Runaway Horses

Runaway Horses

The novellette is up! 

Runaway Horses on now avaliable on Amazon!

Delayed

Delayed

Technical issues

Delaying publication...

Working on it, though!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Stand Up:

Stand Up:

Sing the song of rage
our ancestors used to sing
when the world was theirs...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Loyalty

Loyalty: 

After twenty years, 
now seeing his master home,
Argos breathes his last. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Truth

Truth

The honored ancients

will stand alongside all those

who strive for honor. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Promise:

Promise:

I will remember

those who left me in the dark

while I begged for light. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Mondays

Mondays

A cup of coffee
and a 'can-do' attitude 
only goes so far...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Edits

Edits

A sea of red ink, 
rearranging paragraphs,
Showing no mercy!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Appeasin' be self treason...

I know that not everyone will like my Poetry, Prose, or Politics. 

That's why I write without trying to overthink it.  

Folks who like it will like it,  those who won't won't,  but If I try to write in a way to please EVERYONE...I won't be able to enjoy what I write, and that would be absurd. As the title of this post says: Appeasin' be self treason...

To those who read me and enjoy my words even in their simplest forms: Thank you. ❤️ 

To those that read me just to be able to criticise my words: at least you've read me, and that makes you...my reader. 😘

Patton was Right

Patton was Right

If they saw today
before they stormed the beaches, 
they would have refused. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved  

Tempting

Tempting 

Half done Fae circle

like a trap ready to spring

at the last second.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

A Thing of Beauty

A Thing of Beauty 

The English marching, 

pushing back against traitors 

who prefer them dead.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

American Fork

American Fork 

A prime example
of a horrid police department:
Shameful and corrupt!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Bowl

Bowl

Give the ball a spin,
At just the right time: release!
Hope for strike or spare.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Kalends of June

Kalends of June

Ave Regina!
Sospita! Lucina,
at newborn’s first cry…

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Prayer

Prayer

A lit Dutch Master,
smoke rising up like incense,
carrying my thoughts...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Facebook

 Hey,  folks, while visiting here,  if you also would like to,  please find me on Facebook!

https://www.facebook.com/share/1CkyRqaUS3/

See you there!

😁

Pretend

Pretend

Look up and pretend
there are no cars or voices, 
so the city fades...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Gliph

Gliph

Steadfast and Loyal,

Gliph reaches beyond the veil

to fulfill his work.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

All I want:

All I want:

Nothing more or less

than the promise from our youth:

Life! Not survival...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Keeping Watch 4

Keeping Watch 4 

Denvil Caldwell stared out over the rim of his old round glasses at the back of his son as they rode towards the bend on the path to his own cabin. The still smoldering ruins they were riding from were enough to make any man go mute, but Denvil suspected the door had also thrown his son’s thoughts into a chaotic storm.

The door had lain as naturally in that bough of the oak as if God himself had allowed it to spring from the leaves. Denvil knew God had had no part in putting it there, though. The burnt husk of a cabin, Tom and Jessy gone, and the twisting of his guts at seeing his boy look so lost told him that. 

Corvin was a silent thinker, so Denvil would never know the particulars of what was going through his head until Corvin had come to a conclusion and informed him of anything. He had been that way since he was little. He had once declared that he wanted to be an adventurer, and Denvil assumed that he would grow out of it once he was older. But one day, Denvil had come back from town and found Jane sobbing over his letter stating he had left home to see the world, with promises of returning.

Four years later, he had returned home with tales of his adventures, money to share with the family, and what had caused a real stir in the community: an Irish bride. She had skin as pale as moonlight, long and dark Raven hair, and the greenest eyes that Denvil had ever seen. Denvil thought she was as pretty as a flower, but as twitchy as a bird.

They had built her a cabin south of his own and had included a lot of her odd requests in its construction. Denvil once asked Corvin about it, but Corvin had just waved the questions off and laughed. The Irish are still a superstitious lot, he had said.
Once the house was built, she seemed to settle down a little, and they started having kids. Corvin’s Younger brother Thad had become a bit envious and decided to strike out and find himself an Irish gal, and departed soon after.

But now, after last night’s events and this morning’s discovery, Denvil wondered if there had been a reason for her twitchiness that they had been unaware of.
Denvil looked up at the smoke drifting over the trees ahead.

