Dutchcorner

Beauty Matters

2026-06-06T00:05:00.000+12:00

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

2026-06-05T15:57:19.814+12:00

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

2026-05-29T08:16:55.067+12:00

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

2026-05-28T08:22:30.907+12:00

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

2026-05-22T16:42:06.083+12:00

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

2026-05-21T12:15:28.636+12:00

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

2026-05-15T11:28:16.532+12:00

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

2026-05-08T08:58:00.002+12:00

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

2026-04-29T10:06:00.002+12:00

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

2026-04-17T10:16:00.008+12:00

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

2026-04-09T18:42:00.014+12:00

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

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

2026-04-06T18:17:00.005+12:00

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

2026-04-03T16:35:00.018+13:00

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.

Rock Ridge Track

2026-03-30T11:05:00.049+13:00

I recently walked the Rock Ridge Track with four others from our walking group. The track is about an hour from Christchurch and feels like a big, wild extension of the Washpen Falls track in Windwhistle, which I’ve done a couple of times. I was a bit nervous beforehand because the first day had 1000 metres of elevation and some steep sections. But we took it slowly, and it went absolutely fine.

This 31 km route showcases the best of the high country: native bush, dramatic rock formations, working farmland, forestry trails, rolling hilltops, sweeping valleys, lakes, mountain peaks and the braided rivers that stitch the two neighbouring farms together.

It was fantastic; beautiful, expansive, and surprisingly luxurious. We stayed in a gorgeous homestead with great beds, and the food was amazing. On the first day we soaked in a hot tub with a glass of wine after the walk. Dianne, who once worked as a student on a sheep farm, gave me a tour of the shed where they were shearing. It was such a treat and a fantastic two days.

We did all of it, and I’m pretty damn proud. Not bad for a 64 year old lol

Day 1: 1000 m elevation, 13 km

Day 2: 750 m elevation, 18 km

Washpen Falls

Shared with

How my brain works (and why it matters)

2026-03-29T15:34:00.041+13:00

I used to think something was wrong with the way I learned. Repetition didn’t stick. Instructions got lost. Words disappeared just when I needed them and conversations moved too fast. It took me a long time to understand how my brain works differently.

I have a combination of Dyspraxia, CAPD, Dysnomia, and Aphantasia. Each one affects a different part of how I process the world. Together they create a very specific way of thinking.

Meaning comes first

My mind works in whole ideas, not in sentences. I don’t naturally build meaning step by step through words. Instead, the meaning is already there and I have to translate it into language.

Why speaking is harder then writing

When I speak, I have to do several things at once: I process what I hear, organise my thoughts, find the right words and say them in order. All at the same time. Sometimes the words don’t come. Not because I don’t know them but because they don’t arrive when I need them. So, I pause and search.

Writing is different.The idea unfolds naturally, almost like it already exists, and I’m just putting it into words. There is no time pressure. I can pause, shape, and adjust. Sometimes I scan random text until a word clicks or use a thesaurus.

How I learn

Traditional learning often relies on repetition and step-by-step instruction. That doesn’t work well for me.

What does work is: understanding the concept, connecting it to something I already know and rebuilding it in my own way. To do that I use metaphors, analogies, and patterns “this is like…” That’s how I create conceptual hooks.

Most people start with words and build meaning through sentences I start with meaning and move toward words. That’s a different direction.

Why this matters

From the outside, this way of thinking can look like difficulty: pauses in speech, slower responses, missing words
But underneath there is often a rich understanding and a strong sense of meaning. Understanding this has changed how I see myself. This isn’t just my story!

Seeds of the hidden heartbeat

2026-03-27T09:16:00.003+13:00

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is something you feel deeply about

The following poem is inspired by something I feel deeply about; synchronisity and the feeling of being guided.

Seeds of the hidden heartbeat

A force moved me
rising from the undergrowth of the world.
I followed the nudge,
leaned into its whisper,
I met a path without imprints
soft,
inviting,
yet daunting.

I pulled all strings of courage,
moved forward,
stumbled in the shadow
to test the weight of my bones.

The mysterious offered a hand,
words dropping like crumbs
along my path.

Dreams opened their gates.
Symbols wandered in,
insight brushed my thoughts
like stars passing the night sky.

Books fell into my hands,
their pages talking to me
I felt the pulse of light,
the shadow retreated.

I learned to trust the seeds,
growing into the heartbeat of life,
following the echo of the unseen
as it slowly faded.

The guiding hand released itself,
leaving the glow of its ember.

Like sunlight in a jar

2026-03-26T15:25:00.008+13:00

The prompt for What's Going On is Children

Like Sunlight in a Jar

They carry worlds behind their eyes,
magic reflected in sparkles.
Souls unclouded
by society’s gatekeepers.

Young hearts move in colourful places,
never separating them like adults do.
They gulp the world
like lemonade through straws.

Faces of delight,
running through sprinkles,
grasping bubbles,
dancing, singing.

Enchanted by stories,
captivated by imagination,
holding the secrets
of Little Red Riding Hood.

Their laughter
echoes the joy
buried within us,
like sunlight caught in a jar.

Between two skies

2026-03-20T10:43:00.000+13:00

Written for Poets and Storytellers United to the prompt Looking back

Between two skies

Looking back
I crossed lakes and oceans
and found my way to Aotearoa.

One ending
fed a new beginning
the Dutch part of me
softly blending
into the New Zealand skyline

Above me,
a thousand stars
dot the night
floating in the silver dust
of the Milky Way
Father Sky
and Mother Earth
took me in their embrace

The colours of mountains
spilled into my days.
Totara and cabbage trees
seemed to bow
as I climbed,
grinding, reaching
toward the rim of life.

I looked down
on a glowing landscape
a symphony of light
shimmering through the mist.

And there,
in that quiet height
I saw it
the beauty
life had offered me

The world is burning

2026-03-13T12:21:00.000+13:00

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

2026-03-10T21:53:00.000+13:00

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

2026-03-06T19:42:00.017+13:00

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

2026-02-27T17:05:00.002+13:00

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

2026-02-26T17:38:00.007+13:00

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

2026-02-22T16:19:00.002+13:00

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

Ash becoming space

2026-02-20T12:12:00.002+13:00

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is

Terry Pratchett’s line — “There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and it was a flamethrower.”

I loved that line 😂

They lingered longer than needed.
Her heart opened.
She breathed the incense of him
while silence quivered
and she rested in his moon breath.

Soon they shared one roof,
not one heart.
The walls trembled.
She fed herself hope,
believed there was a light
at the end of the tunnel,
it was a flamethrower.

She burned.

Love is not meant
to live on the edge.
She had poured herself
into the wrong vessel
and emptied
drop by aching drop.

She tried to fill the vacuum
with whatever shimmered.
At last she circled inward,
found her own ground,
rich.

She became space:
wide, luminous,
needing nothing to be filled.