On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

The prompt for Poets and storytellers united is a book title I choose " On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous"

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

And when you crawled out
of the suffocating wreckage of life,
the simple act of standing
became a declaration carved in air.

You showed your colours,
even for a moment, like a sunset.
If its colours clung to the sky forever,
we wouldn't notice them at all.

When words touch someone,
when you lift them like crumbs
to soothe a hunger you didn't name,
a thin current of connection stirs.

Ripples run along the fine filaments
of the skin of the world,
and the earth becomes
briefly gorgeous.

Everything else evaporates.
What remains drifts softly,
filling whatever space
the world forgot to hold.

White sails fly

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is: We’ll invite you to return to a favorite Friday Writing prompt of the past.

Friday Writings #231: White Sails Flying

White Sails Fly

White sails fly
across the water
like whispers of peace.
But what is peace?

It is the hungry hearts
in the undergrowth,
their arms of roots
sheltering,
reaching outward,
connecting.

Sharing scones and wine,
hugs and blown kisses,
paintings and poetry
like offerings laid
on a forest altar.

And above them,
the ones who stand proud,
breasts forward,
their pride
burns through ancient wood
to warm your meal.

When they, like wolves,
prowl the shadowed edges,
we waver,
weaving purple,
pink, and pasture-green
through grey garments
to cast a gentler shade
over the world's trembling skin.

Will the grey tilt into darkness?
You already know.

So let us gather
an army of peace and love,
set out our sails,
and call the world
back into harmony.

The shape of my sky

The prompt for What's Going On? is :Use mathematical terms and images to poeticize an aspect of life or experience.

The Shape of My Sky

Sometimes my mind spirals,
mapping out a thousand possibilities
for why my life refuses to align.
I thought it would be a constant,
yet the variables kept shifting.

Then I notice the invisible math trap:
our instinct to balance every ledger,
even though life rarely evens out.
Losses accumulate,
and hope begins to seem improbable.

Still, there are moments
when you rise to the top of the bell curve,
its gentle arc carrying you upward,
where crescent moons and quiet stars
reclaim your sky.

Tangaroa's Letters

Shared with dVerse Open Link Night #411

Tangaroa's Letters

New Zealand's two islands
lifted from the deep.
Waves became syllables
spoken by Tangaroa,
god of the sea, rivers, and lakes.

He sang the ocean into being,
his voice a soothing susurration,
a song woven through shadowed skies,
drawn gently over our heads.

Grains of sand rode the breeze,
carrying stories of the sea.
We taste the salt upon our lips.
We inhale the life force gifted to us,
oxygen rising from its lungs,
even as they struggle,
as the water warms
and the god's chest tightens.

We gather broken shells,
fragments of Tangaroa's letters,
and open ourselves to the sky,
where the moon listens like an elder
who remembers the time
when the sea held
hope, hunger, fish,
and the ancient agreements
between humans and the tide.

Once we lived in harmony
with the ocean's heartbeat.
Let its droplets fall upon our skin
from the pockets of its robe.
Let the seagulls cry
their fierce messages of love.
Feel the warning
before they retreat
into the hush
that follows prophecy.

The Wind whispers

Shared with What's Going on Open link

Poets and storytellers united  invited us to write about a body of water, real or fictional, that holds a special place in your heart.

Lyttelton harbour is beautiful and special. Every week we walk in the hills above  and we end up at The Sign of the Kiwi for coffee. The cafe is a place of laughter and chatter. Eric, the owner, passed away recently and therefore this poem is for him.

Lyttelton harbour

Sign of the Kiwi

The Wind whispers

We follow the path to the summit,
where the rim of the old volcano
opens to breathless views
of Lyttelton Harbour.

The picture is ever-changing:
misty clouds drifting over the inlet,                        
blue and green hues
dancing across the water.

The Port Hills keep watch
over these sacred waters.
The Sign of the Kiwi
rests like a crown upon the ridge.

The wind whispers its secrets.
Arrival and departure,
it says,
are not separate.

They meet
in every remembered smile,
every story retold,
every kindness passed on.

Look, the trees still cradle
droplets of yesterday's rain.
The air still carries
echoes of laughter,
of Eric,
l'âme de la fête.

So let us celebrate
life and rain,

for water,
like his kindness,
is life-giving nourishment,
falling freely,
asking nothing in return.

The banter,
the laughter,
the generous spirit
of a Frenchman sustained us.

Now it is ours to carry forward.

Soliloquy of the Sky

Poets and Storytellers asked us to be inspired by a painting. 

The local poetry group asked us to write to the prompt soliloquy

Repose by John White Alexander

Soliloquy of the Sky

I am mesmerised by this painting
and offer a soliloquy.
Who is this lady
waking from her state of repose,
hovering between stillness
and the beginning of thought?

A quiet tremble rises in me,
like dusk rearranging its colours.
Her white dress curves and folds
as if shaped by a slow-moving wind,
a gesture of the world
learning how to breathe.

She seems half-aware
of the painter’s patient strokes,
as though she senses herself
becoming an idea,
a soft floret opening
into the mind of the viewer.

What does it mean
to present yourself to the world,
as a question?
A golden offering, yes,
but also a pause
between one thought and the next.

A whole world will unfurl in her mind.
She will feel like the sky,
holding the drifting stories of clouds.
She will feel like the moon,
choosing which parts of herself
to illuminate.
She will feel like the sun,
sending out quiet certainties
to anyone willing to receive them.

And I wonder
if I could be that kind of woman,
one who intoxicates not with beauty
but with presence,
drawing people closer
to the stars they carry within.