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janpsolivagant.bsky.social
Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
@janpsolivagant.bsky.social
830 followers 640 following 5K posts
Creator of Solivagant Wisdom - Slow Living for Quiet Souls
https://linktr.ee/solivagantwisdom

This Page: #Poetry, #Photography & #Art

Also: @solivagantwisdom.bsky.social‬

#introvert #neurodivergent #GenX #DepthPsychology


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janpsolivagant.bsky.social
Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom @janpsolivagant.bsky.social · Jul 20
Solivagant's #workshops, #retreats & #hypnocoaching nurture the innate #giftedness and #wisdom of #introversion, #solitude, #highsensitivity & #neurodivergence.

Solivagant Wisdom - for #slowliving, #slowculture & #quiet:

solivagant-wisdom.com

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@solivagantwisdom.bsky.social
©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2021 Rowboat stranded by the retreated tide on a salt marsh on the North Norfolk Coast
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
davidbirch.bsky.social
Many thanks @hool415.bsky.social for this week's #PromptCombo #WorkingLove. Hope this one fits, albeit obliquely! Looking forward to catching up with others later today.
November 11, 2025 at 10:25 AM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
Hi @hool415.bsky.social Ju, here is my second response to your inviting #promptcombo #workinglove. It is from my collection "Please Take Change":
THIS MOP AND BUCKET are poetry to me. My pen is a mop I stick in a bucket of disinfectant floor cleaner pull out mop sodden with words and splash them backwards and forwards slop lines one after the other Until the floor fair shines, My mop is dry, needs another dip. I squeeze out the gunk back into the bucket. More the floor shines, dirtier the bucketful gets. A good poem is a clean floor
November 11, 2025 at 9:20 AM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
daveashleypoet.bsky.social
#PromptCombo #Workinglove #measure #vss365
@hool415.bsky.social #magrigal #love
November 11, 2025 at 10:32 AM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
robgalpin.bsky.social
Hi @hool415.bsky.social - here's my response to #PromptCombo #WorkingLove #poem #poetry
The Burn Closes Another silent afternoon, stunned in the supermarket by the this-ness of the shampoo bottles on the shelves, and of the workers who stocked them— bawling happy insults at each other across the stock room floor. So I took the long way home through the burn closes: to the plateau with the little ruined church, the grounds herb-rich and rabbit-bit; the rich greens of the gorse, the grass, the trees blending with the sky— the sky glaucous, and carnation. And through the pink, rusting 70s fence to the medieval Holy Cross— a ruin by 1800 — and St Peter's, down the bank, not built for another seven years. And in that church-less gap, all the parish souls, married, with or without offspring, in a pen-stroke deemed on the instant illegitimate— their ties illegal, the registers annulled: A portcullis authority over small, quiet lives.
November 10, 2025 at 5:14 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
zentinl.bsky.social
Thank you Julian @hool415.bsky.social for this week's #promptcombo prompt #Workinglove. Sharing one from 2014.
November 10, 2025 at 7:27 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
hool415.bsky.social
@rfsmith.bsky.social @dragonslayerma.bsky.social @thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
@victoriaspires.bsky.social I’m hosting #promptcombo this week.Use the #promptcombo and post me @hool415.bsky.social for the theme of #workinglove Anything on love, work or a mix of both! All welcome till 5pm Friday!!
Working Love I fell for you in work amid the photocopier’s paparazzi-flashing, had no control over seating so, between floors giddy elevator conversations snatched. Once, outside, during a fire evacuation test I stood by you, aware my ruddy-face was so obviously smouldering. Hold the note you gave me for supposed help on an urgently demanded spinning-hamster-wheel type task, just a rather economical: ‘Thank you v v much’ but I imagined that first word unexpectedly promoted and H.R. formally introducing its shyest new replacement: Love. Since that day to my certain knowledge you’ve never used ‘v v’ again… though I make sure those twanging Cupid arrowheads are near daily kept still in play.
November 9, 2025 at 7:42 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
Hi @hool415.bsky.social Ju, here's my first response to your excellent #promptcombo #workinglove. It describes the effect of temporarily having 99% hearing loss due to a middle ear blockage:
The Lost Buzz Helping folk gave me such satisfaction. Teenage Saturday worker stacking shelves finding books, answering peoples questions. Now I restock these supermarket shelves, apologising to customers that I can't hear them, but know somebody who can. My smile no longer a welcome mat, More: Private. Do Not Disturb. Can't hear you. I'm changed into what I don't want to be. Unhelpful. Anxious. Angry at myself because I can't listen. This is not me. Stranger shuts a heavy door on myself. I will find that buzz, again. I must learn new skills. Listen differently. Unlearn.
November 10, 2025 at 7:52 AM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
sueimnw.bsky.social
For this week's #promptcombo #workinglove with very understanding host @hool415.bsky.social , an old one which I think fits. Look forward to reading others later.
November 10, 2025 at 7:53 AM
janpsolivagant.bsky.social
🙏 to @hool415.bsky.social #PromptCombo
#DeepTime take on #workinglove