“Ma looks to be cooking up a storm, Cor,” He said. “They might be up there having some breakfast while waiting for us.”

Corvin didn’t say anything, but Denvil noticed he quietly heeled his horse to move faster, and he disappeared around the bend.

“Goddamn it! Pa!”  Denvil heard him cry out. “Pa!”

Denvil kicked at ol’ Luke.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

ER

ER

Mi sidas sola,

mi atendas rezultojn,

flustrante preĝojn...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Final Draft Struggle

Final Draft Struggle

I flip and I flop 
on whether to cut the scene
and change the ending...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

In memoriam: 
our noble dead, lives stolen

for the bankers wars.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Whispers

Whispers

Hiding in the reeds,
ancient creatures whisper tales
tongues unknown by man. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Ghosts

Ghosts

Kids hearing their names,
whispered when they are alone...

hums in the shadows...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Hyper

Hyper

Fit, energetic,
Fortuna's gift flows over:
unyielding success.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

A Dream.

 So, last night, I had an interesting dream. 

I was in a park, and climbed a hill to where there was a Library Box filled with books, and before I could look through the books to see if there was anything good, I found a package inside, and it had a handmade PVC pipe pistol. I wanted to keep it, but John Travolta walked up, flashed me his smile, and talked me into throwing it away because I “didn’t actually wanna risk having it, right?”

So, I begrudgingly tossed it in the trash. He said Thanks, and that he owed me one. He shot me the double guns and grinned again. 

Later, I am sitting at a meal with the family, they are chatting away while I am lost in my own thoughts trying to figure out how I am going to make ends meet, when My wife says that the bank shows a deposit from John Travolta for 3.5 Million Dollars. It was noted as “Thanks”.

I excitedly started calculating the pay off of my debts, and the purchase of a small fixer upper home for the family.

Folks, I tell you that waking up without the 3.5 million that you were going to use to change your life was...rough. 

So, as I am getting started this morning, crying little tears into my coffee, all I can say is that if John Travolta asks you to toss a gun for him in real life, try it and see what happens....

Native Blues

Native Blues

Hatian kids swearing.
Parents nearby say nothing. 
I wish ICE would come. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Land of the Wholesale

Land of the Wholesale

Our democracy
is now proven a farce,
money buys the seats. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Carpetbaggers

Carpetbaggers

A fortune was spent
in a crucial election:
our Countrymen lost...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

The West

The West

Gold painted chains wrapped
round our necks, and we pretend
that we are free men...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Sleep

Sleep

Earbuds in my ears,
a soft voice whispers the lore.
I drift off to sleep. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Birthday Wishes

 Birthday Wishes

Happy Birthday to
My oldest daughter Lilith!
How time betrays me...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Action

Action

The knight draws his sword,
and cuts down the goblin horde
while others debate.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Chaotic Mourning

Chaotic Mourning

First Peter Carroll,

now Gordon White has passed on.
The magick world mourns. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Can you smell it?

Can you smell it?

Laying the groundwork
for yet another lock down!
The bullshit grows deep. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Troubles

 Troubles

Waves of nausea 
hit me one after the next, 
Tonight will be rough...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved l

Ancient

Ancient

Every ache and pain
feels like it could be the end 
when you hit forty...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Mother's Day

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day
to the women who bore us,
our first lasting loves. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Liberating

Liberating

Clearing the garage,
trying to let go of hard, 
to not try is worse. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Puffery

Puffery

I am oft amused
at those who view silent folks
as safe to abuse. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Killdeer

Killdeer

We slowly walk up

against momma bird's protests

to peak at her eggs. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Responding

Responding

“How you call the trash you write Haiku?

These are not about nature, or seasons!

You know it’s appropriation, don’t you?

Stick to forms written by Europeans!”

Some amusing feedback received today,

reworded from its original source

to fit this poem, and yet still convey

their stance (made anonymously, of course).

I adore the form, unlike Kerouac,

I enjoy its discipline and the thrill

of finding perfect words in which to stack

to capture a moment, to prove it real.

Though my Haiku may vary in subject,

I hold its artists with utmost respect. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Idiot

 Idiot

Double lined school zone. 
The idiot still passes,
while on his cell phone. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Primaroj '26

Primaroj '26

Ĝi estas farso!

Ĉar ĝi ŝanĝas nenion!

