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.

Canvas of freedom

 

Poets and Storytellers United invited us to find inspiration in the following quote, by C. S. Lewis, “You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”

                                                                                          

Canvas of freedom

I retired
A white canvas appeared
quiet, waiting
for a stroke of rainbow dreams

No more striving and stretching
No more running and racing
the volume went down
the music rose

dreams are now wrapped in freedom
in squares of forest paths
in circles of friends
in lines of poetry
tied with a silver ribbon

Now my dreams are  breath on glass
wishes written for the world
a hand held out
colours shared
so the artwork of life
can be made together

When the voice of the land is lost

As the NZ Parliament reviews the Conservation Amendment Bill, we face a critical choice between short-term commercial gain and the survival of our natural paradise.

If you wish ; Anyone from anywhere in the world can legally make a submission to help protect this paradise from commercial development. Click the link below to make a submission before the July 13nd 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.