#newpoem / #photography:
©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025/2022-24

#poetry #JohnCage #MechtildOfMagdeburg #AsSlowAsPossible #orgelprojekt #MysticMonday #thework
Fatal Day in Halberstadt 1361 Decameron‘s Twelfth Night. Lollards hitch their prayers, their Plight to the Morning Star. Pestis Secunda scourges Plantagenet England. Giotto’s Last Judgement Slumbers in umbrage on the Cusp of the Quattrocento. Halberstadt, Flush, bustling prince-bishopric - its Cathedral-treasure stash of Relics looted at the Sack of Constantinople – hosts the First of its Kind: Chromatic keyboard, Twelve half-tones arranged in Octaves. Halberstadt - where, at St. Burchardi’s Monastery, Cistercian Sisters Scale the canonical hours: Minor - Terce, Sext, None and Compline; Major - Matins, Lauds and Vespers, in Perpetual rounds of Work, prayer and Lectio Divina. A century before, They nestle in a fecund vessel of Mystical vision, where Mechthild of Magdeburg - Fluid, erotic, vernacular - Lights the way for Meister Eckhart; where Mechtilde, Helfta’s Nightingale, Dispenses Special Grace to Dante as Matelda. Six-hundred-and-thirty-nine years Slip by. Millennium tenor Deeds St. Burchardi’s to Zen musical maverick already Eight years passed: Bird now uncaged - Purposeless, intentionless - Pecking away at membranes - Temporal, musical – from the Beyond. The Six-hundred-and-thirty-nine-year Lease unfolds As Slow as Possible on an Organ fashioned for this purpose. Hiss of compressors, taut notes Coasting over billowing groans until 2640. Pauses a week before 9/11: seventeen months of silence, then Nine movements, each lasting Seventy-one years. Chord kept up over seven years, between Benedict’s flight to Castel Gandolfo and Second Lockdown. Austere piety, Avant-garde whimsy - ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025 Spurning utility, instrumentality - Partaking in visions that far Outstrip lifetimes, Current-day zeitgeist confines. Contemplative prayer, Playful contingency - Tentative forays into Deep Time, Possible only when one Listens closely with Open heart, Open mind. Eternity disclosed in Nugacity, ephemera: Birds, lilies, Mustard seeds. Cloistered life, Choral work Whetting one’s Keenness for the Core - Still and small. ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025 ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2024 Highly contrasted monochrome image of a statue by Susan Turcot (2007/8) of mystic Mechthild of Magdeburg (1207-1282) ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2022 Poster-sized mural of US avant-garde composer, John Cale (1912-1992)
November 10, 2025 at 7:37 AM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
my-solastalgia.bsky.social
A perfectly-timed autumn thunder storm ~ Every year, I hope for a day like this, & sometimes I get very lucky. This was more spectacular in person. #stunday #orangesun #eastcoastkin #artchallenge #autumn #autumnmood #fallfoliage #treephotography #autumntrees #landscapephotography #autumnlandscape
Photo: A single tree stands centered in a newly-harvested cornfield, ablaze in orange foliage. The sky above is an ominous dark grey, portending a storm. The edge of woods, out of focus, appears in the background, in autumn colors.
November 9, 2025 at 3:34 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PromptCombo #Storm ⛈️✨