Kial voĉdoni?

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Keeping Watch 3

Keeping Watch 3

    Thomas sat awake with his back leaning against his father’s chair, his stomach felt like it was in a knot. He faced the door and the window beside it. His eyes bounced from one to the other, half expecting the deer looking demon creature to lunge through the window or force the door open, crossing its threshold to do God knows what to him and Jessy.

    On one hand, he was jealous that Jessy was able to fall asleep in front of the fire so easily. Yet, on the other hand, he was glad that she wasn’t awake to share the same fear that gripped him.

    She lay curled up under a half-finished quilt that Ma was working on. Maybe its warmth, and the warmth of the fire had lulled her to sleep.

    A lullaby that was withheld from him.

    Try as he might to close his eyes and keep them closed in the attempt to force himself into sleep, they wouldn’t stay closed.  After a moment or two, he would swear that he heard something, and they would flutter open and focus on the window and then the door.

    He had put the bar on the door and pulled the rifle from the mantle. He was ready for anything that dared to come in. Or dared to gaze in for that matter.

    A loud thump came from above him on the roof, and he sat bolt upright, scooting further back against the chair as if he were trying to disappear into it. The thump was followed by what sounded like a pair of hooves slowly and deliberately walking across the roof to the south side of the cabin, before going silent right over the door. He looked up, holding the rifle close, not sure whether to shoot blindly at where the sound had seemingly stopped, or to hold his breath.

    He held his breath, ears straining to hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his own chest and the crackle of the fire. Swallowing hard, he pushed himself to his feet. He crouched down, and walked bent over towards the window as quietly as possible. Pushing himself against the wall beside the window, he peeked out. There was nothing on that side that he could see. He crawled under the window to look out the other side. Nothing.

    The outside was well lit by the moon’s silver light, but he couldn’t make out anything out of the ordinary.

    Until he heard it.

    It wasn’t the hooves on the roof, though. It was a gentle and yet earnest rustling that he heard. Not of leaves or weeds, but something else. Something he couldn’t quite place, though it sounded familiar. He pushed the side of his face into the cool wood of the wall as far as he could, straining his eyes as he looked every which way out the window that he was able to as he tried to see where the sound was coming from.

    He saw it as it rounded the corner of the cabin and came into view of the window. He squinted at it, blinked, and squinted again. He had no clue what he was looking at. It looked about as tall as their old Billy goat, but it moved across the ground with the poise of a bob cat on the hunt. Thomas couldn’t see any legs on the creature, but rather root like tendrils fluttering back and forth on the grass pushed it forward. It’s body appeared as a mass of clumped up silt, and out of its back were a heap of reeds and cattails. A knot of reads and dripping algae formed a head roughly the shape of a dog with elongated muzzle, two blue glowing orbs flickered and danced within its head like small fires. As they slowly danced from one side to another, Thomas understood that these were its eyes.

    “What the…” Thomas whispered.

    The creature stopped moving and dropped to the ground so quickly that if Thomas had not been watching it, he wouldn’t be able to tell where it went. Even it’s eyes dimmed to the point that he didn’t know if the orbs were still there, or if it was the glimmer of the moonlight shimmering on the mess of reeds.

    An ice-cold wave of nausea washed over Thomas. What had once been prowling just outside looked like it had been there all along. He swallowed hard and allowed his eyes to drift around the window a bit to see if there were any other clump of weeds or reeds in a place that he did not recall seeing them before. He heard the rustle again, and his eyes flashed back to the creature, that was now slithering slowly in his direction, tendrils spinning out, as if growing and retracting as it pulled itself forward. Its pale blue orbs no longer dancing but fixed upon the window.

    Thomas pulled his head back from the window and pressed himself against the wall.  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breath. This was not real. No more real than the deer demon he had seen earlier.

    “Just a dream…” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Just a bad dream…”

    At his words, the rustling stopped again.

    Thomas forced himself to slide his face to the corner of the window just far enough that he would see with one eye a mass of weeds and reeds sprawling on the ground just in front of the porch railing. He slammed himself back against the wall. Trembling, he pulled the hammer back on the rifle. He didn’t know whether or not a bullet would do anything to whatever this thing was, but it was the only thing he had.

