Dominoes of laughter

The prompt for Poets and storytellers united is Inappropriate laughter. This brought up some memories.

Dominoes of laughter

A dull day
math class
my friend whispers a word,
tiny, electric
I look at her,
a giggle
she looks at me
a spark jumps.

Then we crack open,
folding in half,
sucked up
into a rolling storm
of laughter.

Faces look up,
chairs creak.
The teacher’s mouth twitches
as it spreads like a virus.

dominoes falling,
four, eight, sixteen
until the whole room
is wheezing,
roaring with laughter,
rippling through
the building.

The teacher grabs
his life jacket
to stay afloat
“You two.
Principal. Now.”

after,
we walk the streets
delivering the school’s post.
still carrying
small sparks
in our pockets.

Paper Wings

 

A poem for Poets and Storytellers United written to the prompt "find inspiration on your bookshelf." 

Paper Wings

My books carry stories,
lifting me on paper wings
to faraway places
where forests hum,
where lakes hold mirrors,
where skies,
smartened with stars,
smile.

And places where wisdom
rests between covers.
I listen till their roots
thread through my mind,
waking me
to build new castles
of light.

In books of poetry
I wander metaphors,
waiting in the tide
until they pull me under
into a sea
of sparkling whispers
and love letter salt.

Titles tease,
tug,
time ticks,
until words find me,
leaping from shelves,
from hidden doors,
into my life.

Still bothering

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is "The world feels meaningless.

Why fking bother?"

Still bothering

The world feels meaningless.
Why fking bother?
The news confirms it,
meaning cancelled,
abolished,
gone.

I walk to the park anyway.
Clouds scribble
their messy graffiti
across the sky.
The wind mutters,
“no meaning.”
Yeah, I know.

A kitten curls her tail.
I touch her soft fur
because what else is there.
A child pulls her mum
towards us.
We talk,
laugh,
the sun warming our faces
like it didn’t get the memo.

I move on.

A woman walks slowly,
woven with grief.
“I lost my house,
my husband.”
“Do you want a hug?”
We fold into each other,
two humans
holding the wreckage
for a moment.

I move on.

At home,
the kettle shrieks
its usual nonsense.
“No meaning.”
Sure.
The raindrops
still dream
on the window
and I am still here,
bothering.

Dream of trees

The prompt for What's going on is: What a poem can or can't do For me a poem can carry a seed and that seed may sprout or not, it may grow or not A quick poem as life is hectic atm

Dream of Trees

This poem is potential,
folded into words
Let me plant a seed for you
a seed buried in a poem.
Let this seed dream of trees

Know an oak grows from an acorn,
but also know a seed has no name,
for it might never become.

But what if it does?
What if the sun brushes its edge?

What if our intentions push out
buds like shy thoughts?

What if the skies listen
and breathe a quiet rain?
The wonders we carry
might become not only trees
but a whole forest.

 

Behind the stone fence

Written for our local poetry group 

Prompt: Behind the stone fence

This will be it for the next 2 weeks as I won't be able to post because of circumstances. I might have time to visit my blogging friends, otherwise see you all after the 20th of April

Behind the stone fence

A thud,
an apple drops.
I wonder what breathes
behind that stone fence
of our uncle’s house.

Later, an invitation
glimmers in my email.
I come to work
in the children’s home
behind the secrecy
of that fence.

I find
a house full of stories,
no one ever reads.
Children’s voices
like wind chimes
in a restless storm.
Yet within this circus
of tumbling echoes
I find a quiet beauty.

Sitting in the doorframe
of a little boy’s room,
a threshold between
his wildness and sleep,
I read
the Guinness Book of Records,
his favourite.
His dark, wild weather
softens into peace.

When my dyspraxic hands
struggle with cooking,
a ten-year-old girl,
smiling like a lantern,
juggles pots and pans
till our meal turns
buttery, warm-spiced.

Little soul-touches
spark on my phone:
“Marja, you rock.”
And we do
on music,
on theatre,
on fish and chips,
eaten with salty fingers
at the beach.

I learn that in places
behind fences,
where kettles boil
without a whistle,
little love-lights burn,
starborne flames,
small but steady.

And somewhere
still
in the shadow
behind stone fences
quiet flowers
stretch toward the sun
without a witness.

 

The morning struck thirteen

The chosen prompt for Poets and Storytellers United: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” ~ George Orwell 

Reality is a dream that learned how to live
Marja

The morning struck thirteen

The morning stood upright 
on a bright cold day in April.
The clock cleared its throat
and struck thirteen,
breaking the habit of time.

Rumours buzzed;
a threshold was crossed.
Pebbles skipped across the pond,
spreading ripples of truth.

People stopped
running, talking.
They watched the sky,
heard the birds sing silver songs.

The language of love bloomed,
its breath becoming a bridge

Rivers cleared,
mirroring the wisdom
of ancient trees
that wandered
like old storytellers,
whispering
the tide had turned

Fresh food rose from wet earth,
replacing factories
that once made things
the world did not need

Mirrors of ego cracked
People spoke to neighbours,
shared tools,
swapped seedlings.

Laughter stitched itself
through the streets,
the air filled
with fresh baked bread.

Loneliness faded
like mist at dawn.

The sky held happiness
as the world revealed
the quiet brilliance of peace,
still learning
how to stay.