back,
a tired sigh escaping.
I can feel 
the quiet pride 
and love for the job
that still lingers,
even on tough days.

For more than 25 years,
he’s guided them,
shaped them,
and taught them—
For a decade,
I’ve been his silent companion,
witness to the quiet battles,
the triumphs,
the exhaustion,
and the joy of a life spent
in service to something greater.

I’ll be here tomorrow
and the next
because no matter how he’s aged
under the weight of it all,
he still holds me close,
and still,
I warm his hands
when the world demands too much.