    He took a breath and stepped away from the wall and turned towards the window. He almost dropped the rifle before he could bring it up to aim. The reed creature was at the window, its muzzled “face” now flattened as it pressed against the glass, its orbs trained on him and flickering fast.

    He stared at it for a moment, unable to think, or move.

    A hole appeared between the eyes and a godawful and warbling screech came from within the creature, its reeds and weeds shaking and vibrating with the screech as if amplifying the sound.

    The window cracked and snapped Thomas out of his stupor.  He screamed and brought the rifle up to bear on the creature, and pulled the trigger.

***

 © Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Exhausted

 Exhausted

Night of restless sleep
Broken by nightmares and sounds 
That keep me awake...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

See it

See it

On the count of three 
Hold your breath and close your eyes, 
Think: Your dream fulfilled.

 © Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

A win is a win

A win is a win

I scan my ticket, 
"This ticket is a winner!"
A whole twenty bucks...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Pick me up

Pick me up

Afternoon coffee,

sits in my cup but briefly
desperately gulped. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Father to Father

 Father to Father

I heard him before I saw him.
Turning, he waddled to me slowly
as if burdened by his own heartache,
and mournfully gave another honk,
sad and low.

At my fee he sat,
and stared up at me.
Was he after bread?
Answers?
The voice of a friend?
I could only offer one.
I knelt down,
showing my hands,
free of blood,
empty of bread.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Sad and slow.

He bowed his head briefly,
as if in understanding,
or perhaps his own sorrow.
I took my hat off 
and bowed my own in return.
A prayer to Juno
that he and his mate,
wherever she may be,
make it through
this heartache and pain,
whispered.
Sad and slow.

Two fathers,
one in mourning,
the other in sympathy,
sitting together
in a broken and unforgiving world,
sad and low.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Hopium

Hopium

I am an addict:
Reality cut with Hope
lets me limp along...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

The Abyss

The Abyss

Ideas, morphed to words, 
ripped from my soul and published
to silent masses.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved  

Mining

Mining 

Open my eyes, flick on the light,
write down the dreams I had that night,
hopefully to find
or perhaps to mine
some message divine.
One of hope, no matter how slight.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Good Morning! (Or evening if you stumble across this page then...) 

This is my attempt at the Clogyrnach style poem. It is a six lined Welsh poetic style that structured as follows:

8 syllables with an A rhyme
8 syllables with an A rhyme.
5 syllables with an B rhyme.
5 syllables with an B rhyme.
5 syllables with an B rhyme.
8 syllables with an A rhyme

That being said, how do you think I did?

Hobbled

Hobbled

Trying to get home, 
stuck with a monitored car, 
unable to speed. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Sorrow

Sorrow

Empty, and stripped bare.
Momma, Papa, eggs
all gone…
save two…
shattered in the remnants
of straw, string, and feathers
that once promised a happy nest,
a happy future…
the site of 5 little goslings
lined up in a row
as momma and papa lead them on,
to the delight of those watching.
A row that will never exist,
delight that will never manifest,
all seized in the night,
dashed upon the pavement.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Morning Prayers

 

Morning Prayers

Before Iron Rites,
candles lit, wine poured, praising
Gods and Ancestors. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Forecast

Forecast 

Armchair weathermen 

painting the apocalypse 

for the coming storms. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Where is Iustitia?

Where is Iustitia? 

No justice, no peace.
Every last politician
has blood on their hands. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Fragments

Fragments

A hometown visit,
cleaning, talking to the dead,
others...and myself...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Wistful

 Wistful

Soft alabaster,

Sparkling browns, a fast bright beam,
Time too far removed...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Stolen

Stolen

"Every man a King!"
A dream we could have captured...
lost to a bullet.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

A Father's Burden

A Father's Burden 

No man wants to work
When he could be with his kids.
Precious stolen time…

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Keeping Watch 2

 Keeping Watch 2

Corvin leaned against the charred porch post that once had his name carved into it, and looked out over the smoldering ruin that had been his cabin.

That had been his home.

They had broke camp and rode through the night towards the flickering orange glow, hoping it wasn’t the cabin.

The only thing left standing was the brick chimney. Once red, now blackened by the fire that had consumed everything else that he loved.

And maybe everyone that he loved.

“They may have gotten out, Corv.”

He turned and looked at his father, still sitting on his horse. His voice was gentle and reassuring, but Corvin noticed the old man’s eyes kept darting from tree to tree, and he never took his hand off his gun.

