The world is burning

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is The world is burning but.. 

The World Is Burning

The world is burning
but do not despair.

Know that new currents of consciousness
are slowly changing the water.

So plant your roots deep.
Stay grounded.
We need you:
your laughter,
your gentle care,
your quiet courage,

to trust the shooting stars,
to trust yourself.

Do not cover the sky
with your hands.

Surrender.

Let the fierce wind
tangle itself in your hair.

Unlatch the small door of your heart
and listen
to the words
that fall like snowflakes
and whisper:

Never be afraid.

All you are ever asked to offer
is the love already living
inside you.

The quiet guide

 

Godwits Leaving Christchurch for Alaska

The quiet guide

A young Godwit
does not ask the wind for direction.

It rises
following an inner compass
woven into its bones

You too carry such a guide.

You feel truth
You hear it
quiet as a feather
showing you where to place
your next step
through the maze of living
without forcing
the track to bend

Let the storm come
Let the sun return.
Each is an elder
with its own teaching.

Let your breath soften
the stony path.

Shift your weight.

Remember
you owe nothing
to the road beneath you

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