the thought I had
was a refugee
I’ve had these thoughts
before
once in a boat
upon the waters
wide
sometimes
as a thought
in the sky
but lately
I’ve been watching flame
licking at the leaves
on the trees
bringing darkness
when the sun
should shine
and I see photographs
in my newspapers
I see pictures
on the TV screen
of mamas
holding it together
the best way
that they can
of papas
crying
like the world’s gone
mad
and I count
the creatures
that aren’t where
they should be
and my thought
is just a prisoner
to the knowledge
that the world has changed
there’s no koala
there
there’s no blue-tongue
no wombat and
no kangaroo
I can’t see
a magpie
the kookaburra
isn’t laughing
no brown snake
or tiger
where is
the fairy wren
the wood ducks I remember
as a score
are there any left
I wonder
is there anywhere
that they might go
in my mind
I see
a desert grow
where rainforest
always swayed
and I can see
a land
that was once
my home
and y thought
becomes
a refugee
who am I
who are we
when the things that make us
we
are gone
who am I
who are we
when the air
we took so much
for granted
is brown
is the night time
of our lives
what am I
what are we
I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t know
but in my heart
I feel
what I have to feel
and my thought
my poor thought
becomes
nothing more
than a refugee
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We are no more just a stranger, everywhere. Not seeing it is a form of ignorance.
Beautiful words.
Keep Writing. 🙂
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Thank you Benyapoesy. Sadly we have all the ignorance we need. In spades.
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And wondering whether there will be any where that is safe. Are you safe, Frank?
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Yes, Tracy. Safe as we speak, but I have no doubt at all that we will burn before the summer is done.
Sorry to be gloomy, but I feel it coming.
Stay as safe as you can, as well, Tracy. Catch you next year, hey?
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I feel much the same,
Yes, that would be nice.
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Devastating words.
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I have been, all day at work, imagining Australia becoming a nation of refugees as our rainforests turn to desert after these fires etc etc.
I, at least in my own mind, can see that becoming a reality. I hope to be wrong.
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A heartbreaking expression of grief.
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Yes Liz. It’s starting to get to me. Affecting my thinking.
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Yes, I can see that, understandably so.
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I think I’m going to just let myself write like fury whenever I get a chance – 3 – 4 pieces at a time.
There isn’t much release to be found otherwise.
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That makes sense.
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Unbelievably sad, Frank. Awful.
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It would be a great irony, Mick.
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Understood, Frank.
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Reblogged this on The Cheesesellers Wife and commented:
Please read this powerful poem from Frank Prem:
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