for @rfsmith.bsky.social
Each Word Is A Lantern You’ve Dropped In The Sand You drift on a little boat that can only think about sinking. It does not know which side is heaven and which is sea. It’s all the same, blue, blur, the way you cannot know the difference between the voice of God or that of small birds. Everything sings, especially when we are drowning everything is music, a language we bend closer to hear. The boat smells of crushed violets. There is a storm coming, supposedly, but the mirror’s surface is undisturbed. And the boat is angry at the storm for not pulling it under the tideline. Because sometimes we want that collision, that sharp cleave of a before and an after but here we are still, in the middle, between the heartbeat of the waves where we trace a lineage of salt stains from one dim star to the other. There is a semblance of yourself forced to sail half-empty around the great ice caves where the glitter of their echo has you baptized with the silence of half-being, half-not. Maybe the storm was that sigh you had let escape through the vault of your lips. And the weight of the moments is flitting through the church of your hands like a fish. This morning, the revelation had been out of print. So you sewed the glimmering moon into the hem of your billowing skirts to take a fire with you, to strike a small match in the night. Each step is a day passing, an era, a life; the legs still bewitched just thinking of fins. All the lighthouses with their restless eyes were looking for you across the periphery, sweeping the coastline for something, some moral in the wreck of yourself. The body itself is a shrine upon which the storm’s breath stitches its meaning, the cold wind that silvers our secrets, the water that hollows you out until only one light is left, until the altar is ivory bone. The cracked planks glisten with the ocean’s white wedding froth, who is married to the deep in us all, the darkness where the wilderness sleeps.
November 8, 2025 at 5:21 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
my-solastalgia.bsky.social
As #evening falls ~ #naturephotography #lowlight #lowkey #autumn #november #blueskyartshow #eastcoastkin #outbirding #birdoftheday #wildlifephotography
Photo: A small bird sits on a bare tree branch, eyeing the viewer. Background fades to black.
November 8, 2025 at 4:19 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
davgar51.bsky.social
replies Sunday, I am tied up tomorrow, so in time here is my poem about #ClosedDoors for #PoemsAbout
#Poetry #MyEx
A poem entitled Closed Door I know the night it opened and how life looked up like a Woodpigeon clattering off its nest or a thundercloud's electrons coming home but not one instant so more like a tide racing across the sand with small waders in constant surprise & rush reeling, wheeling around to find peace in the marram grass, comfort in huddle & safety. Yes, that was the night— not much sleep, but deep. But which was the night it shut? I'll never know and you won't say but for sure it was years before the day you crossed a line and I walked out through a closed door, at least a door I thought was closed then I pushed it shut from outside and it was.
November 7, 2025 at 9:47 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
nimoh.bsky.social
Eastern State Penitentiary

#Photography
November 7, 2025 at 12:50 PM
janpsolivagant.bsky.social
#ForestFriday #Scape #Nature #Woods #November #Autumn

#photography: ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025

#PhotographersOfBlueSky #EastCoastKin
©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025 ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025 ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025
November 7, 2025 at 7:24 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PoemsAbout #LockedDoors ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk
Creature What is kept behind locked doors grows fangs and eyes. The virginal offspring of goat and lion or an insect born from the saliva of a cuckoo. These things relish the underbelly, the mother-of-pearl darkness; they feed on secrecy, dust motes, and swallowed gold keys. The things we want to know not know us best. What is kept behind this door is screaming itself a new throat. Nobody saw it crawl into there; they must have already swiped the immense swish of blood, the writhing trail of dead. The shuffling across the hallway gets decidedly more agitated. There are crafty and deceitful animals that never walk in a straight line. Somebody vomits, no nurse ever appears to clean it up. And no nurse ever opens the door. But the door is not really closed, not completely: it is just waiting for you to find a way of sublimation, to arrow your bones through the vacuum eye of its keyhole, to make yourself small enough to fit through. The thing behind the locked door has a voice like a nail bomb. It sounds like something is being slaughtered, quartered, going to war on itself. The archaic power in the intense wordlessness of a howl, a bird that eats rose thorns and thistles. Somebody bleats back like a motherless lamb. I try to imagine how far you have to go away from yourself to end up in a place like that. I imagine something with horns, possibly hooves, cloven ones, obviously. A fly-flicking tail. Maybe branched antlers, calico manes, or even charred wings; the leathered skin of its countless victims flapping uselessly and breathless against bell-tower stone. Griffon claws, chimera tongue. A harpy licking the finger bones of dead little children like sour lollipops. Or the screeching surprise of Bluebeard’s last wife or that of one of her many predecessors on discovering a lineage of lies. Even from the decrepit little fenced-in courtyard, you can hear the thing thrashing behind the closed door. It does not waver in its manic clamour; it’… golden wool. Madness is a godless temple and we’ve all gone inside to pray. The thing behind the door needs our silence to grow louder. The door listens for us just as we listen to it. Shadows need an absence of trust to thrive and every lock is a promise not kept. The door has an infinite soul, of course, made of rust, nails, and splintered wood. The tense clenching of your mouth when you’re alone in your head, the shakes that you get coming down hard. Or the shakes that get you when you leave the door open and the windows a shrine gaping wide. The rooms you don’t go into are modern bestiaries with teeth hacked into rubber walls to x off the days until the manticore is tamed, until the room is not a room but a tomb. The only proof of an existence between fever and fable, a hieroglyph to read with your scars. A small bird that fights kelp-furred river horses. A fish that appears when the silvered Pleiades decline. An animal so wild that no hunter dare approach it for fear of learning to sing. Three days later, she sits across from me at the dinner table, asking me to pass the ketchup. She laughs like skewered sunshine, precariously slanted, the little bell peal of those who have been silk-sedated to the sky. There is whispered talk of hard drugs, of mental overload, of an infant daughter taken away. But mostly, there are whispers of worry, a real tangible fear of who will be locked out next from the beeline, out of themselves, a coagulated snarl, out of time. Because one thing is for certain, as surefire as death: Anybody could grow horns in a place like this, anybody could pass through a door. Medieval beasts An antlered lion(?), a unicorn, a monkey, orange butterflies, a green bird Image found on Pinterest
November 7, 2025 at 1:22 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
owlnsquirrels1111.bsky.social
at the fringe of night
the sound of a
closing door
creaking
on
its failing hinges
& of crickets going quiet
& of
some bro-
ken
breaths
& lost s.l.nt counts
from one to ten to
to
naught
#PoemsAbout #lockeddoors #Oulens
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@karenpgonzalez.bsky.social
November 7, 2025 at 2:59 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
daveashleypoet.bsky.social
#LockedDoors #PoemsAbout #poem #RhymeRoyal #MentalHealth
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
November 7, 2025 at 2:59 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
emteepoetry.bsky.social
An old poem of mine that I can't exactly say where it came from and I'm still not sure what it means for me. It was inspired by "The Room" by Kevin Hart, the Anglo-Australian poet-theologian, not the US comedian.

