The World Is Burning, But ...

 

The world is burning, but

in a day or two the fires will be out.

They’re being water-bombed right now.

The houses and paddocks 

and the poor, trapped stock

will all be destroyed. But the fire

will be out. Only the blackened earth

will map its dimensions 

for a while. 

Some will leave and some

will stay to rebuild. The same 

as they do when it’s water wrecking

home, livelihood, landscape – when 

the big floods thunder, battering our walls, 

drowning whole towns, obliterating the land.

Turn up the aircon, these days

when Summers get longer, hotter.

They’ll figure out something before …

The world is burning, but

it’s over there in Europe, it’s

over there in the Middle East. Not here.

Turn off the news! Don’t watch!

All that maiming and starving, I know

you can’t bear, and the cities of bombed rubble.

It’s over there, it’s all over there.

It’s all over, there … The world is burning, but

go to sleep; there is nothing you can do. 

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #218.

Bird, in This World

 

Bird, in this world, this

world of today, becomes

a symbol of escape – 

if only we could

take flight, soaring

into high air, away 

from war, starvation,

terrorist attacks and

homelessness …

our green home no longer

safe. If the economy

don’t get you, 

climate

Written for Quadrille #243: Bird is the Word, at dVerse.

(Quadrille: exactly 44 words excluding title, and including a given word, in this instance 'bird'.)

Longing for Dance, 16-20

 

16. 

Young me wanted the Pied Piper

to come one night to our town, 

play sweetest notes on his magic flute

and call us all away – we children

who longed to escape the adult world.

What lands would he lead us to, dancing?

What fairytale surprises had always awaited

down past the end of the lane, out and away

across the fields and into the far forest? 

I knew I would never come dancing back.

17. 

The Seventh Seal 

ends – or begins? 

Death leads a line 

of following figures 

stretching raggedly 

along the hilly horizon:

black silhouettes

against white sky.

They are holding hands.

They appear to be dancing.

18.

When I was a little kid, dancing

was what I did for joy. I didn’t

even need music. I twirled and 

jumped and threw my arms up,

and went round and round and

kicked my legs and spun on my 

tiptoes, and of course there was 

always delicious squealing. Oh,

when I was little, I knew nothing 

at all about dancing, I simply did.

19.

She calls to me, my tiny cat,

insistently, with loud and 

strident voice. I pick her up, 

I rock her in my arms. She purrs. 

Her small paws flex, 

ecstatic. I dance with her

around and around the room.

Oh, I croon, the things we do!

The things we do, the things we do,

the things we do for love.

20.

What happens when the dancing stops?

Ring-a-ring-a-rosy, all fall down?

‘Thank you,’ politely and go separate ways?

Or, shall this be a new romance?

After the ball, do those likely lads

straighten their uniforms and march off to war?

(That has been known to happen. Think Waterloo.)

Or do we wind down quietly in the old church hall

while the musos pack up their tired instruments, 

and then all toddle home to a nice, calm bed?

See also Poems 1-5, Poems 6-10, and Poems 11-15.

The whole sequence is now available as a free ebook. To access it (and others) first go here.