Corvin didn’t say anything but walked to where his door used to stand. Brigit had begged him to use an unbroken piece of oak and then had him carve the intricate image on the front of it. Loops, and circles that went on and on in one continuous line, with a bulky and odd looking cross in the middle of it all with a shamrock in the middle of it.

He had never been terribly religious, and it wasn’t a traditional cross, but Brigit had been insistent and said it was named for the saint who she was named after.

So he sweated from the labor, and the fear of messing up the carving under her watchful eye. Between her drawn lines, and his steady hand, he was able to get it done to her satisfaction. He then at her insistence nailed horse shoes over it.

And now it was gone.

The horse shoes blackened and scattered in the mess all that remained of the doorway. He stepped through the openness where the door had once stood, his boots crunching on the still smoldering wood. His eyes scanned the floor, around the fireplace, and in the kitchen. Twisted items that he could identify, some he could not, but none of them were Brigit or the kids.

“You seeing anything, Corv?” his old man hollered out.

“No,” Corvin replied after a long sigh. “I..I don’t think they were here.”

“We probably shouldn’t stay too long.”

“I ain’t going nowhere till I find ‘em.”

“That ain’t what I meant, son.”

His dad looked at him, and Corvin knew that he was right.

“Alright, I just…”

He paused, eye catching a glint in the charcoaled rubbish. He knelt down and carefully plucked it from the ash. It lay in his palm, surprisingly cold given the heat coming up from everything around it. He rubbed his thumb over the medallion modeled after the Brigit’s cross that held her initials. His old man had made the medallion, and Corvin had given it to Brigit the night that Tom was born. She had given it to Jessy when she turned five.

“What’s that?”

Corvin almost jumped at his father’s voice. He grit his teeth and slid it into his chest pocket as he stood up.

“Best get to your place and get some supplies, pop.”

He mounted and as they turned the horses to ride towards the old man’s cabin, he pulled his horse up short and stared up into the tree line where his cabin door, lay in the boughs of the oak tree.

The door looked as though it had been plucked from the cabin and positioned carefully in the tree, its iron hinges and handle shining in the morning sun.

“How in tarnation…?” His old man followed his gaze. “How ya reckon that got up there?”

“I don’t know,” Corvin said. “But I damn sure intend to find out.” 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Auf Dich

 Auf Dich

Today raise your drink
to that brave visionary
who tried to save us.  

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Fear

Fear

They don't know it yet, 
but they will tremble that day
when Western men wake. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Busy

Busy

The washer is fixed,
The car is running again,
I move down the list. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Up

Up

Midnight approaches;
little one refuses sleep, 
So I lay awake...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

The Draw

The Draw

I shuffle the deck,
four cards jump, I flip and read
to get a bearing.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Endure

 Endure

Today weighed heavy.
Grinding me down to a crawl,
But I shall crawl on...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

The Shoal

The Shoal.

Black ink, swirls inside circles.
Words stripped bare
to the letters,
merged not to read, but to see,
shapes reshaped until pleasing…

Cut in perfect form, circle still binding,
Shoaled and stacked
With solemn focus,
Folden into yellow paper.
Red ink to form the link.

Formed in duplicate,
rite repeated.
New set destroyed
as some folks call for.
Documented, as others insist.

Now to forget,
the hardest part…
until such a time remembering
is prompted with delight.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

 

Thoughts

Thoughts

The papers and books
Lay scattered across my desk,
Mirror of my thoughts...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Highway Hypnosis

Highway Hypnosis

The hum of the road, 
and gentle warmth of the sun
makes me need caffeine .

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved 

Interpreting

Interpreting 

From out of nowhere:
horn, brakes screeching, cold steel, dark...
I wake with a start!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Linking

Linking

With hope and focus

her symbol drawn in crimson, 

uniting the worlds.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Transparent

Transparent

They call for cease fire 
Not for peace, but the time
To bomb someone else. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Dreaming

Dreaming

The Daemon whispers 
when we go to sleep each night 
trying to guide us.  

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Starting Point

 Starting Point 

One measly pull-up,
with an assistance band, too!
A point to build from.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Proper Sleep

 Proper Sleep

I crashed out early, 
and woke a bit easier...
A novel concept!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved