Come closer world

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is 
Please (a) write for us your personal message to the rest of humanity, the thing you most need to communicate, on the assumption that all humanity will get to read it and take note, or (b) write about why you are not going to do that. 

Come Closer, World

Come closer, world,
I have a small truth for you.

Joy does not come
from what you do
It flows into it

It rises on its own
when you let your being soften
in the quiet chamber
where you allow yourself to feel,
where you notice the colour
of your soul.

Your true shade is enough,
not brighter,
not purer,
just the gentle hue
that belongs only to you.

You matter

So gather small pockets of delight:
a warm bath, like a returning tide,
a hug to steady your breath,
a sunset laying a hush of gold
matching the lining of your heart.

Create small sanctuaries of peace.
Say, “Not today,”
with the softness of an old guardian
closing a wooden gate.

Let silence speak for you,
one breath,
one heartbeat,
one honest step.

Joy will rise to meet you.

Then let it flow outward.
Let it ripple through the world.

Become a lantern
in the drifting mist,
a soft light
for those still finding their way home.

Barefoot at the edge

The prompt for Poets and storytellers united is dance
I have written many dance poems so here a slightly different dance :)

Shared with dVerse OpenLinkNight

Barefoot at the Edge

I stand barefoot at the edge,
looking out over the world.
The wind lifts the leaves to dance,
the sea tempts the waves to dance,
energy in motion.

My heart suddenly stills the sea.
A melody rises from its womb,
an adagio holding love and pain,
born between the notes.
The tension swells into a storm.

Until my breath grows calm
and I release emotion to the sky,
giving it space and air.
The sea hushes its voice
and folds into the sky’s embrace.

The birds emerge in trust,
uncaged from heaviness,
chaos transformed into freedom,
carried by lightness.
I dance with the birds.

Unspoken

The prompt for What's going on is Unspoken
I am from a culture where you clear the air as soon as possible People are direct and issues get sorted out quickly.
Even though the people in NZ are the sweetest I find it one of the hardest things  that you sometimes get ghosted and have no clue what is going on.

A funny one I like
The Dutch are too honest to be polite
and the English are too polite to be honest

Unspoken

Sometimes things are left unspoken,
hovering in the eerie air
like ghosts longing to be seen.
They give a faint rattle
as silence feeds their rage,
while no one quite dares
to touch the questions in the room.

The ghost grows larger,
stands a little taller,
refuses to be erased.
The quiet becomes loud
it pierces through minds.

Then one steps from the corner
and touches the swollen
balloon of fear.
It releases its long-held breath
and the room exhales.

The house he designed

 

A memory from when I worked at the community computer centre We setup an IT-club for children teaching coding, 3D-design, graphic design etc A great fun time

The house he designed

I watched him
at our computer centre,
an eight-year-old boy
dyslexic,
silenced,
staring at a screen
where his page
and his words were at war

we taught him the dimensions
of height, width, depth

he became the architect
of doors, of windows,
of his life

the key to his creations
opened the hearts of his teachers
the school placed the mouse in his hand
he invited them
into the world of 3-D

a sparkle in his eyes
words stepping out
of their corners

he moved away
left through his own back door
to continue his story
in which we had been a page
and an entrance
to the house he designed

Ash becoming space

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is

Terry Pratchett’s line — “There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and it was a flamethrower.”

I loved that line 😂

They lingered longer than needed.
Her heart opened.
She breathed the incense of him
while silence quivered
and she rested in his moon breath.

Soon they shared one roof,
not one heart.
The walls trembled.
She fed herself hope,
believed there was a light
at the end of the tunnel,
it was a flamethrower.

She burned.

Love is not meant
to live on the edge.
She had poured herself
into the wrong vessel
and emptied
drop by aching drop.

She tried to fill the vacuum
with whatever shimmered.
At last she circled inward,
found her own ground,
rich.

She became space:
wide, luminous,
needing nothing to be filled.

Blessings

The prompt for What's Going On is blessings
I had to think straight away about the Celtic blessings and for all the beautiful  poem Beannacht (Blessing) by John O'Donohue One of my favourite poets 
So underneath my variation

Blessings

May your thoughts,
like small animals,
curl into themselves,
tired of running,
and lose their edges.

May your heart be warm and sprout
flowers,
even in winter.

May the sky hold your questions
and sun rays point toward the answers.

May poems be spun in the quiet
between your heartbreaks.

May every meeting,
seen or unseen,
remind you how loved you are.

May a hidden path become visible for you,
leading you to the land of your dreams.

And when the curtain of despair
seems tightly closed,
may the artist rush to pull it open,
spilling beauty,
softening your heart.