Dutchcorner

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

2026-04-09T18:42:00.010+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 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

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! I learned to adapt however and from that shift, this poem emerged:

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.

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.

Blessings

2026-02-19T10:04:00.008+13:00

The prompt for What's Going On is blessings
I had to think straight away about the Celtic blessings and for all the beautiful poem Beannacht (Blessing) by John O'Donohue One of my favourite poets
So underneath my variation

Blessings

May your thoughts,
like small animals,
curl into themselves,
tired of running,
and lose their edges.

May your heart be warm and sprout
flowers,
even in winter.

May the sky hold your questions
and sun rays point toward the answers.

May poems be spun in the quiet
between your heartbreaks.

May every meeting,
seen or unseen,
remind you how loved you are.

May a hidden path become visible for you,
leading you to the land of your dreams.

And when the curtain of despair
seems tightly closed,
may the artist rush to pull it open,
spilling beauty,
softening your heart.

Light as a thousand stars

2026-02-13T09:10:00.002+13:00

The prompt for Poets and story tellers United is a love poem, or a love story, or at least one about love.

Shared with dVerse Open Link #401

Light as a Thousand Stars

The moon watches her dance,
quiet as a secret held
in his arms,
as they step into the warm pulse
of a summer night,
in the river light
along the Seine.

The wind brushing in strokes,
his hands painting with silky touch.
His breath on her skin
murmuring je t’aime.

They write a poem
in movement.

The music wraps
its shadow softly
around two dancers,
carrying them
until their legs swirl
across the shining stones.

They touch them slowly,
one by one.
Each tap
a small drum of longing
deep, dark,
heavy as their hearts,
rupturing in sweet ache,

light as a thousand stars,
drifting
into a dream,
into the opening sky

The place beyond the ordinary

2026-02-12T07:57:00.007+13:00

The prompt for What's Going on is Creations so I created a poem of a place beyond the ordinary

If you can imagen it the path is already beneath your feet

The Koru is a spiral shaped Māori symbol which means new creations or new beginnings. It is based on the unfurling fern.

The place beyond the ordinary

I dwell in a magic forest
where the spirit of love
rests on the bluebells,
cradled by clover
holding a lotus flower
that blooms untouched
by its surroundings.

This is the land
where dreams rise
beyond the ordinary,
where the extra is born
from the fertile soil
of imagination,
painted across the sky
of existence.

Here, the koru
of new creations
lifts its green fern head
into morning light.

I wake to butterflies
dancing at dusk,
to the silver chime
of the bellbird
in the drifting mist.

Sunrays tiptoe
across my heart.
In their golden glow
a place appears
where mysteries
become known.

Remembrance of the fire

2026-02-06T08:01:00.001+13:00

Prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is indifference/ love

Remembrance of the Fire

The spirits of the misfits
drifts beneath passing clouds
hiding their light
where the air grew indifferent
forgetting they once burned like fire

Their sparks of passion
brushing the edge of dreams
releasing a faint fragrance
as a wisp of smoke rises

Slowly the sky pauses,
listens
a soft recognition
remembering the aroha*
that lived as a forgotten star
in the shadowed sky

The uncovered light
ignites the break of a bud
and winter departs
from the branches of the tree

It is the moment when truth,
unclothed and unafraid,
finally steps into the open,
warming the landscape
with the colours of shared flame.

*Aroha: love ( Maori ) ❤️

Shelter

2026-02-05T11:40:00.004+13:00

The prompt for What's going on is shelter

Shelter

I snuggle up on the couch
whispers drift,
now and than
through the room

We left the noise outside
and locked the door

Sometimes the outside world
finds an entrance,
crawling out of our gadgets

Today we silence them

We let our shelter
fold around us
hug us like a warm
sweater

Luxurious

2026-01-30T13:47:00.001+13:00

Shared with Poets and Storytellers United Prompt: Something that feels luxurious

Shared with dVerse OpenLinkNight 400

Luxurious

Luxurious tends to live
in a cold atmosphere,
surface glitter.

But underneath
there is an ocean of air,
life giving,
life expanding.

Breathe.

There is a heart that beats
to the rhythm of excitement.

Aliveness rises
when the mind aligns
with the universe.

What sways in the ether
is a luxury.
The ether carries light
to reveal unspoken words,
the quiet quality of pearls.

Words can redirect energy.
They can alter reality
as they slowly alchemise the mind
of those who open their hearts.

So spread yours.
Words filled with truth,
love, honesty, peace.

Sing them.
Speak them.
Tell stories
to spread wealth.

Incantation for becoming

2026-01-29T10:32:00.008+13:00

Shared with What's Going On
Their prompt:

Set your pen free. Whatever comes up for you is what belongs on the page: emergencies, sad, tired hearts, the emotions we feel observing all that is going so wrong in the world.

Or you might be holding onto hope and faith, the hand on our heart that refuses to give up that dream of a better world, because we know it is possible. I am one of that number, "hand on my stupid heart." I refuse to believe humanity will not rise above this current chapter.

You feel powerless when looking at the state of the world and would love to put a plaster on the pain; I believe in the healing of dancing and weaving it into a poem it became an Incantation for becoming. Even when you dance with a limp or like me just in your own lounge Any relaxation what works for you is good as our shared strength will be needed.

Hard times require furious dancing.
Alice Walker

Incantation for Becoming

I release the butterflies,
I release them into the world,
let them whisper of transformation,
let them speak in hidden patterns,
let them sing
their fluttering joy.

Look
a butterfly resting on clover,
look
dewdrops settling like pearls
on four green petals,
silent witnesses of luck,
of this simple grace,
that we are here,
living life in the light.

Remember this:
darkness comes before dawn.
Remember this:
dark and light are one path,
one creation,
woven together,
as constellations are woven
into ancient patterns
across the sky.

So dance through life,
dance through every hall you enter.
Learn the steps as you go.
Let them echo in your body,
let them echo in your bones,
until you are fluent
in the language of movement,
until your body remembers
what it has always known.

Dusk

2026-01-23T08:55:00.001+13:00

Poets and storyteller United invite us to write about the time of day you like best, and why

Dusk

I like to visit dusk
when the day folds inward,
when twilight drapes a thin veil
over the land.

I step into a listening light
that, like liquid silk,
rests on red roses,
remembering their names.

The sky whispers its old instruction:
let the day loosen its grip,
let your thoughts thin
and wander among the stars.

From the black mantle of night,
let unseen hands
practice their quiet healing.

And when dawn
touches the window lightly,
open the door,
so the universe may pass
through you.

Ritual of the returning people

2026-01-16T08:15:00.005+13:00

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is combination/ collaboration

Shared with dVerse for Open link Night

Ritual of the returning people

Dream new songs

risen from the chorus of many.

Draw in the sweetness,

of collaboration

each breath a mingling

of gifted waters.

For this is the rite

of the water bearers

gathering their vessels

to fill a mighty sea.

So open.

Break the shell

that kept you solitary.

Return to the weaving,

threads rejoining threads

the ancient tapestry

of the people.

Here we carve our lines

into the one great story.

Here we transmute

our offerings

into a golden chain,

hand to hand,

remembering the oneness

we never truly left.