For #PoemsAbout #LockedDoors
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
November 7, 2025 at 1:17 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
pvcannon.bsky.social
For #PoemsAbout #LockedDoors.
With thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk
A poem which is a metaphor about locked doors
November 7, 2025 at 1:08 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
bundtkake.bsky.social
#Poemsabout #lockeddoors
#poetry

@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

I always believe you can go home again. There is no guarantee anyone will be left to greet you.
Locked Door Heel of his dirt stained palm, Rougher than the doorframe It lies against Knuckles scarred, swollen With age rap a staccato against The wood. Years outweigh the miles In his journey back He shuffles his feet in place Old leather boots, Old leather face A life of work against the sun and wind A choice that took him from the spot He stands now. A desire to return home before his last journey, Brings him back. His cough matching The sharpness of his rapping He places his head against the Locked door Wheezing a name Already carved in Granite.
November 7, 2025 at 1:59 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
robgalpin.bsky.social
A better draft! #PoemsAbout #LockedDoors
write.as/robgalpin/he...
Help Me Out Here No success in meditation; is it green or yellow to earth the wires? In dreadful quiet the door won't open— try instead the free-blown rush. The sprung Arundo donax— animal squeal and ominous rumble, war-torn spiritual, spittle and click. It's a spell to call it— shaking reeds in a fizzy jungle; summer morning city park. So grasses feed us twice: the stick that strikes the silent chimes springs locks, lets jumbling words through— maddeningly perfect, an ever-blowing riff: tall grasses in a meadow. The sweep of sounds won't solve you, but could, like this enjambment, have you freed, and stepping through across the opened door jamb.
November 7, 2025 at 10:35 AM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
halfironmum.bsky.social
My contribution to this week's #poemsabout prompt #lockeddoors is very short and probably should come with a trigger warning for suicide. With thanks to @thebrokenspine.co.uk. Am not tagging anyone else due to subject matter
Notes from her final mental health assessment She was well kempt. She wore casual clothes Her hair was clean and brushed Her nails were painted I assssed her to be low risk
November 7, 2025 at 12:39 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
davidbirch.bsky.social
Many thanks @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk for yet another thought-provoking #PoemsAbout prompt #LockedDoors. Here's my response and I look forward to catching up with others later #PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoets
November 7, 2025 at 12:06 PM
Reposted by Jan Peters - Solivagant Wisdom
janedougherty47.bsky.social
A poem about raw grief and trauma, even if they're not mine.
#PoemsAbout #LockedDoors for @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk
November 7, 2025 at 10:50 AM