When the voice of the land is lost

Protecting Aotearoa New Zealand's wild places is a global responsibility. Anyone from anywhere in the world can legally make a submission to help protect this paradise from commercial development. Please use your voice and click the link below to make a submission before the July 2nd deadline.

Make a submission

When the voice of the land is lost

We are Tāngata Whenua
people of the land,
bound to its care.

A duty that will be stripped to its bones
As a price is put on paradise.
They call it
bits and bobs

But the West Coast podocarp forest
remembers itself differently
a carpet of moss so thick
it swallows footsteps
Rimu rising like slow prayers
rain writing itself
again and again
into wet earth

And Lewis Pass
Stone and wind made visible
Mist moving through jagged Alps,
rivers speaking in broken light
beech forests holding their green
silence as if silence were a duty

somewhere
a line is drawn through it all
paper edges slice
through canopy shadow
without asking the wind

But mother earth
does not sign her rights away
She holds on through ancient roots,
Through silver fern spirals
through podocarp
through the silent flight of native birds
as their wings are tested
through breath itself
still rising

But if the voice of the land is lost
if the last great forests fall
If the real wells of wealth run dry

who will lose?

When the mist remembers

The prompt for the local poetry group was Lost and found. So I went car keys, wallet, jacket....love

Shared with DVerse 
Open link night 410

When the Mist Remembers

sunrays sneaking through the door
witnessing the wonder of love
we flung the windows open
let the wind whisper softness
let music play the minstrel
the cello humming in our chest

but time tipped its hat sideways
love stopped walking straight
one day its petals scattered
the moon thinned to a sliver
your attention drip‑dried
the sky emptied of your voice

your face fractured like glass
my heart bleeding blue
clutching strokes of memory
my mind shredding them to scraps
leaving me with longing
that never learned to end

life washed the pain downstream
until one morning smiled at me
mist veiled the waking land
a breath moved between two souls
who didn’t yet know
they were touching

Beads of peace

The prompt for What's going on is A sanctuary within

Beads of peace

I love to snuggle into my chair
with a ribbon of melody,
a steaming cup of coffee,
a cat curled on my lap,
a quiet retreat within.

I wander trails of curiosity,
weaving worlds of words,
stepping between pages
held gently by a book’s spine,
stringing luminous beads of peace.

And in this hush
something quietly deeper stirs.
I water the broken ground within me
until the soil remembers itself,
held together by roots of wisdom,
peace blooms in this space,
a sanctuary grows within me.

With a touch of blissipline,
wishes rise like lanterns,
sparkling with inner light,
the place where I choose
to live by my own virtues
despite the rat‑a‑tat
of the world’s loud drums.

From here, tiny ripples of hope
ripple outward,
I bathe in this
quiet, flowing energy.

Inner Houses

 The prompt for what's Going on is to write a poem exploring "Openings" or "Closings."

Inner Houses

I was opening my door
and people came in
some with dirty boots,
trampling through it
without understanding
the fragile architecture
of my inner life.
Some came simply
to warm themselves
by the fire.

I let them.

Our inner houses
don’t need to be locked
just because others are different.
We can allow each other
a glimpse of the furniture.

Some pieces will be admired
because they awaken a memory.
Others will be rejected
because they stir something
uncomfortable, unfinished.

Still, this is how we feed each other:
by seeing new angles,
new designs,
new ways a room can be arranged.

And sometimes we leave
with a small idea tucked in a pocket,
something that enriches us,
or enriches the other,
or quietly rearranges
a corner of the soul.

Beauty Matters

The prompt for What's going on is Beauty 

Beauty Matters

The parched ground
of life is thirsty,
longing for meaning,
searching for happiness.

Are we losing beauty?
Is that why the soul
falls silent?

Beauty is love.
It speaks in tongues,
the language of quiet wonder
whirling in our hearts.

Not the false worship
of neon-lit shop windows
or the god of glitter we kneel to,
which may dazzle again and again
but never become the fire

we find in sparkling eyes,
or in the sunrise held in a baby's breath,
or in the hush that rises
when a slumbering lake
reflects a purple sky
and a mountain robed in snow,
standing guard over the moment.

So we stumble onward,
hollow and unlit,
until the invocation of beauty
awakens us to growth.

Then the heart remembering
swings open like a gate
into dream-days
punctuated by stars,
and the key of wonder unlocks
the universe we carry inside.

Garden of freedom

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is to write about a time I surprised myself. Well, I’ve had many learning differences to navigate. I’ve fallen more times than I can count. But every single time, I stood up again. And that more than anything, is what keeps surprising me.

Garden of freedom                                                      

She kept on
loving, living, learning
after the world trembled
the ground splitting
beneath her sanctuary

She crossed
the deep blue ache,
emerging from the water                                     
last droplets
sliding from her skin.

She walked forward
alive
capable,
not by ease,
but by a quiet refusal
to let the world diminish her.

And slowly she shaped
a garden of freedom
wherever her feet fell,
a flower unfurled,
catching her breath
like a blessing,
like sunlight spilling
into a long-shadowed room.