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.

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.

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.

Echoes across the stretched-out land

The prompt for Poets and storytellers United is letting go

Echoes across the stretched-out land

I am Dutch,
my soul raised from the lower lands,
standing tall against the northern wind,
a guardian of Germanic threads
woven through ancient bone.

I do not come in darkness.
I rise in the pink, the red, the yellow of tulips,
a crown of colour bursting
through heavy clay.

My heart and mind were born
under an endless sky
where words are not dressed up
but reveal the naked truth.

An echo of bike bells
drifts through rainy air.
Castles and mills return
across the stretched-out land.

I let go of my roots,
left them for distant grounds
with majestic mountains
and unreal blue lakes.

When I return to my homeland,
street stones still carry
half-faded stories
of my voice
that refused to vanish.

 

The Journey

The Prompt of What's Going On is journey.

I wrote several poems with this title and I recycle here one of the very first poems I ever wrote
This one is from 2007

The Journey

I went on a journey and stopped in Paris,
Taking time to cherish
the splendid statues of yesterday.
I stayed to learn French,
and when I got lost in a dark allée,
I uttered, “Où se trouve…?”
and they showed me the way
to the Eiffel Tower,
with its enchanting lights.

I went on a journey
and stopped in Madeira,
an island in full bloom.
Taking time to smell the perfume
and let the colours caress my eyes.
I stayed with a gardener
who taught me about the bees,
who turn gold dust
into sunlight I can eat

I went on a journey
and stopped in Amsterdam,
taking time for the shops along the canal.
When spitting turned into sun showers,
I bought an umbrella with Vincent’s sunflowers.
It provided shelter for an old lady to her home,
where she wanted me to stay.
She fed me with wisdom
and fine food for the day.

“I will make that journey. In a five-star hotel I stay.
In three days, I’ll go the same way, but then better,”
she said to me on the phone.
She got lost in a dark allée in Paris,
stung by bees in Madeira, and soaked by the rain in Amsterdam.
Reaching your destiny takes time.

Life is simple

The prompt for the local poetry group was Public speech 
The prompt for Poets and storytellers United was to be inspired by a dead tree

So naturally my dead tree is giving a TED talk 😂

The poem is linked to  DVerse Poets
OpenLinkNight #408 

                              

Life Is Simple
TED Talk by a dead tree

He drops his last dead leaf,
gnarled fingers unclenching,
scraping his ancient throat.

He looks at the audience.
Humans
Restless
Scrolling

Then he begins
Stop, people
Just stop

I have watched you for centuries.
You pass me
like weather through bone
heads down,
hearts elsewhere.

Meanwhile,
my tangled roots
prepare for the coming spring.
Flowers rise
from my rotten bark.

Life breathes
through my hollow skeleton
every single day.

So stop.
Inhale the oxygen
I have spent my whole life exhaling.

Everything is entangled.
You are not separate from this dance.
Connect.

The sky remembers you.
The earth will carry you.
Life is simple.

The shape of power

 The prompt for What's going on? is Power

The shape of power

What if you lift the twilight veil
and let your heartstrings unfurl
Release performance
release the fear
of not being seen

Remember:
a flame forgets its light
when it chases the wind

Step back
Sit with your breath
Let life move
through your emptied being
like sunrays do
They don’t ask
they don’t take
they simply touch

Feel how they bend
how they find their way
to warm you,
to illuminate you

Your flame will spill its light
further than you imagine

This is your way of being
This is your power, my friend

The man of action

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers united was to be inspired by quotes from The princes Bride. I chose "We are men of action, lies do not become us.”

The man of action

The man of action
holds a quiet refusal
to carry the world’s shadow.
He lifts light from water
as a mirror for others.
The reflection may waver
as life dances with reality,
but he waits,
knowing silence
will settle the troubled surface.

The law has a house
inside the man of action.
It stands in the shape
of fairness and justice,
a structure that does not fall.

The man of action
walks with vision.
He does not speak of horizons
he moves toward them.
And always,
lies do not become him.
He builds an altar to truth,
never burying it in roses.
It rises warm from the wet grass,
and droplets of trust
will clings to your heart.

Sit by the fire
with the man of action.
Watch the sparks
lift into the dark
And you
You only need to sit,
and breathe,
and let the light touch your face.

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.